#unlike Murky

[vaerksted]

Mishka - pen-grip

[cherryjuiceblues]

𝐌𝐔𝐓𝐔𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐘 𝐁𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐅𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐋 | 𝟓.𝟐

➯ HARRY LETS HIS FRUSTRATION GET THE BETTER OF HIM AND SOME TIME AWAY FROM Y/N HAS HIM TURNING UP AT HER DOOR TO FINALLY TELL HER HOW HE FEELS. ✰ dom!harry resolved angst. shouting. sexual content. BDSM influenced punishment. dominant and submissive dynamics. slight anal play. minors dni. 𝑤𝑐 10.7k ッ mutually beneficial masterlist

The house doesn’t smell like curry.

And that’s the first thing he notices when he steps inside after a long day. Harry always makes a point to relish in the view of his home before he enters its threshold; warm and bathed in light—the clear signs of life pouring out of the windows and across the driveway. Y/N cradles his heart in more ways than she shall ever know but simply remembering that she is here, in his home, keeping it safe whilst he’s gone… It does irrevocable things to him.

But today, fretful from the stresses of the night before, perhaps he’ll admit that it does less to soothe his weary head as it does most days. When the only thing getting him through the workday was the promise of a beloved meal, prepared with love, steaming—waiting for him when he got home—and the scent doesn’t immediately hit him in the face… he worries. He worries for his sanity and for Y/N’s wellbeing. He worries for the words he might say on an impatient, empty stomach.

The tension between Harry’s brows radiates throughout his entire skull as he rolls out his shoulders and prepares himself for the conversation he’s going to have to have in approximately ten seconds. He can hear Y/N tottering around in the kitchen—and that almost makes it worse—that she’s in there and yet he can smell… he can smell something sweet. Something—

His feet lead him to the scent, hoping his nose is mistaken, forehead tightening at the sight he is greeted with.

“What’s this?” His cadence is concerning—unclad with his usual charming lilt—swathed in this new, murky tone of impatience. “Where’s m’dinner, sweetheart?”

Y/N twists around from her place at the sink, lips turned downwards unlike her usual welcome of a happy, relieved smile. And her reaction, Harry will later accept, is a valid one considering his complete lack of greeting—when he is usually so full of soft lilts and gentle caresses.

“Oh—hello to you too,” she scoffs, words tumbling out uncharacteristically, “‘m I your housewife, now?” And—regardless of whether Y/N had already been labelled as such by Harry’s own employees, she has a feeling his eyes would’ve darkened all the same. His immediate, deathly silence does more to terrorise her than any garish attempt at horror (although that successfully scares her too).

She’s wondered what it would take for him to have his moment. Harry’s patience has always been such a relief—the most gentle person in Y/N’s life—a trait previously severely lacking and one she now cherishes every day.

And she knows his reaction isn’t unjust. She should have made him dinner, ready to eat as soon as he stepped foot inside—just like she had promised earlier in the day. With a smile on her face. She can’t quite explain why she made a cake instead. She’d had every intention to do as she’d said, was on her way to the kitchen to get started, in fact. But then she’d opened her phone, scrolled through Pinterest for just long enough to become distracted, to forget her initial quest, and to become enamoured by a heart-shaped sponge cake instead.

Y/N understands Harry’s anger. But it’s still upsetting. She feels as though she has committed something worthy of jail time. Her stomach churns, previously dancing butterflies dispersing with a single brandishing glance over her way. They’re replaced by heavy, heavy bricks—weighing her down, immobilising her completely as she watches Harry inspect the kitchen with beady eyes.

“You made a cake?” He asks, already knowing of the answer; the evidence stares him straight in the face—accompanied by the debris—a crime scene of flour and icing sugar, bowls upon bowls filled with remnants of batter. She opens her mouth, abandoned by sound, swiftly closed when Harry continues on his own; unneeding of Y/N to have a conversation.

“Does it taste like fucking Korma, darlin’?” And she doesn’t like it—the way he weaponises the word she associates so closely to her own identity—the one he uses more than her own name. He’s upset. And it’s her fault.

“It—”

“—Don’t. Just—” he sighs, swiping his heavy palm over his forehead, “—be quiet.”

It slaps her across the face—his unwavering displeasure. She feels the heat rising, uncomfortable in her face, the stinging of her eyes uncontrollable. Harry walks around the island, sighing at the sight of his sink. She was going to clean it, she was. But that doesn’t matter now.

Y/N stands awkwardly near the doorway, stuck in place. He’s muttering, hands busying automatically, clattering indelicately—every bang and crash deafening in Y/N’s nervous state. “Cake,” he laughs flatly, “she makes fucking cake.”

She’d made it with good intentions, she swears. Everything she does is for Harry one way or another. But even Y/N can admit her timing had been astronomically off with this one. A tear trembles its way over her waterline, Harry chiding her; talking about her as if she isn’t there at all, wounding in a way that makes her feel small unlike every other time before. She swipes it away quickly but the evidence remains—a sad, salty trail. 

“Leaves her mess—” a spoon is dropped unceremoniously, “everywhere,” throwing utensils into the top rack of the dishwasher with a lack of finesse. “Promises me dinner and then has the… the cheek to play the feminism card. Like it’s some… sort of punishment that I dole out.”

And then he spins around, wielding a whisk in a way that usually should diminish someone’s threat but only emphasises his anger. His eyes harden at the sight of her wet face, and he softens his words none. “You know I don’t think of you as some— some tool, some object for my own desires,” he puts the whisk into the dishwasher, before addressing her again, “but when you promise someone something, you fucking deliver, do you understand me?”

Y/N nods jerkily, more tears brimming. “I’m sorry,” she all but wails. The guilt fills her ears with a thickness—one that throws her off balance.

“Yes, I’m sure you are.” She’s rendered him resigned; her dominant usually so bright and uplifting, now expelling sigh upon sigh at the mere existence of her.

“I don’t want to look at your sad little face, turn around.” Y/N lags, feet glitching over the tiles. “Face the wall—yep,” he nods at her stunned expression, indicating that he is indeed serious, “go on.”

But surely not. “Let me—” her arms reach out in front of her, asking to help. Begging to help—to clean up her own mess and let Harry sit down.

Harry shuts her down, shaking his head tersely, coming forward to turn her himself. “—In the corner…just do something good. Wipe your face—” She lets herself be manhandled, shoulders quivering silently. He nudges her knees with his own, positioning her just right—in the corner like a naughty child. “—Don’t need to see you crying.”

He’s right; he doesn’t. She fucked up, Harry deserves to be the upset one. But instead Y/N’s weeping like some sort of inadvertent guilt trip.

Without her vision, everything he does is that much louder—his mutterings now comparable to full-blown rantings. “Who needs—three fucking bowls? This isn’t masterchef, darling. You don’t need three bowls to make a cake, you don’t.” Every sound makes her body tighten up.

Y/N sniffles, “I’m sorry,” forehead drooping to rest weakly against the wall.

Harry doesn’t seem to hear her sad whimper, grumbling away to himself. But as he turns and starts wiping the island counter, he scolds her again. “Stand up straight, we’re not relaxing,” as she forces her head back up sadly, twisting her neck to apologise once more. He’s moved back to the sink, knocking the tap with his knuckle to start soaking a large, ceramic bowl. “—And quit lookin’ at me over your shoulder.”

She slinks back around, shame heating her cheeks. Her posture wilts like a sorry flower. But she can’t help but worry as he’s soaking the bowls—a remembrance of the frosting she’d made, ready to spread on her heart-shaped creation after it had cooled. She checks back over her shoulder just as he’s standing on the pedal of the bin, lid swinging up.

“No!” she cries, scrambling over to rescue the bowl from Harry’s evil clutches. He sighs, eyes roving over her doleful, wet face, but he lets her hold it.

“Why—are you crying?” He asks with such indignation. “Do you need a reason, hm? Because we can find you one,” he swipes under her eyes carelessly, murmuring something about how he ought to never make her come again. “Ridiculous,” muttering to himself as Y/N stands woefully before him—frame so much smaller than it should be. “Go upstairs. Take your—” he turns her by her shoulders, “—bowl and go upstairs. Be useful and cry elsewhere… whilst I make us dinner.”

Y/N wonders, as she sadly shuffles her feet along the floor and up the stairs, if this is the Harry his previous partners were privy to. If this is how his dominance presented—cold, harsh, and unforgiving. She can’t deny the curiosity; that if the circumstances were different that she wouldn’t be aroused at the expense of her fear. Not that she’s scared of him—she’s not. He’s not that kind of angry. But this is unexpected, and it’s unsettling. She can’t decipher the true intentions behind his words; if they’re fuelled by frustration, hunger, exhaustion… or if they’re disguised by such factors in order to portray his true feelings. Was he… irreversibly upset with her? Was he disgusted by her? Repulsed? Turned off? 

She sits on the edge of his bed—the bowl is cold against her palms, heavy and sorrowful, and surely much saltier than she’d originally intended—tears dripping off her chin and into the frosting below.

She cries because she’s embarrassed, she cries because she’s failed; she’s a disappointment and a right headache. It’s why she just sits there, doing as he’d told her—to cry elsewhere. Whether or not she’s waiting for Harry, Y/N doesn’t know. Her brain sits in thick sludge inside of her skull.

Time evades her in moments like these. Her eyes gloss over, focused on one blurring point, her thoughts form with immense struggle—like someone wading through mud, picking up one foot with force, weighed down by the imprisoning filth, allowed freedom for a fraction of a second before it is submerged once more. 

She sits and she stares at nothing in particular, blinking only to displace the tears that obscure her already fuzzy vision. And when Harry appears in the doorframe, it takes a lagging second or two before recognition, before her face twists slightly and a wet garbling sound dribbles its way out of her downturned mouth.

He sighs, anger replaced with exhaustion now… or simply pushed aside until another time. Harry walks towards her, movements slow; cautious like that of a person desperate to keep a placated baby sweet.

“Don’t cry, come on,” he thumbs a tear from her dewy cheek, “don’t need to cry.” His voice is softer now, Y/N is grateful. Although his caressing cadence is enough to make her emotional on most days. So it does little to cease the rapid beating of her heart or the little diamond droplets in her waterline.

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” she sniffles, pushing her face into the pressure of Harry’s thumb despite feeling unworthy of it.

“Okay.” It’s a murmur, removed of emotion, as he’s smoothing his fingers around to the back of her neck, holding firmly—keeping her upright to allow her heavy head some respite—whilst he stands tall at the foot of the bed, gargantuan in size compared to Y/N’s sad form.

“Listen to me,” the digits curl slightly, angling her head up, up. She’s forced to ruminate over the tension in Harry’s brows and the evidence of his hands running through his hair with irritation, strands coiling wildly. But she nods against the strain, trying so hard to be better.

“You have two options.” He doesn’t sound angry anymore. Y/N almost wishes he did. The complete lack of inflection leaves her with nothing to lean on. “You can be a good girl for the rest of the night, just like I know you’re so capable of—” he pauses to let the words settle, and maybe to hear the echo of the slight spite in his accusation. 

Y/N doesn’t think she needs to hear option two, and when Harry does say it, it makes her sad all over again. 

“—or you can go to the spare room.” 

Her lip twitches; she clenches her eyes shut to force the tears back down and shakes her head in silence. 

Harry strokes his thumb against the back of her scalp. “We will talk about this. Tomorrow, we will. But for now, I want easy, okay? Will you be good?”

I am good! Is what she wants to say. She wants to say that she never meant to be bad, she never meant to upset him. She wants to take the last few hours of her life back completely and do it all over again. 

The weight of the bowl in her hands is a reminder. She puts it down on the mattress beside her, curling her knees underneath her bum to push her height up. To reach Harry’s chest and clench her fingers into the material of his shirt, jacket long since removed in the heat of his frustration.

“I’llbegood,” Harry feels the vibration of her words and hears the muffled promise as Y/N smears sad kisses over his cotton covered heart. He lets her—eyes losing the fight against his lids as they fall shut, sighing as he worries about taking this all too far. 

But the wheels are in motion, and the emotions are high. If Y/N can’t follow through on a promise, then Harry must follow through with a punishment. Or a scolding. Or whatever it is that they’re doing right now—which seems to be neither. He just wants to sleep, and hold her warm body, and forget about his day.

He brings his hand up to smooth over the top of her head, closed eyes allowing him one last moment of reprieve. Y/N’s tears soak through his shirt, wetting his skin underneath. No doubt he’ll find dampened patches littered across the material, soon to dry but the memory will never fade. Of having his love kiss through her tears, to beg in her sadness for forgiveness by applying her own homemade bandaids.

Harry needs a distraction.

His gaze lands on the forgotten bowl when he opens his eyes, gently pushing Y/N back onto her bum when he decides what to do.

“You didn’t eat your frosting, baby?”

And now he’s confusing her… because now he sounds almost playful—and Y/N doesn’t know the correct answer to give—the right words in the right order to be rewarded with the right reaction.

“I didn’t—know if you wanted me to, Sir,” she swallows around some of the words, snotty nose all stuffy and suffocating her vocal chords.

“I’d like you to now.” Harry sees his hands on her face as he says it, white frosting painting her like something else they’re familiar with—his fingers spanning the entirety of her features, smearing the mess around like she’s his own personal canvas. 

He leans down, just enough to dip his fingers inside the bowl, coating his digits, and then he stretches back out to his full height with purpose, sinewy forearm veiny as it is pulled towards Y/N’s mouth by an eager hand. 

She sits still—statuesque—with her eyes roving up Harry’s rolled sleeve and all the way to the straight line of his mouth. Y/N can’t help but wish she could know exactly what he was thinking as he daubs the pads of his middle and ring finger against the seal of her mouth, displacing the substance from his fingers to her lips, before teasing his way inside to hook her bottom teeth down and unlatch her jaw.

He just… stares for a moment, holding her mouth open and watching as saliva pools beneath her tongue and kisses his fingertips. And then he pats her cheek with his other hand, a soft tap as Y/N’s lashes barely flutter from the weight of his palm. She drools a little when Harry drops her jaw, shame lingering somewhere but not quite reaching the forefront of her mind. It occurs to her to close her mouth, but it seems her dominant isn’t quite finished—bringing a newly dipped hand back up to her face. He’s all but dipped it entirely into the bowl, cold against Y/N’s face when he smudges his handprint over the left side of her face with a quirk of his lips.

“Sweet and salty, huh?” his eyes darken, the pad of his thumb smearing the frosting so indelicately adorning her face. The sugary paste intersects with a drying tear trail streaking down her cheek and Harry can’t help the way his saliva pools under his tongue, blocky front teeth pushing two lines into his bottom lip. 

She looks so pretty.

Y/N watches the way the flesh holds a slight indentation when her dominant closes his mouth once again. The quickstep of her heart dances with exhilaration now—body frozen in anticipation as Harry’s looming stature shrinks her. Her eyes are wide, and the only things she dares to move, flitting around Harry’s face as he manhandles hers.

He squeezes her cheeks together, shaking her head from side to side before dipping his thumb into her open mouth and spreading it across her tongue. Vanilla blossoms on her taste buds, and a quiet hum rumbles at the back of Y/N’s throat.

“S’that nice?” Harry all but coos. “All your hard work? Does it taste good?” He’s teasing, she knows—but that’s never mattered with Harry. Y/N will always answer him sincerely. 

She hums around his thumb, “Mhm,” tongue flicking against his soft pad. If Y/N could eat everything off of Harry’s fingers, she would. Hand fed for life, lips cushioning his long digits as they stroke her tongue and caress the insides of her cheeks.

“Let me see,” Harry murmurs, keeping her head still as he bends down, tongue unfolding from behind his lips as he licks a stripe from the corner of her mouth to her cheekbone. Y/N makes a startled noise around his thumb, goosebumps littering her skin. Warmth and wet from his thick muscle as it lingers unnecessarily; he hums lewdly, over exaggerating the pleasure just to amplify Y/N’s—to watch her squeeze her thighs out of the corner of his eye as he leans back and swallows.

“Beautiful,” he concludes—about her frosting or about her, Y/N doesn’t know. Her eyes are wide and crystal clear, every emotion glittering over the surface of her corneas. And she just sits there, white smudges over her cheek, her lips, staring up at Harry as though he created the world in the palm of his hand—as though she sleeps soundly curled up in the nest of his dimple or the crevice of his navel.

Harry knuckles the rest of the mess off of her skin, suckling the joint into his mouth and gathering it all onto his tongue. She doesn’t expect the grip of his fingers on her jaw and for her automatic response being to present her own tongue, doesn’t realise that she registers the slight purse of his lips as he crowds her space and shamelessly lets the sweetness drip heavily into her mouth.

He doesn’t have to tell her to swallow as her throat bobs, eyes never wavering from Harry’s despite the electricity that jolts up her spine from the casual debauchery. So unwavering, his gaze, as if concentrating on the most important thing to ever happen in his life. Refusing to blink to avoid risking missing a single millisecond.

And then… then he steps back, the moment suddenly gone. Y/N misses the way his eyes droop regretfully.

Silent footfalls pad over to the en-suite, collecting cleanser and lotion, serum and soft wipes. Harry dabs at her face with such precision that Y/N wonders if it’s soothing for him—to take more care than necessary at cleaning her skin. She doesn’t quite understand the intent. Was he not going to continue what Y/N confidently assumes he had in mind?

He doesn’t as he changes out of his suit, he doesn’t as he passes his work shirt to Y/N, he doesn’t as she undresses—which would be the perfect time to do such a thing—he doesn’t as he pulls back the covers and settles in, patting the spot in front of him.

Y/N complies with a similar silence. No words shared but nonverbal communication can be just as effective. The wrap of Harry’s heavy forearm around her waist, pulling her in tight, so tight—almost too tight. That’s soothing enough to her, feeling his hard chest, his hard arms, his hard—

“Mm, Harry,” a whispered moan and a shift of her bum. She can feel him begging to nestle between her. 

“No, baby, no,” he tickles her neck inadvertently, burrowing his nose into the delicate flesh. She yearns to crane her head back against his shoulder.

“Want you to feel good, sir. Just stay warm inside me, please?”

“I don’t deserve it, pet. Sleep now. We’ll eat in an hour.” 

She can’t argue, not when her eyelids are so heavy. But the sleepiness of her brain and the tingling between her legs has her head all foggy, movements not her own as she guides Harry’s hand up to her mouth and coaxes his middle two fingers past her lips. He sighs into her neck, a gentle huff, but doesn’t resist—his other arm simply snakes under her body to wrap back around her waist and infuse her into his front.

Y/N has never slept so easily after an argument before.

When more of your possessions reside in your dominant’s house than your own, it’s probably time to reevaluate the situation. Y/N doesn’t do that as she juggles cans and bottles before dumping them into her suitcase—Harry’s suitcase because hers was old and battered—doesn’t even ponder it, which is something novel for her.

Harry passes a makeup bag silently from beside her. His case sits open on top of his mattress, slowly filling with clothes and toiletries. She’s not going for long, not even three full days, but Y/N has always been more at ease when she overpacks—instead of underpacking and feeling that swirling dread when she realises she’s forgotten something.

They’d travelled to her house to grab some things and then back to Harry’s—where he neatly folds whilst she fretfully panics—too manic to be overly helpful.

“Do you think I’ll need my sunglasses?” She gestures with them, spinning them around her finger before proceeding to juggle midair to stop them falling to the floor.

Harry smiles, humming whilst he picks a loose bit of fluff from the jeans he’s folding, “I’d take them, just in case.”

“Won’t you tell me where we’re going?” She tries to round her eyes but Harry sees right through her. “Please?”

“No, darlin’, sorry.” He’s not sorry.

“I can’t believe you’ve known the whole time— when did he tell you? Why won’t you tell me? This is ridiculous…” she scoffs, “trying to send me somewhere when I have no bloody clue where it is I’m going—!”

“Oh, watch out everybody, she’s gearing up.”

“—Yes, I am! Stay clear of me unless you want a…” she hesitates , “a…”

“A knuckle sandwich?” Harry offers.

“A knuckle sandwich, yeah!” holding two small fists out in front of her with misguided intent. “Watch out, mate,” hopping about him like a crazy person.

He lets her, hoping she’ll tire herself out with all the bouncing around. “Okay, pal. I’m not telling you! I’m not sending you off to war, don’t worry, okay?”

She almost snorts. Don’t worry… what a ridiculous notion. “When pigs fly, Harry,” she grumbles.

They’re in better spirits today, evidently—although the morning had been tense. When Y/N had peeled her eyes open and relished in the feeling of Harry wrapping her up, she’d melted even further into the mattress. But that was before consciousness had really hit her, before her brain woke up and went fuck. 

Harry had gone through the same thing about three seconds later, the jolt of Y/N’s remembrance disturbing his slumber. He’d groaned out, rolling onto his back and slinging a forearm over his eyes. Y/N peeked behind her at his bare chest rising and falling slowly. His grumbling voice had made the hairs on her arms stand up.

“Want a coffee?”

“Oh—I’ll do it, Harry.”

“No you won’t, stay there,” slinging his legs over the side of the bed and stretching his arms above his head.

She still couldn’t help but admire the broadness of his back and the way it rippled despite the suspense in the air. “Could I have a tea, please? Actually, can I just come with you?”

He’d looked back at her, dimple carving its place with a small smile. “Alright, fusspot, come on then.”

“Here you go,” Harry passed her a mug, presenting her with the handled side as if he wasn’t casually holding scalding ceramic in his hand.

It toppled out, really, nearly undecipherable as she rushed, “Thankshandsome.”

Harry brought his mug up to his lips, not quite registering what she’s said, and then he paused, “What did you just say?”

Shit, nothing, nothing. “I said thanks, Harry."

“No you didn’t, did you just call me—?”

“—It sounded weird,” a sad frown pulled at her mouth. “I want to be sweet but it sounded so stupid.”

He shook his head, tongue running along his bottom lip to stop himself cheesing. “Say it again.”

She’s flustered. “I—” Harry raised his eyebrows. “...Thank you, handsome.”

“And again?” tongue poking the inside of his cheek.

Clammy hands dragged over her eyes to try and feel invisible. “Thanks, handsome.”

A broad grin stretched out across his face, and Y/N swore she saw the hint of a blush teasing the surface of his cheeks. “I like it,” he said. “You’re welcome, darlin’.” Y/N’s face burned, a nervous roll of her lip between her teeth before Harry reached out to kiss her cheek.

“I’m sorry about yesterday, baby. Really sorry.”

“Wh—?” She grabbed his hand that had found her face, thumb stroking her chin. “Why? It was my fault, I’m sorry. I promised you. I hate that I broke it.”

“You did promise me, yeah. But I didn’t even say hello to you, sweetheart. What kind of arsehole does that? Made you feel like shit. Can’t deny it, I made you cry.”

“But I just felt bad. Because— Because I promised, and you must’ve been so hungry.”

“It was just a curry, pet. No harm done. You made a very gorgeous cake instead. And yeah, I was hungry but no one died. I don’t hate you because you made a mistake. People make mistakes—I made one hundred mistakes last night.”

“Only a few,” she smiled coyly. 

“I’m sorry. I was hungry, and I was tired, and I did all the wrong things. I upset you and it upset me and… I never w’na speak to you like that again. Will you forgive me?”

“I already had,” her voice wobbled, relief flooding her system. Harry wrapped his arms around her shoulders and buried his nose into her hair without a moment of hesitation. “I’m sorry too.”

He hummed. “You know I don’t expect you to cook and clean for me, don’t you? Don’t expect any of that.” She nodded against his chest, forehead rubbing against his bare skin. “Could roll around on the floor all day or pick pretty flowers, as long as you were happy.”

“Stop, you’re making me cry,” a wet sniffle rumbling into his chest.

“You really think I’m handsome?”

She barked out a laugh, pulling back to look into his smiling eyes. “No! I think you’re wretched!”

Now, they pratt about like two high teenagers—giggling about things that could only be funny in these very specific circumstances. Harry insists on pretending to grind on Y/N like he’s been cast in some sort of early two thousands music video, relishing in each fit of shrieky laughter he wins from her, nibbling into her neck and pulling her body into his.

“Harry! You’re supposed to be helping me pack!”

“I am helping.”

“No you’re not!” she laughs.

“Let’s finish it later,” he mumbles into the side of her face, arms squeezing around her middle promisingly. “I’m supposed to be working, you know?” Harry hasn’t set foot in his home office all day.

“You’re the boss,” she argues validly.

“Yeah, I am…” he agrees, keen to keep their bubble from popping. “Will you let me decorate your cake with you?”

Y/N spins around in his arms, face bright as she exclaims, “Yes! Oh my god, yes!”

Harry laughs. “G’na need to make some more frosting, most likely,” smiling like a menace when Y/N’s eyes widen and he can almost feel the heat rising up her face. She glances over to the bowl that is still sat on top of the dresser where Harry moved it the night before. If not for the fact that half of it was used like foundation, then it is most definitely not fresh anymore from its lack of cover.

“Come on, then,” she bites her lip, finding his hand and intertwining their fingers in a bold move of enthusiasm as she coaxes him out of the bedroom and down the stairs.

A beautifully heart shaped cake sits undisturbed on a vintage glass stand, the patterned dome warping the image underneath it. And despite the trouble that said cake caused, Y/N still bounds over to it all smiley, proud like she’s just received a first class distinction for a dissertation she’s slogged over for months.

 Harry watches her fondly, noting the way her lips form around silent words as she lists off all the things she needs to get out of the cupboards. It’s a privilege to get to see someone so comfortably in their element; to pick up on things they don’t even notice about themselves. 

She ushers him over, presenting a wooden spoon for him to take. “You can stir, muscle man,” the cheeky quip settling on Harry’s skin with a buzz as Y/N slowly pours each ingredient into a bowl. Harry does as he’s told, stirring and beating the mixture until the boss deems it good enough.

She wields the palette knife like it’s an extension of her hand, smoothing the frosting over the cake whilst Harry ‘helps’. Y/N did ask if he wanted to do it, but he couldn’t possibly do a subpar job of her favourite process. So he watches from beside her—not too close (“You make me nervous”) but close enough for moral support (“Not that far away!”)—making an effort to hold his breath in case it were to disturb her.

Cakes were never Harry’s dessert of choice but… but. Y/N’s unwavering glee is enough to make him want to request a change in the law that demands cake be granted to all. “Do you like it?” She grins, looking up at Harry to gauge his reaction. And he hardly has to over exaggerate; it is gorgeous.

“Too good to eat, that’s for sure,” he hums, holding her gaze with a twinkle in his eye.

“Wait! It’s not finished,” her face drops as she remembers, frantically hurrying to the fridge to retrieve a punnet of strawberries.

Harry should’ve known. “Nothing is ever finished without strawberries.” It’s a gentle tease, followed by a huff of laughter, shaking his head gently as she cuts them in half to place around the border of the heart, in between soft peaks of piping. 

It’s simple, and it’s sweet, and it’s lovely. Much like Y/N as she habitually holds up a fruit to Harry’s mouth, shrieking and pulling back when he purposefully nips her fingertips. He grins through a chew, fresh, sweet juice shining on his lips.

Then he turns to get some water, presenting Y/N with a perfect opportunity. As he’s filling a glass, letting his mind wander to dinner plans, “Do you fancy spag—” he turns into Y/N’s attack as she strikes. Vanilla buttercream. Vanilla buttercream splattered across his cheek and kissing his eyelashes. 

Y/N gasps, hands coming up to cover her mouth and hide her smile, so bad at pretending to be innocent. Harry says nothing, and then he trails his eyes from the floor to her face… “You little minx,” and he pounces.

The submissive yelps, reaching behind her for the counter—frantic for stabilisation as Harry’s body collides into hers. She’s drowning in giggles, out of breath from the incessance. The bottom of her spine digs into marble, hips swivelling as she desperately tries to reach the bowl. Harry’s laughing, pushing forward to rub his sugary face against hers whilst Y/N wiggles—and when he realises her intent, drops his hands to her hips and tugs her behind brutishly into his front—reaches over her back and elongates a sinewy arm to grasp what she can’t.

A clumsy hand bashes against the ceramic, his free arm wrapping around both of Y/N’s the best he can to incapacitate her as his fingers find frosting. He pulls them back, frenzied in his movements as he carelessly sullies her face, her big puffs of laughter tickling his palm. “Ah!” She squeals, head thrown back against his shoulder to try and escape Harry’s menacing paw. “Ha—ha—Harry! Sto-ho-op!”

“You love it,” he grumbles into her temple, far from irritated but his voice can’t help but dip into that velvety cadence with her body pressed so tight against his. He smushes his palm over her mouth, perfectly riled up when Y/N opens her mouth and slathers her tongue against the sticky skin.

She giggles something unattractive—though it makes Harry’s cock twitch in his sweats. “Fuckin’ love struggling like this, don’t you, doll?” And suddenly the mood shifts, Y/N’s laugh catches in her throat and she garbles out a whine instead, body relaxing in Harry’s hold.

He nudges her forward, encourages the stretch of her body over the countertop and the way her knuckles knock against the ceramic. An unconscious hum rumbles past his lips, tongue poking out to taste the sweetness Y/N left behind.

Deft fingertips tug impatiently at the denim hem of her jeans, forcing the button undone and then the zipper, shifting them down to stretch across her thighs. Y/N pants when she realises that’s all the wiggle room Harry is going to grant her. 

He pauses, “What’s your colour,” uncharacteristically out of breath, hardly poised as a question.

“Green,” Y/N whines in return, trying to wiggle her hips but Harry wraps his fingers through the back of her underwear and pulls. The fabric cuts into the crease of Y/N’s thighs and a shiver wracks through her as the force of it bounces her ass against him—against his bulge. 

His breath hits the shell of her ear as he leans over, taunting and teasing. “Gonna let me fuck you?”

“Yes,” Y/N nods, turning her cheek into the marble to feel the cold spread out across the searing flesh. Her hands form fists, nails digging into her palms—desperate to tug on something but her skin is the only option.

It’s rushed, and it’s frenetic—it’s not the way things usually go and it multiplies Y/N’s excitement tenfold. Her knees wobble without prompt and she’s not sure she’ll be able to hold this position for very long but she doesn’t think she’ll have to. Not when Harry pulls himself out of his sweatpants and slips himself under her panties and through her lips. He’s so hard already, Y/N feels herself wetten from the slightest touch; his weight and his grunt as their bodies meet completely and utterly.

But he’s teasing her, he’s… he’s—

“Harry,” it comes out all whiny and impatient—two things Y/N has never claimed not to be—but with every slant of his hips, every stroke through her arousal and bump of her clit, with her wretched knickers still on, it makes her angry. “Stop—stop teasing me!”

He jerks, unused to such commands toppling from her mouth. “Shh, be good, be quiet,” but complying regardless as he slips her panties down her thighs to stretch just like her jeans. Y/N can’t spread her legs very wide, but that doesn’t stop Harry from pushing at pulling as he pleases—one hand pressing down on her lower back, the other cupping her cunt and smearing her arousal like an artist with a paintbrush. 

Neither of them can stand the idea of foreplay right now; Y/N can feel her sad, empty hole pulsing and clenching around nothing—Harry throbs just the same, slicking her wetness up and around his dick, twisting and tugging at the tip enough to make him leak down his knuckles.

They’re wet enough, shining under the harsh kitchen lights, and yet Harry still pulls at Y/N’s ass, spreading her wide to dribble a thick line of spit onto her puckered hole. She jolts, hips grinding unceremoniously against the counter as she feels his saliva drool down to her glistening cunt and Harry’s thumb chase it. He coos and hisses at the bang, smoothing over her hip with his other hand as he starts to rub circles over her.

“Oh—!” It’s impossible not to writhe under the foreign feeling, exposed and wet, trapped by her own jeans. Her forehead falls down, clashing against the marble but Y/N hardly feels it. All she can feel is the pad of Harry’s thumb and the heat it burns into her body—the seeping between her thighs the longer he plays, and the teasing bumps and brushes of his cock against her rounded flesh.

“Shh, that’s it. Good girl.”

And she withers. She disintegrates right in front of Harry’s eyes.

“Pretty girl with a pretty ass, hm? ‘s that feel good, darlin’?”

“Mm, please I—”

“I know, shh—shh,” thudding himself against her firmly, guiding the tip up and down her slick, pushing in to watch her stretch and swallow before leaning back again. Pushing in—pulling out. His thumb applies the slightest of pressure, not enough to send panic clattering up Y/N’s spine but enough to mollify her very being. The sensation—the teasing—of intrusion without the worry of it. The taboo nature of experiencing such pleasure in such places. 

When Harry pushes in all the way, Y/N nearly collapses, whimpering into the counter. She can feel him in her fucking throat, she’s sure of it. Every ridge, every vein, the nudge of his head, his slit kissing her walls. And Harry spews all that he can without saying the words themselves.

“Love your fucking cunt, love this—fucking gorgeous body.” His voice thins out to a gravelly whisper, “Were you made just for me, sweetheart?” hips slapping against rippling flesh, palm smoothing up her back to weave into tendrils of hair as his thumb remains encircling. Y/N tries to reply; all that procures are pitiful cries of exertion, air punched out of her lungs with every thrust. “Waiting patiently for me to find you.”

It’s such a romantic sentiment that she finds herself welling up—perhaps easily understood by the overstimulation of her entire vessel but it feels deeper than that. It feels intimate irregardless of their current position. A limp hand flops against her lower back, tired elbow joints aching, searching for its partner—searching for its missing puzzle piece. And when Harry’s fingers slot into place… it forms the whole, pretty picture.

“Love, need you to—” a pause as though he’s forgotten the words as he says them. “Need you to relax. Gripping me so tight—not g’na last.”

But Harry’s sentiment calms her none, she clenches around him even tighter—suddenly tunnel visioned for one thing and one thing only. It’s an amalgamation of wet noises attempting to form syllables, “Pleasecome, pleasecome, please—” Inside, she wants it inside. 

“God, baby, you’re so wet,” Harry’s hips stutter, digits squeezing hers even tighter, thumb slipping away to slink around her front and frame two fingers on either side of her cunt, pinching her clit ever so slightly. It makes her shudder, mouth far too numb to feel the drool that strings down onto the counter.

“Mhm, mhm,” pushing back with all the strength she can muster, bum lifting to meet Harry’s pelvis. “Daddy.”

“Okay, darlin’, it’s okay. Need you to come f’me,” framing fingers coming together to form the perfect swipes over her clit—the extra stimulation she needs to just push her over the edge and send her toppling. He feels the way she starts to throb, feels the way the muscles in her legs lock, keeps rubbing to carry her through as her weak whimpers trail into wet sobs.

Y/N practically loses consciousness as her orgasm hits her; squeezes Harry’s hand so tight he hisses for reasons other than his strangled cock. Her knees buckle and her limbs lose competence. Harry moves both hands to her waist, hauling her up and onto her toes as he quickens his pace, lewd slicking and the thud of their bodies the only sounds to ever exist.

And she keeps squeezing, the aftershocks strong enough to pull Harry with her, to force him to slip out frantically before painting stripe after stripe onto her ass, her back. She shakes her head against the hard countertop—never before has she felt such a jarring loss, such a painful transition. Inside, she wanted it inside.

Harry stands behind her, slowly tugging, squeezing out every last drop onto her skin. His legs don’t quite shake like Y/N’s but the exertion, the overwhelming orgasm has his head spinning a bit. But not when he registers his submissive’s wet face, drenched in sweat and tears alike, unable to be peeled from where it lays heavily on the counter. He wisens up entirely, cooing soft, easily digestible words as he cleans her skin with a soft tissue. Swipes in between her legs slowly, careful to avoid unwanted pressure, and straightens her back as thought he might have broken it.

Her eyes are glossy, not fully present but it doesn’t bother him. She looks tired, pupils tracking his face with a lag. But tired means he’s done his job well, tired means all other thoughts fail to penetrate. 

They could do with a shower, a sleep, a good meal… but Harry can’t deny the desire to just sit with her for a moment. To untuck a less than comfortable stool and hold her on his lap, chin nestled against her neck. To kiss mindlessly along the slope of her shoulder and massage his fingers into her scalp, to have her doze off on top of him, completely void of tension.

And when she wakes up, he’ll let her eat cake for lunch.

Harry hopes he doesn’t appear too grumpy on the drive to Niall’s. He’s just… well he is grumpy, because he’s going to miss Y/N. And it dawns on him on that journey, just how much he’s going to fucking miss her.

It shouldn’t be so hard to tell her—not when he feels it so fervently. Maybe it makes Harry selfish for wanting her to say it first but he tells himself that’s why he’s waiting. Not because he’s worried but because he wants Y/N to be brave. 

And it weighs on him, every goodbye being void of those three little words. It weighs on him but it still doesn’t mean he says it any sooner. 

Y/N buzzes beside him, practically vibrating in her seat. She turns her seat warmer on, adjusts the aircon, switches the radio station, turns her seat warmer off, rummages around in Harry’s glove box for nothing in particular.

She’s nervous. She’s excited but she’s nervous—and even a blind man would be able to tell. Harry lovingly wishes he maybe could be blind, or better deaf, as she prattles on; terminally diagnosed with verbal diarrhoea as he ums and ahs to appease her. He stopped listening when she started rattling off facts about pigeons (pigeons, for Christ’s sake), focusing intently on the road alongside his own internal battles.

Harry doesn’t mean to suggest he doesn’t enjoy her borderline insanity—he does—he’s head over heels in love with her insanity. She entertains him thoroughly without even trying to and he thinks he could only list on one hand the times he hasn’t been completely endeared with her. 

But he can forgive himself for zoning about when it comes to pigeon facts, no matter how interesting it may be that the species were entirely domesticated, and then abandoned by humans.

“I need a wee,” she complains, shifting her seat belt so it stops pressing into her bladder.

“‘s alright, only five minutes away.”

“I know,” she whinges, starting to tug at the hem of her sleeve. Harry sees her incessant fiddling out of the corner of his eye, placing his upturned hand on her thigh as a silent ask for her own. Y/N takes the bait, and a calm settles over them. 

When they pull up outside Niall’s place, he’s leaning against the hood of his car, squinting at his phone. At the sound of tires over gravel he looks up and grins, elation taking over his face. And however desperate Y/N might have been to go to the bathroom, and no matter how excited her friend is, she doesn’t dare to rush getting out of the car.

She slings her arms around Harry’s neck, bidding farewell as if she’s going abroad and not just an hour away. But Harry doesn’t laugh, he hugs her back just as tight, inhaling the freshness of her skin—desperate to keep her scent with him until she gets back. He presses kisses into the side of her head, warm palm rubbing her lower back—usually he might be reassuring her with gentle words but right now he can’t find it within himself to do so.

He doesn’t want her to go.

And he’s a grown, adult man—not some lovesick teenager. She’s going for three days. THREE. But Harry still hasn’t said I love you and each departure feels more and more dangerous.

“You’re gonna have such a lovely time,” he pulls back to kiss her cheek and her lashes flutter like little butterfly wings. A knuckle down the bridge of her nose and teasingly flicking underneath to make her giggle. “Text me when you arrive, okay?”

“Yeah,” she hums, less than subtly leaning in, hoping he’ll kiss her like they do in the movies. An incapacitating kind of kiss. And Harry delivers like it’s his profession, devouring hands overwhelming in their cradle of her head, directing her movements as he teases the corner of her mouth with a gentle press of his lips. He wishes he could take more time. He wishes Niall weren’t right outside the fucking window probably simpering at the sight. He wishes he could give her more than just a chaste sponging of their mouths, followed by a flurry of departing pecks. 

He wishes he could just say the fucking words.

A knock sounds from behind Harry’s head—knuckles on glass—and the muffled sound of Niall’s teasing, “Get a move on, you two! We’ve got to leave today,” and Harry meets Y/N’s gaze, rolling his eyes obnoxiously whilst she laughs. Their bubble has been popped, and she’s opening the car door, bounding over to her friend all foolishly as she playfully berates him. Harry’s mouth curls up into a small smile, sliding out of the car and silently getting Y/N’s suitcase whilst amusedly shaking his head.

He even gets a coy, “Thanks, handsome,” a twinkle in Y/N’s eye as she embarrasses herself in front of Niall to make Harry’s heart jump. The two men hug and pat one another on the back, exchanging pleasantries and agreeing that it’s been too long. But it’s unnecessary to hang around, and Niall makes some comment about how he needs to take care of something he’d nearly forgotten, so Harry pulls himself away and tries not to watch Y/N in the rearview mirror as he pulls back out onto the road.

It follows him around for the rest of the day, his lack of courage, of flexibility. The fact that a more than capable CEO—a dominant—couldn’t say I love you to his partner. He’s not embarrassed, no it runs deeper than insecurity, but he’s frustrated. And Harry has never been irrational but perhaps Y/N has been rubbing off on him because he finds himself starting to panic.

What if there’s an accident? There’s an accident and Harry never gets to tell her… He has to stop those thoughts before he finds himself calling her up to demand her life status, and then again thirty minutes later, and another thirty minutes. But it’s not so irrational, he can’t help but believe. Accidents happen all the time—and Harry can’t stand going any longer without telling her how bleak his life would be without her.

It doesn’t help to scroll through social media. A fucking philosophy. Not when life starts showing you godforsaken signs. A friend getting married here, a newborn baby there. Everyone coupled up and happy—basking in love without boundaries. Love without hesitation and fear. Harry wants to give that to Y/N. He has that love for Y/N, and he’s positive she has it for him too.

So he exits out of Instagram and starts to look through his own personal social media—his camera roll. Harry has more photos on his phone of Y/N than he does his parents, his sister, his friends. The folder he’s titled simply with her name holds a number of images that might indicate he harbours strong feelings for the girl.

In their short but staggering relationship, thus far, Harry has taken seventy two photographs of Y/N. More if he were to count the ones he deleted after a panicked spam to capture the moment before it passed. He swipes through them slowly—one of Y/N asleep in his bed, naked back pretty in the morning light. One of her sitting across from him at their favourite café, caught off guard in an authentic smile that he can never get out of her when he asks her to pose. He treasures that one. A photo of her laying on lucious grass, arms and legs spread out like she is trying to make some sort of snow angel without the snow. A photo of her wet from the pool, droplets littering her skin as she sunbathes unaware—and then a subsequent photo of when she spotted Harry with his phone directed at her, and scrunched her nose up in disgust. He’d looked at that one for ages.

He wonders what she’s doing now. Knows they arrived not long ago, from her bubbly text message adorned in exclamation marks and emojis. Wishes he could’ve seen her reaction when they pulled up outside the place—a luxury health spa. The perfect place for a neurotic who has an affinity for smelling and feeling nice. She had sent him screenshots; the reaction she’d had over text when Niall admitted to her how he’d booked their visit.

Y/N this room is incredible omg how did you get us in here with such short notice?

Niall right??? don’t need a spa just need this bedroom I BOOKED IT IN HARRY’S NAME LOL no I’m kidding, I’m kidding… okay, I’m not kidding but I phoned him straight afterwards I knew he’d be fine with it  I paid him for my room and stuff don’t worry desperate times called for desperate measures and I knew his name would get us a stay

Y/N NIALL YOU ARE INSANE YOU CAN’T DO THAT how did you have his card details what the hell??? actually don’t tell me i don’t want to be liable by association when you get arrested or whatever

Niall aiding and abetting? is what it’s called, I think ANYWAY YOU WORRY TOO MUCH HARRY IS FINE WITH IT now HURRY UP!!!!! I want to go the in hot tub 😋 in the*

She’d followed the photos up with thank you, harry. wish you were here to enjoy it too x—and it had only made him miss her more.

Y/N and Niall's luxurious long weekend goes by too quickly. And despite her words being true—that she wished Harry could be with them—Niall, unsurprisingly keeps Y/N wonderfully distracted. It’s a relief that she hasn’t become insufferable since dating someone. That she hasn’t turned into one of those people who bring up their partner in every. single. conversation. That she’s not just moping around waiting to go home and ruining Niall’s enjoyment. Y/N actually finds herself to be… content. 

Yes, she misses Harry. She misses sleeping in his bed, in his arms. She misses walking into a room and seeing him just existing. But it doesn’t stop her from lounging in the hot tub with Niall and giggling over gossip. It doesn’t stop her from going to a pilates class and instantly regretting it. It doesn’t stop her from getting a massage so good she nearly falls asleep—although she may admit to pretending the woman administering the massage is in fact her dominant, with suddenly much smaller hands—but that’s neither here nor there.

And when Monday morning rolls around, she’s loose-limbed and fresh-faced—and very much excited about seeing Harry again. What she doesn’t know is that he’s been excited about seeing her again since he dropped her off… and is having the closest thing to a mental breakdown over their lack of communication. 

He wakes up disgruntled; a night of tossing and turning and bags slowly procuring under his eyes. He wakes up and showers. He eats and he glances over his emails. He’ll be ‘working’ from home today, without a doubt. 

It feels as though the only thing that can capture his attention is the clock—each hand ticking slower than the last. Y/N won’t be home until midday at least, but Harry can’t find himself able to concentrate on anything else.

It seems the universe has it out for him, when he switches the television on and Y/N’s favourite rom com blares through the speakers. During her favourite scene, of course. He wants to switch it off—not through distaste but through yearing—through painful reminder. But he can’t; not only because he adores the movie too but because the scene in which Y/N loves so much is just that. The climax of the film, the moment everybody has been waiting for—the love confession.

“For fuck’s sake,” he curses to the empty room. Because it’s typical, isn’t it? That coincidence would strike at this moment in time. That out of all the channels and all the TV shows, the films that could’ve been on at eleven thirty on a Monday morning, it’s this one. He doesn’t really watch it. He’s seen it enough times to know what happens. But it helps him decide something. It helps him ignore any and all previous stances on the matter—fuck making her say it first. 

Harry knows she loves him and he gets in his car to tell her so, leaving the television murmuring quietly—two besotted characters lost in an embrace to the sound of his front door clicking shut.

Niall drops Y/N home at approximately the same time Harry leaves his. Of course, Y/N doesn’t know this, and she would’ve appreciated a warning—maybe the chance to have a cup of tea and unpack her case first. But she’s feeling vibrantly recuperated—thoroughly pampered and sucked into the blissful dreamworld of a weekend at a spa, and it hardly crosses her mind to question why Harry turns up so chaotically.

Why he knocks on her door instead of just coming straight in, why he tugs her into him as though she’s just been rescued, why he pulls back just to ask a less than sensical question. "Why won't you say it to me?"

Perplexed silence. Y/N's fingertips linger on the door handle as she tumbles back from his embrace, her gait once relaxed and happy—now stiff and unsure. Somewhere in the back of her mind she thinks Harry’s just wasted all of his money paying for that long weekend.

"Harry?" It hasn't clicked yet, what he's talking about, but it still sits heavy in her gut—heavy and unanswered.

"Why won't you say it, darling?" He looks desperate... it doesn't compliment him well; it makes Y/N nervous. Harry is a suit without creases, shining shoes, perfect hair kind of man, but right now he vibrates on her doorstep in two day old sweats and hand combed locks. In fact, he can't seem to keep his fingers out of those runnels—creating new ones with each breath Y/N's voice fails to break the silence.

"Say what?" She practically begs it. Say what? Please, please, please. Tell me, let it be okay, let it be simple. "I'll say anything you want, Harry," it doesn't evade her that perhaps she should hear him out first. But it's as she whispers the commitment that she realises it. That she would say anything he wanted to hear… for Harry, Y/N would perform absurdities.

Usually shimmering jade now refuses to glisten in the light, green from a marsh or a bog. Y/N misses the viridescence. Harry releases a breath, lashes swatting heavily against his under eye. "You know, you— I need you to know."

And then… suddenly, she does. Suddenly, she’s kidding herself if she pretends she doesn’t know. It clicks—it clicks and Y/N’s heart stutters. This is cruel of Harry, so cruel. He sent her away to relax and now he’s setting up something fanciful just to make a mockery of her.

“That’s not fair,” she wobbles, in word and posture. Her knees start to feel weak, her chest tightens, the image of Harry before her—still hovering outside—starts to thicken. Y/N takes a step back, and Harry one forward. He shuts the door behind him, free from the chill of the wind, now trapped inside.

“Not fair? What do you mean?”

This—this isn’t how Harry talks, this exasperation, this urgency. He takes care of her, he tells her what she means when she speaks. Y/N doesn’t figure that out on her own. Harry always… he always knows. Why doesn’t he know?

Y/N turns her back on him when the corners of her eyes start to burn. A pathetic breakdown of emotion, she thinks. “You must know I’ve just been waiting… waiting for the day. Been so patient, my love. Please talk to me.”

“I can’t,” her words swallow one another, throat thick and wet. 

Harry rushes round to see her, his eyebrows uncomfortably pulled towards the centre of his face. There’s a migraine brewing behind his eyes. “Yes, you can. You can, darling,” chilled palms hold her head up. Y/N wants to shake them off but the temptation is smothered the mere second it arrives. “What are you so afraid of? S’just me.”

“Can’t—can’t… can’t,” scalding tears tip over her waterline, streaming down and over the knuckles of Harry’s thumbs as they brush over her quivering cheeks. She inhales a shaky, shallow breath. “Need you. Need to keep it—this—safe.”

“Why wouldn’t it be safe, Y/N?”

“I’ll ruin it, I’ll—I’m not—” she closes her eyes, “You can’t possibly—”

“—Love you?”

The mere suggestion of it punches the air from her lungs. Despite the fact he’s not saying it to her, it might as well have the same effect. She shakes her head, dislodging a tear.

“I love you, Y/N.” She shakes her head harder. “I love you so much.”

“No,” it’s a thick, ugly cry. “You can’t, I’m— I’m no good, I’m annoying.”

And Harry… Harry does something borderline offensive. Harry laughs in her face. He laughs loudly and he laughs boldly, carving out a crease in between Y/N’s eyebrows.

“I love you,” he says again. And he feels so, so miraculously light, after fretting over it for so long. After hearing her only excuse be that she doesn’t feel deserving of it… well. Harry doesn’t think that’s so hard to help her with, after all. “I love you.”

“Stop,” she weeps, face begging to hide but Harry’s hands hold it up. He’s just a blur before her.

“Hey, hey,” the pads of his thumbs are soaked but that doesn’t stop him from trying to wipe her face. “Look at me—come on, pretty girl, that’s it.” Y/N can feel her bottom lip wobbling. “Do you remember… a few weeks ago, when you were upset—”

Y/N snorts—she can’t help herself—the self-loathe overrules.

“—Oi. Yes, I know, don’t say it. You were upset and you accidentally dropped that plate, yeah? You remember? And I bought you flowers and you felt bad the next day because you didn’t notice?”

Yes. Yes, she remembers that. She’d felt so bad. So embarrassed when she’d asked him where they’d come from, and he’d admitted he wanted to give them to her yesterday when he got home. Too wrapped up in her own despair to realise—too selfish, and dramatic, and ridiculous—

“Hey—don’t think about it, I’m not— I mean,” he stops and sighs, rakes his hand through the back of her hair. “I buy you flowers with meaning, yeah? Yellow tulips, white gardenias…” Y/N nods slowly, confused but fond of the memory of those yellow tulips indefinitely. “Those flowers I bought a few weeks ago… they were red roses, baby. They symbolise love—they mean I love you. And I was going to tell you if you’d asked but… well, it didn’t happen—And I’m not blaming you, I’m not, but I can’t not say it anymore. And I need you to want to say it back to me darling.”

Y/N starts crying again—she never exactly stopped but the tears had paused momentarily to allow Harry his room to speak. But now? Now they’re under no semblance of control. She paws at his t-shirt, words garbled but he knows what she’s saying, “I love you, Harry. I love you s-so much,” and it’s never sounded more beautiful. It’s a mess, and it’s far from romantic—snot and tears coalescing into one big disaster—but Harry still kisses her.

He kisses her and he smiles, laughing when she laughs through her sobs—saying it over, and over, and over again. “I love you,” he whispers, and she echoes it back through waves of emotion. “You’re it for me, you know that?” And Y/N can’t bear to hear it. She’ll still struggle to believe him, for many months to come, they’re both sure.

“But—” she pulls back, swipes furiously at her face with no impact, “—the roses— they died, Harry. Does that mean your love died with them?” It’s a ridiculous notion; of course Harry laughs. “Shut up!”

“I didn’t say anything!” He’s grinning, and Y/N can’t help but mirror his expression. How could she stop her lips from twitching upwards at such a sight? Harry tugs her to his chest, squeezes her so tight she might just get stuck there, and holds her for as long as it takes for their heartbeats to return to normal.

And when they do, he tucks his lips against the top of her head and asks, “Does this mean you’ll quit your job now?”

Y/N takes a moment to ponder her reply… and then he… he feels her smile into his chest before she leans back and looks up with the prettiest, cheekiest, little grin, “Maybe,” ducking out of his embrace and starting to slowly waddle backwards, “if you can catch me.”

Harry doesn’t even do her the courtesy of a head start.

[deliciousangelfestival]

Flour Power - 1

Character: Amnesia!Bucky x Baker!Female Character

Summary: A baker helps a stranger, only to discover that this individual not only aids the bakery but also brings trouble along with him

A/N: Because Bucky got amnesia, his name was temporarily changed to Bob.

Chap 1, Chap 2 , End

Main Masterlist || support: Ko-fi

Thank you to everyone who has read this chapter. Leave a comment and Reblog, please. I'd love to hear your thoughts. ❤️

The rain poured down in sheets, thunder echoed through the desolate alleyway, casting shadows that danced around the battered figure of the male agent.

"Urghh."

With each labored breath, he clutched his injured left shoulder, the searing pain shooting through him a constant reminder of the peril he faced.

His once crisp suit was now torn and bloodstained, a testament to the fierce struggle he had endured against his enemies.

But despite the physical toll, his determination burned brightly within him, driving him to press on, to fight against the encroaching darkness that threatened to consume him.

With a grimace, he staggered forward, his vision swimming as he fought to stay conscious. Every step felt like an eternity, his senses dulled by the pain and exhaustion that gripped him. Yet, he refused to yield, his willpower serving as his guiding light in the midst of chaos.

Finally, his strength failed him, and he collapsed to his knees in the murky alley. The world around him spun wildly as darkness crept into the edges of his vision, threatening to swallow him whole.

But even in his moment of weakness, he refused to surrender, clinging to the flickering hope that burned within him.

With a final gasp, he succumbed to the enveloping darkness, his body slumping against the cold pavement.

🍞🥖

The first rays of dawn broke through the clouds, casting a golden hue over the city streets, the bustling sounds of morning began to fill the air.

Shop owners unlocked their doors, flipping signs from closed to open, and the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and baked goods wafted through the crisp morning air.

On this particular street, every storefront seemed to come alive with activity. The aroma of sizzling bacon and brewing coffee drew crowds to the bustling cafes and diners, where people eagerly lined up for their morning fuel.

But amidst the hustle and bustle, there was one establishment that stood out, a quaint bakery with a faded sign that simply read "Sunrise Bakery."

Unlike its neighboring eateries, the bakery remained eerily quiet. There were no eager customers waiting outside, no enticing smells drifting onto the sidewalk. Instead, the shop sat in silence, its windows fogged up from the warmth within.

As the morning progressed, a few curious passersby ventured inside the bakery, their footsteps echoing softly against the tiled floor.

But rather than browsing the display cases filled with pastries and bread, they simply approached the counter and asked for a tissue.

Tammy's frustration was palpable as she glanced across the street at the bustling bakery, her lips pursed in a tight frown. With a sigh, she muttered under her breath, "Haah... we're hopeless. You should've sued him for stealing the recipe."

Your hands worked deftly, kneading the dough with practiced precision as you listened to Tammy's grumbles.

You are the fifth generation who inherited this bakery. The business was great until one of the employees stole your family recipe.

Despite the lack of customers lining up at your bakery, your focus remained unwavering on the task at hand – making the best bread for hamburgers in town.

"At least we have loyal customers," you replied, your tone laced with a hint of optimism.

Tammy rolled her eyes, a gesture of exasperation that spoke volumes. "But our bread is more delicious. I want people standing in line to buy our bread and going viral."

You chuckled softly, shaking your head at her idealistic dreams. "That viral thing only lasts for a while. Besides, we don't have the money to pay influencers."

Tammy crossed her arms over her chest, a defiant stance that betrayed her determination. "I have followers too."

Your eyebrows raised in mock surprise, a playful smirk tugging at the corners of your lips. "I think I'd prefer to pay influencers than you," you teased.

Tammy gasped in mock offense, her hand flying to her chest in a dramatic gesture. "Heyyy..."

Despite the banter, there was an underlying camaraderie between you and Tammy, a shared determination to make the bakery succeed against the odds.

You washed your hands, the simmering hurt evident in your furrowed brow as you glanced at the bustling bakery across the street. The betrayal of seeing your family's recipe stolen gnawed at your insides, a bitter taste that refused to fade.

Placing the dough on a tray for its required rest, you instructed Tammy, "I'm going to take out the trash."

The mundane task provided a momentary escape from the weight of your thoughts as you stepped outside into the crisp morning air.

You made your way to the back door of the bakery, the morning sunlight cast a soft glow over the alleyway, illuminating the damp pavement beneath your feet.

But as you approached the trash bin, something caught your eye – a strange object lying in a puddle nearby. It seemed out of place amidst the mundane surroundings, its presence drawing your attention with an air of mystery.

With cautious curiosity, you stepped closer, the sound of your footsteps muffled by the dampness of the alley. The object lay partially submerged in the murky water, its contours distorted by the rippling surface.

As you bent down to get a closer look, a sense of unease washed over you.

With a furrowed brow, you reached out to retrieve the object, your fingers brushing against its cold surface. And as you lifted it from the puddle, the mystery deepened, leaving you with more questions than answers in the stillness of the morning air.

You screamed in horror, your heart pounding in your chest, your eyes widened in shock at the sight of the motionless figure lying in the puddle. "Argh," you cried out, the fear gripping you tightly.

"Tammy!" Your voice rang out, desperate for assistance, as you rushed towards the fallen person.

Your hands trembled slightly as you knelt beside the body, a mixture of dread and concern etched on your face. "Is this person alive?" you called out, your voice quivering with uncertainty.

Suddenly, a jolt of fear shot through you as the person's hand shot out and grabbed onto your arm with surprising strength. "Urgh. Let go!" you exclaimed, trying to pry their fingers off of you.

In a flash, Tammy appeared beside you, her presence a welcome relief in the midst of chaos. With a swift and decisive motion, she swung the rolling pin at the stranger, striking them with a forceful blow.

The person released their grip, their head dropping limply as they crumpled to the ground. You and Tammy exchanged a wary glance, a silent question hanging in the air.

"Did we... kill him?" you murmured, the weight of the situation sinking in as you both stared at the unconscious figure before you, the scene bathed in an eerie silence broken only by the sound of your racing heartbeats.

🏥

"He's lucky to be alive." Relief washed over you as the doctor reassured you that the stranger was fortunate to have survived. However, the fear that had gripped you and Tammy moments ago still lingered, clouding your thoughts with worry.

Your eyes darted nervously between the doctor and Tammy, uncertainty etched in your expressions. Was the stranger's condition solely due to the blow from the rolling pin, or were there other factors at play? Would your actions result in legal consequences, perhaps even imprisonment?

The doctor's words only heightened your apprehension as they continued to explain the severity of the stranger's injuries. "Bullets, knives, poison...". The list seemed endless, each revelation sending a shiver down your spine.

Your gaze lingered on the unconscious stranger, a myriad of questions swirling in your mind. What had led him to this state of peril? Was he a victim of kidnapping, fleeing from unseen dangers?

Suddenly, the patient stirred, his eyes fluttering open, and a collective gasp escaped from you, Tammy, and the doctor.

"Woah."

The sudden movement jolted you all, catching you off guard and sending a surge of adrenaline coursing through your veins.

"This dude keeps giving me a heart attack," Tammy exclaimed, her voice a mixture of relief and frustration, her hand pressed against her chest as if to calm her racing heart.

The doctor's inquiries were met with a shake of the stranger's head, a gesture that spoke volumes without uttering a word. "Amnesia," the doctor concluded, a somber note in their voice as they delivered the diagnosis.

You and Tammy exchanged a worried glance, the weight of guilt settling heavily upon your shoulders. Could it be that the events of this morning had somehow contributed to the stranger's memory loss?

"Oh no," you whispered, your voice barely above a murmur, the remorse evident in your tone as you grappled with the consequences of your actions.

Tammy, ever the optimist, interjected with a suggestion. "Bob suited him," she offered, her voice laced with a hint of mischief as she attempted to lighten the mood.

You shot her a reproachful look, silently pleading for her to refrain from further complicating the situation. "Tammy... stop," you murmured, your tone tinged with exasperation.

But to your surprise, the stranger echoed Tammy's suggestion, his voice soft yet resolute as he repeated the name, "Bob."

Tammy beamed triumphantly, her eyes sparkling with delight. "See, he likes it," she exclaimed, a hint of satisfaction in her voice as she reveled in her impromptu success.

Your brows furrowed in concern as you sought confirmation from the doctor, hoping against hope that the diagnosis of amnesia was somehow mistaken. "Is it really amnesia?" you inquired, your voice tinged with a mix of apprehension and sympathy.

The doctor's response was measured yet decisive. "We will check it thoroughly," they assured, their tone imbued with a sense of professional responsibility.

Hours passed, filled with tense anticipation, until finally, the results of the examinations were revealed. Another inspection and MRI confirmed the doctor's initial assessment – this stranger, now known as Bob, indeed suffered from amnesia.

A pang of empathy tugged at your heartstrings as you gazed upon Bob, a lost soul adrift in a sea of uncertainty. Where would he go from here? What future awaited him in a world where memories held the key to identity and belonging?

"Probably he will end up in a shelter," the doctor remarked matter-of-factly, their words casting a shadow over the room as the gravity of Bob's situation sank in.

You couldn't help but feel a surge of sympathy for Bob, a man without a past, facing an uncertain future. As you watched him, lost in thought, you couldn't shake the feeling of responsibility that weighed heavily upon you.

🍞🥖

As Tammy helped Bob into the apartment, her frustration was evident in her voice. "We're already in debt, and you've decided to take care of another person?" she remarked, her tone tinged with exasperation.

You stood your ground, unable to turn your back on someone in need. "I can't just leave him like that. He fainted behind our store, and now he has no memories," you explained, your voice filled with empathy.

Tammy sighed, resigned to the situation. "Suit yourself. At least we have another employee, and he doesn't need to get paid," she conceded, her practical nature shining through despite her reluctance.

Bob glanced at Tammy, his expression unreadable as he took in her words.

Tammy crossed her arms, laying down the terms of their arrangement. "That's right. You can sleep, eat, and live here. In return, you have to help at the bakery. You have to work."

"Work," Bob echoed, his voice soft yet determined.

"Good," Tammy declared, a hint of satisfaction in her tone as she finalized the agreement. Then, she leaned in to whisper to you, "I felt like I was talking to a kid."

You stifled a laugh, nodding in agreement as you exchanged a knowing glance with Tammy.

You approached Bob with a gentle smile, reassurance radiating from your eyes. "You just need to rest for now. When you're ready, you can join me at the bakery. I won't force you to work if you're still hurting," you assured him, your voice laced with empathy.

"Work," Bob repeated, his voice a quiet affirmation of his willingness to contribute despite the challenges he faced.

With a nod of understanding, you gave Bob a reassuring pat on the shoulder before stepping back, allowing him the space he needed to recuperate.

As you descended the stairs into the bakery, the familiar scent of freshly baked bread greeted you. Tammy, already bustling about behind the counter, looked up with a mischievous twinkle in her eye as you approached.

"You know what," she began, her voice carrying a note of excitement, "if Bob got a haircut, shave his beard a bit, he will be handsome. I notice that he has a perfect asymmetrical face."

You couldn't help but chuckle at Tammy's candid observation, her knack for noticing details never ceasing to amaze you. "You think so?" you replied with a grin, intrigued by the idea.

Tammy nodded eagerly, her enthusiasm contagious. "Definitely! It could boost his confidence, and who knows, maybe it'll attract more customers too."

Little did you know that Tammy's crazy idea would help the bakery.

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Author Note: Hey friends,

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[inklore]

desperately need him to tell me to be silent

fool me twice

pairing: joel miller x f!smuggler!reader

word count: 2.7k

warnings: eighteen+ content, piv, mean!joel (more frustrated than anything), dirty talk, public sex-ish, small mentions of hair pulling and biting, thigh riding, orgasm denial, established enemy’s with benefits.

note: yeahh you didn’t ask for this but i couldn’t help myself because i’m addicted to this man and i need him in every way possible!! special thanks to my darling @psychedelic-ink for beta reading this ilysm bby.

part of this world but you don't have to read it to enjoy this!

You could play dumb, tell yourself lies, and wonder how you ended up with your back to a dirty building's brick, out past curfew, playing a game of innocence with a man who can read bullshit from a mile away. 

A fact everyone knew. 

Or comes to learn if you decide to test that scowl and glint of cruelty in his eyes that many mistake for miserableness. 

Facts you’ve come to learn from your own foolishness—and the countless times your boss has sent you to deal with a fuckup he made. Because who’s going to mess up such a pretty face. His words, when you had told him to do it himself. But his cowardice won out, and you had to grit your teeth and refrain from familiarizing your fist with his jaw. 

Smuggling, stealing, and scavenging were preferable to cleaning up shit or burning corpses until the stench of burnt hair and skin embedded in your own flesh lingered far beyond any crevices murky bucket water could clean. 

And besides the few assholes you had to deal with, the job wasn’t bad. 

Joel could be put on that asshole list. He was definitely on Robert’s. But to be fair, if you too had gotten a handful of blackened eyes and bruised ribs from Joel, you’d send a lackey to do your job to cover your ass for having screwed the man over once again. 

Unlike the other assholes he sent you to deal with, dealing with Joel was more of a pleasure than an inconvenience. 

Even if he could read through your bullshit. Maybe that’s why you liked him so much. Why these meetings went so easy, you could lie through your teeth and he could decipher the truth through your smirk and tone so easily that you barely had to try to be believable because you knew he already knew the truth. 

But that didn’t mean you still didn’t try to come up with your best lie. to prod at that scowl until it thinned out, his jaw clenched, sick of your shit before the game even started. 

Playing dumb had no room between the two of you because there was a lack of it. Not when his chest is pressed to yours, pushing you further into the wall, making your lungs gasp for the air he’s forcing out of you. 

“You gonna keep me here all night, or are you gonna make this easy for both of us?” His tone stern, rigid, threatening. 

And you’d be scared if you couldn’t feel the hardness of his cock pressing into your inner thigh. If the two of you weren’t used to this. This little game—the play before the third act—that has curses and nails digging into each other's skin. 

You once attempted to retrace the events that led to this situation that the two of you frequently found yourselves in—touches and grazes that only occurred during these meetups. Your eyes avoided each other in crowds and on the street when you weren’t in this alley. When you weren’t making a show of threats and being pissed off. 

The anger was always real for Joel, though. Always truly pissed off at Robert’s need to be a slime ball. The anger never faltered, even when he was buried deep inside of you. You paid the price, that would usually be a punch, a bruise, with a hard fuck and not being able to sit down the next day without wincing. 

And in the sickest, filthiest way, you loved it. But that is what this world creates—ways to survive and sustain. To cover up the ugly with something that stings and burns with safety and life. A reminder that what you’re doing isn’t as bad as what's beyond the walls. You can still feel bad, hurt, and fuck because you're alive and not growing fungus. 

“It wasn’t–”

The tight grab of your jaw, his fingers digging into your heated skin, make your words die on your tongue. “No matter how many times you repeat it, don’t mean I’m gonna believe it. What did Robert do with the battery? Bullshit me and you’ll regret it.”

“That a promise?” Your smirk lasts all of a few seconds before you’re wincing from the marks he’s leaving against the skin of your jaw. A silent threat. A look of rage in his eyes; a fire you know you won't be able to extinguish no matter how many jokes and lies you tell tonight. “He sold it to someone else.” 

“Who?”

“Ahh, I don’t know.” Your nails dig into his wrist as you try to pry it from your aching jaw. His brows raise a warning that this is your last chance. “I swear.”

There’s a low growl in the back of his throat as he releases you, but he makes no move to remove his closeness. His chest still stealing your air. There’s a slight look of anguish laced in his curses and lowered brows. It makes you feel bad, and it's annoying. 

Robert was a piece of shit, but it wasn’t your fault he fucked up this deal. So why should you feel bad? Take on those feelings when it wasn’t your deal to begin with. It’s not as if you and Joel were anything but warm bodies to take things out on. He didn’t need your pity, and you didn’t have the energy to give it to him. 

What you did have the energy for, though, was making the inside of your thigh unbearably hot. That heat trailing up your body and embedding itself in the ache between your legs that housed your desire for Joel. 

It’s why you don’t think twice about rocking your hips forward at the right angle so the seam of your jeans rubs against the top of his thigh, giving you the friction your throbbing pussy needs—your own thigh rubbing along his hard cock. 

The shudder your body gives from the motion, the repetition of it, makes your insides melt even more when Joel’s glare burns a hole through you. He makes no move to  stop you. Just watches you, eyes flashing between your lips and the way your hips move against him. 

“Joel,” you whine. The noise is more of a demand than a plea for him to touch you. To get to the best part of your night before FEDRA catches you coming on his thigh and the two of you get locked up. 

“What? You don’t need me to get you off; if you want it, take it.” His palms splay outward and bracket around your head as he puts them on the dirty brick, encasing you completely now. Shielding you from the darkness around you, all you can smell is him—musky, burnt coal, wood—in the same breath as all you can feel is his weight on you. 

“Joel.” Your hips stutter to a stop. You refuse to beg him; you didn’t beg. Neither before nor after the world went to shit. You were not going to start now, even if the outcome would be in your favor. 

Was this your punishment for the fuckup? “Are you really punishing me right now?” You want to laugh, want to berate him, and feed him more bullshit so he can’t see the disappointment that’s slowly seeping into your chest. 

He doesn’t answer, just pushes his leg up and moves it along the crotch of your jeans. "Go ahead,” his mouth comes closer to yours. "Take what you want, isn't that what you do anyway? You take and take,” his movements match his words. "And there's no consequence," he says, as your nails dig into his shirt and your hips move involuntarily after each drag and pull. “Not for you, why would there be? You’re just the messenger.” His teeth bite at the skin of your chin, causing you to whimper. 

You let out a soft cry when his fingers dig into your hair, pulling the strands so your neck is on display for him. So he can bite and lick the sensitive skin with roughness, “So take what you want. Do your job.” 

The closer you get to coming, the harder he pushes up against you. The more your legs shake from the stance and strain, the more your knuckles and fingers burn from gripping the fabric of his shirt. His mouth is everywhere but on yours, where you dumbly wish it was. Where you refuse to beg him to go. 

But you don’t need them to get there. To tumble over that precipice and see stars behind your lids. All you need is more, just a little bit more, and you’ll be com–

Your body feels cold and stilted in time when he pulls away. Leaving your hips to follow nothing but air, your whimpers and moans turned into puffs of agitation. Whines swallowed down your dried throat. 

Joel doesn't give you a chance to reprimand or lament the orgasm you were about to have. To gather yourself enough to jab him with a brash comment covering up your need. His hand on your forearm squeezes and maneuvers you so your back is to him instead of the wall. His weight encases you once more, your cheek pressing into the cold brick. The tip of his boot kicks at your feet to spread your legs; your body moves on instinct and desire as your back bows and you push your ass out to him.  

The drag of your jeans and underwear feels chafed and tight just below your ass, where Joel lets them rest. Where he’s too impatient to push them further down, giving himself enough room for him to push inside of you. 

His fingers brush against your ass as he pulls himself from his jeans, wrapping a hand around his cock to bring it to where you’re soaked and pounding for him. Where all your heat is concentrated from how badly you want this. 

Your nail beds scrape against the caked-on dirt of the building as the tip of his cock crests your entrance. A moan rips through the back of your throat, loud and raw, as your walls stretch and burn to accommodate his girth. 

Your chest heaves harder as Joel's hand moves to cover your mouth, eyes screwed shut as he bottoms out. Nudging at the part of you that has you squirming against him, your thighs scraping against the building. 

And when he delivers the first thrust, hard and slow, those delirious black stars line your vision. Pleasure shooting through your spine in a way that has desperate and pathetic noises falling from your lips and to the rough skin of the palm encasing them.

"Since you’re so good at keepin’ things quiet for Robert.” He grunts against your ear, venom poisoning the words so they sound harsh and heavy-handed. “Let’s see how quiet you can be for me," his hips snap against your ass. Jostling your body against the brick and back onto his cock as he fucks you hard and unrelentingly. 

Your mewls against his palm are louder than they should be. Your teeth sink into your lip in an attempt to muffle more of your noises. Your insides are already burning with pleasure from the gasps he's eliciting with each rough drag of his cock. That you crave. That only Joel feeds to you without remorse or mercy because it’s what you both need. 

He’s tired of getting screwed over by the world, and you’re tired of putting on your tough act, of not being able to be weak because you’ll be preyed upon by the monsters this world has created. 

Joel’s breath is hot and heavy against your ear; the two of you screwed if anyone were to look down here. If a lone soldier were to shine his light and find his prisoners for the night, but neither of you seem to care. You never do, not when you’re both feeding off each other like your own sick versions of the clickers outside the wall. Taking and tearing each other down until you’re spent, panting, and covered in the others mess. 

He makes you delirious. Weak. Heady. All things you’re not allowed to be, to feel, in this place. 

You’d happily let Robert fuck over Joel a million times if it meant you’d end up with his cock in you, his mouth on your skin, filthy words and threats etched in bites and licks, all completely consuming you. Turning you into a moaning mess barely able to stand, his arm wrapping around your midsection to keep you in place. To keep your ass pressed to his pelvis so he can continue his hard strokes. 

Building up your climax again. Bringing you back to that precipice ten times more earth-shattering than before. 

There will be marks on your cheek in the light of the day tomorrow. Stings from the reminder of being stretched. Marks on your skin that will be missed by the blind eye but will make a jolt of electricity burn through you when your fingers absentmindedly move across them. 

“D’you enjoy it?” He asks, “Paying what’s owed to me with your body?” You can taste copper against your tongue from the bites your lower lip is taking. Your head nods in the confirmation you can’t give with the moans trapped behind your bloodied lip. 

Joel hums and groans into the skin just below your ear. His forehead pressed into your temple. His words tighten that coil inside you the more he speaks, the more your wetness coats the inside of your thighs from the way he drags his hardness out, only to push it back in even harder. “Christ you’re so filthy. My filthy fuckin’ girl.” 

His girl. 

Only in these moments. 

Only with heat against you—from within you. 

And when this is over, you’ll go back to being the girl who works for the guy he can’t stand. The thief. The smuggler. 

He’ll go back to the remnants of his life, and you to yours, until you meet in this trash-filled alleyway again. He’ll grunt dirty words and sing praises into your skin as your body takes all he’s willing to give. 

If you think about it deeply enough, it might make your chest hurt. Might make something out of nothing. But you refuse to do that because, fuck, you love being his girl, if only for a little while. As pitiful as it sounds. 

You want to tell him to say it again. To tell you you’re his girl. To bite it into your skin as he fucks you harder and faster. All that can be heard are cut-off mewls and whimpers from you, though. Words failing while pleasure coats them like honey. 

He knows though, can probably tell by the pulsating grips of your walls tightening around his cock. “There ya go, take what you want. Take it from me, baby. You can have it. Come on,” it’s a gruff command on the verge of a groan. That white-hot heat at the backs of your eyelids, ready to engulf your body in that debilitating ecstasy. 

His name is on the tip of your tongue as you feel it growing closer and closer, until it’s gone. 

Until Joel pulls his cock out of your clenching heat and shoots rope after rope of his hot come on your ass cheek. His deep groan muffled by the nape of your neck. Curses and declarations uttered without meaning in the headiness of pleasure. 

Your stomach sinks when you hear the clanging of his belt buckle, the fumbling of his fingers righting himself, and the warmth of his body gone from your back. There have been many nights where he’s finished before you, when there was a time crunch and you needed to be quick. His mouth or fingers always returning the favor, bringing you there with ease and memory of how to touch you. 

When you turn around and look at him, there's a half-smirk on his face, any glints of kindness dying in the fire of the anger he still clearly feels at Robert's hands. 

“Really?” 

“Who’d Robert sell the battery to?” 

You scowl at him, “Joel-”

“Find out.” He steps back into your space. Gives you the quickest peck to your lips before he’s pulling away. “And then I’ll repay ya.” 

You swat his hands away when they try to fix your jeans, a death glare making him snort, as you right yourself and storm from the alleyway. 

You were going to kill Robert. 

Or at the very least beat some information out of him. 

[cuethediscoandthedrinks]

a part 2 to this drabble here!

tsu'tey x courting season (part 2) ⋆｡ﾟ✧｡⋆☾

the only betrayal of tsu'tey's intrigue being the light huff and hum he let out as he took one last smell of the thick, murky scent of your arousal, announcing curtly "...you..are in heat.", lifting two muscled blue arms up to untie his constricted braids, the thick dark locks soon cascaded around his wide shoulders. he'd then began to undo the knots on his loincloth, eyes still taking in your form as he soon rid himself of the remaining material--"take it off..get on your knees."

---

his senses had sussed you out, and now he seemed dead-set on solving the issue at once. in spite of the seemingly blunt sentence, tsu'tey continued to maintain his aura of innate majesty and formality; his tall, toned blue body now fully naked before you, his eyes only widened expectantly at your still partially-clothed form. taking two shaking hands, you proceeded to hesitantly untie your braided hair, but not nearly quick enough for tsu'tey's liking.

in spite of being the one in heat, you seemed to exhibit much more caution at the prospect of mating in comparison to tsu'tey; his body language intimating nothing but an almost militant form of anticipation - lips now pursed, ears oscillating in interest, and tail gently batting the soft earth beneath him--"..i, will mate you. you, now, will be my mate. let me touch.." his voice began assuredly, only to linger just that bit longer, betraying his more nuanced feelings of curiosity and, perhaps even caution at not startling you.

after all, it wasn't actively uncommon to witness more forceful forms of breeding. spanning primal chases, vicious foreplay, and an especially enthusiastic male na'vi to cage a stray mate under his firm grip; spurting long ropes of hot seed into her fertile abdomen. unlike the more common kinds of mating, tsu'tey had previously made up his mind that once he found his mate, he'd do his best to accommodate her needs for time and space before getting to the more..graphic styles of courting.

although in spite of his efforts to maintain such a mature and composed demeanor, tsu'tey found himself becoming impatient. it wasn't his fault that the prey scampered off, or the arrow missed, or you seemed to be actively disregarding his teachings. you were the one displaying such provocative behaviours in front of him; something usually deemed rather taboo and disrespectful, tsu'tey being your elder, teacher, and most importantly the clan leader. to express such wanton movements such as lip-biting, rubbing your thighs together and giving him that look, it only irritated and offended him all the more.

and unlike your riled up self, tsu'tey was a mature, fully-grown na'vi; a few years older than you, and far more experienced in the throes of the annual heat season. frequent trips to the breeding marshes, avoiding fertile female na'vi and spending almost all excess time in the depths of the forest aided any rising feelings. although seeing you now - eyebrows scrunched in badly-masked desperation, the light sheen of slick dripping its way down your soft blue thighs, nipples now hardened buds, and heartbeat quickening in his ears, he felt a pang of pity in your inability to appropriately deal with the issue.

he himself had struggled with such needs, but only through the guidance of the elders; you, on the other hand, were both new to the clan and lacked few close relationships within the community. much of what was to be learned ought to have been done so during adolescence, but here you were, little whines erupting from your pouted lips, doing your utmost to avoid further humiliation in your lack of self-control around the clan leader.

letting out another, more sympathetic huff, tsu'tey stepped closer to your smaller adult form, letting out a soft "..no..hide..i see, i help you, i...touch, let me touch" as he extended his longer, toned arms to your loincloth. now damp with your pooling essence, all you could do was mewl shamefully in response to his offer as he began untying the cloth on either side. what began as hesitance rooted in fear of judgement, had soon become a clouded sense of awareness from the immense growth of arousal staining your thoughts. no longer were you unsure of his response, but too caught up in the unfurling heat in your abdomen, and pulsing, needy entrance to even formulate an intelligible response to his words. and he, of course, knew this.

part of the na'vi's heat was an inability to remain civilised - he almost commended your efforts in doing nothing more than erotically squirming in his presence; many other female na'vi would have already bared their fangs, fought him to the ground and coaxed out his warm creamy seed. sensing the internal conflict you had between being a civilised individual and a primal, heat-fueled na'vi mate, tsu'tey had the feeling that the sky people did it much differently up there.

disrobing you of your remaining clothing, you stood in front of each other entirely bare; the once dim glow of your blue-white freckles now a bright luminous hue, your tail swishing with increasing fervor at the prospect of mating with such a desirable na'vi. tsu'tey's assumption was that you'd merely been hit with your seasonal heat at an inopportune moment, but little did he know that such feelings of deep lust had kept you up many nights; your long blue fingers pumping thick, heady strokes inside your squelching pussy.

you'd had to clamp a hand over your mouth to silence the noises - being unaware that many na'vi merely scampered off to the forest in the small hours, you'd settled for a more covert form of self-pleasure within the cocoons; deeply sleeping na'vi surrounding you, although most likely privy to your ministrations, judging by the increase in shuffling to both the left and right of you as you reached your much-needed peak.

but standing now, your once bashfully shy demeanour was overtaken by a new-found sense of desire; deciding to take some initiative and reclaim your lost composure, you slinked back down onto the grass. the night sky now fully shaded you from view, the only light emanating from the glowing foliage and earth surrounding you both. resting your back against a thick, aged tree trunk, you soon relaxed into the ground below you. with tsu'tey's look of expectation now morphing back into one of intrigue at your behaviour.

he'd fully expected you to pounce on him like any other female na'vi, but your slower, sensual movements seemed to ignite a kind of mysticism with which he had not yet experienced; this, paired with his growing length and dilating pupils only increased when you continued your movements.

almost courteously spreading your legs for him, your bright, wide eyes met his gaze once more - this time with a fresh sense of coy confidence; taking a hand, you delicately smoothed over the surface of your now throbbing, wettened pussy. laying a couple light strokes against your lips, you widened your fingers around the hypersensitive skin; two fingers on each side of your slit spreading your vulva open for him. paired with the almost playful few upwards gyrates of your hips, you commenced an almost endearing form of courting.

you hadn't known this of course, being socialised by a whole other society and race, but tsu'tey could sense your na'vi body almost moving of its own accord for him. and despite his initial sentiment of merely aiding a pitiful situation, the developments in your movements and sultry, provocative gaze began to stir something in the pit of his belly; soon tumbling down to the base of his now almost fully-erect blue cock. something he hadn't quite noticed, being entranced by your almost ritualistic movements; using your most sensitive, vulnurable place to beckon and entice him in a way he'd never seen before.

meanwhile, your quiet breaths had been replaced with some especially colourful whines and moans, your fingers had begun to rub long, languid strokes up and down the length of your throbbing pussy lips. taking the occasional break to dip even deeper into your exposed mound, the calloused tips of your fingers rubbed tight circles around your clenching entrance. you'd even ventured so far as to scoop up a handful of thick, mossy leaves and grass from below your bucking hips, forming a fist around the long blades of coarse grass and damp foliage to smear across the exposed flesh of your sensitive pussy.

using the plantlife for increased sexual gratification wasn't unheard of for the na'vi, and tsu'tey had most definitely experienced such pleasures himself, but seeing the squeals and more desperate squirming that such movements had incited caused tsu'tey to stoop down on his knees, keeping a respectful distance as he remained captivated by such an alluring performance, all for him. the quiet wet noises had since turned into lewd, sloppy squelches and slaps as you grinded your hot cunt against the mixed surfaces of skin, foliage and grass.

in spite of seeing your slick, shiny juices smear all over not just your pulsating open pussy, but also reflect so enchantingly against the luminous glow of the forest, tsu'tey endeavoured to remain both mature and respectful of the graphic, sensuous sight in front of him. he could stay composed despite your more eager, earnest ministrations, of course he could.

that was until in the most lewd, wanton tone through a pleaure-stained grimace, the rhythmic humping of your hips, and the tell-tale noises of hot, animalistic sex all grew to a crescendo with your uttered phrase, "..hhuungh..b-breed it..take me, tìyawn..a-aah..", which then triggered an almost primal response from tsu'tey. stalking towards you on his hands and knees, he whispered a "..assshk, muntxa si..let me taste..", any sense of judgement or rationalisation escaping in favour of unabashed lust and greed, having now been entirely won over...

part three? <3 the feedback :)

[macabr3-barbi3]

can you do a fic of alastor comforting the reader after a nightmare? more fluff then smut please <333

I went full fluff for this anon, I hope this is what you were looking for! Super short but I had a fun time writing this cute little thing, please feel free to shoot me another ask and let me know what you think <3 (I should be sleeping but decided to write and post this instead 💕)

Tags: fluff; Alastor x Reader; nightmares; comfort; established relationship

Possible tw/cw for drowning? just in case

The darkness of the night is interrupted only by the crack of lightning across the sky, static in the air, your cries swallowed up by the boom of thunder somewhere nearby. You don’t get a chance to inhale, fill your body with one last sweet gulp of air, before the tide takes you under, chest burning with the effort of trying to hold your breath. You can’t hold it- it breaks free of your mouth with a rush of bubbles and a scream that no one can hear with your head underwater. Knowing that you shouldn’t, muscle memory makes you inhale once again.

You know that you’re dreaming, but that doesn’t make the intake of water into your lungs any less terrifying.

Your hands fly to your throat to try to stop it- a pointless endeavor since it has already entered you, weighing your body down. Glancing towards your feet, another crack of lighting illuminates the water enough for you to see the rope around your ankle before the cinder block tied to the other end starts to descend, dragging you deeper and deeper into the murky depths. The dark gray of the sky fades quickly from your view as you sink, mouth open in another scream for someone- anyone - to save you.

A hand grips yours, tight around the wrist, and you cling to it- drag it down against your chest, press your lips to the skin you find there like it can somehow push air back into your lungs. Relief floods your veins, the warm palm against your own a physical reminder that despite everything you were not alone- drowning but moments from salvation.

When it tries to pull away you resist, dig your claws into your could-be savior, pleading words on your lips that can’t travel on airwaves beneath the water as they are. They pull harder, out of your grasp, and your tears become one with the sea as you are pulled to the bottom of it without them.

Screaming is what awakens you, the ache in your throat violent and sharp enough finally that you bolt upright in your bed, Alastor’s crimson gaze settled on your face, his smile grim and tense. He’s crouched over your frame and holds both of your hands in his, your elbows and legs still fighting against water that no longer surrounds you. There are tiny rivulets of blood on his wrists from where you had grabbed him.

You force yourself to relax, deep breaths that do nothing to soothe the burn in your throat. You stop fighting Alastor, make your limbs go still against him and collapse back against the bed. Tears burn at your eyes, not just those leftover from your dream but new ones at the thought of hurting him while he tried to help you.

“I’m so sorry.” Your voice is a quiet rasp and your body goes boneless, Alastor finally releasing his grip on your hands and leaning back. Unlike the first time this had happened, there is no frantic pounding at the door in response to your screams- he had taken care of that problem after Charlie had shown up to your room in a panic, Vaggie with her spear at the ready before Alastor had explained that it wasn’t necessary. It was only ever when you fell asleep at different times; when he had other matters to attend to in the hotel or radio studio, or times when you feel asleep waiting up for him. He had been horrified to discover them at first, but since becoming accustomed to them he was quick to give you comfort in the aftermath.

He collects you in his arms, pulls you against his chest with a hand in your hair and the other in yours. “No apology necessary, dear,” he murmurs, pressing a small kiss to the top of your head. “I know it’s nothing you can control.”

“I hate this,” you whisper into his shirt. “I hate that it makes me so… so weak.”

You feel his head shake more than you see it. “Never,” he assures you. “You could never be such a thing.”

“You don’t have nightmares,” you say petulantly, and the vibration of his chuckle against you is something you could feel for centuries and never tire of.

“I have other terrors to face, I’m afraid. That doesn’t make the ones you handle any less difficult.”

You sigh, settling deeper into his embrace. “When you took my hand,” you say quietly, “it helped. It was like a lifeline- something to ground myself with. In the dream it felt like a rescue- I didn’t know it was you, I can’t get that far out of it to recognize that- but it helped me feel less alone.” You lower your gaze. “Less like I felt when I died.”

Panicked. Overwhelmed. Desperately, horribly isolated when you had been sent over the side of the ship all those years ago. There had been no cinder block- that part of the nightmare an unfortunate addition from your terrorized mind- your going overboard having been an accident, but the crashing of waves over your head as you tried to scream was always the same, the storm that raged overhead never ending as you had been left behind.

“Look at me.” He uses his hand in your hair to guide your face towards his, placing a chaste kiss on your lips before pressing your foreheads together. “I will never allow you to be in a situation like that again. Whether an external force or the horrors of your mind, I will always be here for you, darling.” With his other hand he gives yours a squeeze. “I will tie my hand to yours in the night if you desire, so I cannot pull away even by accident. So you always have that reminder that I’m beside you. I will not leave you behind.”

You fist your hand in his shirt, bury your face in the fabric so he can’t see the freshest tears. “I love you,” you say, and he brushes his hand gently through your hair once more.

“And I love you, dear. Rest easy now- I’m here with you. I always will be.” He hums something soft and gentle above you, and the low vibrations and the heat of him lulls you back into a blissfully dreamless sleep.

[milksnake-tea]

━━ homecoming.

He was always your favorite, ever since the day you'd found him. But you knew you couldn't keep him forever. One day, he would have to leave.

merman!blade x gn!reader

contains: fluff, hurt/comfort, a smudge of angst, blade is a little shit, reader is a scientist, potentially ooc blade, a hint of abandonment issues, making out (but nothing suggestive), not edited we die like jing liu, written before version 1.1

word count: 1.7k

a/n: posting this on the last day of mermay because ofc i am (im pst so shhh its not june yet). anyways merman blade is the most genius thing i have ever thought of no one will convince me otherwise

Your research facility was unlike any other in the world.

The hallways were enshrouded in darkness, with the only light sources being the illuminated tanks that lined the walls. They varied in size and shape, some cylindrical, others rectangular. Some tanks were lucky enough to have entire biomes in them, ranging from gorgeous coral reefs to murky kelp forests, and some had nothing in them at all. But what every tank had in common was an eerie glow of cyan that pulsated throughout their waters.

As you walked past the exhibits - your footsteps echoing loudly throughout the empty halls - your specimen began to unravel to life.

Electric eels sparked with lightning as you passed, and beside them, gigantic sea serpents hissed and coiled. Grindylows peeked from behind their forests, and jellyfish of all forms drifted aimlessly through their tanks. An eye the size of a soccer ball watched you from the largest exhibit of all, the giant squid thrilled to see its master.

This institute was home to mythology and biology alike, where fables rested alongside common knowledge. Here, in the middle of nowhere, with no land in sight, you were in the eye of the storm - vulnerable to the truths behind old sailors’ tales.

Despite this, you loved your job more than anything. These creatures that you studied, that you nurtured and raised, were like your children. Even the various hippocampi (who you didn’t have the heart to keep within your walls), were dear to you, and you to them.

Yes, there was the occasional sea monster that you had to shoot down. Yes, there were the occasional sirens who would try to lure you to your death. Most of the ocean’s creatures were dangerous, and well aware of it. Unfortunately, you were too smart and too stubborn to die.

A sharp tap on glass snapped you out of your thoughts. Smiling knowingly to yourself, you walked up to a cylindrical glass tank that spanned two stories tall, encircled by spiraling stairs.

“Hey, Blade. Missed me?” You greeted, placing a hand on the glass.

Out of all of the creatures that you held within your home, he was your favorite.

He really was a beauty. Gifted with a slender black tail, seared with a vicious red, the merman swayed gently in his tank, sleek, almost sharp fins flowing around him. Blackened scales gave way to fair skin, scarred with scratches and bites from previous battles. His hair billowed around him like a dark cloud, fading from black to a soft maroon.

You'd found Blade a few weeks ago, bleeding out in the coral reefs surrounding your little island of a facility. He’d likely gotten into a fight with other merpeople, as the more territorial ones tended to do. Even now, the wounds hadn’t completely healed, with bandages still wrapped around his abdomen.

Blade’s ever-cold face barely budged at your greeting. The second your hand met his tank, he backed away, swimming up towards the top of his tank - naturally expecting you to follow. You sighed, shaking your head knowingly.

By the time you had climbed the staircase to the top, Blade was already lounging on the stairs leading into his waters. His wet hair clung to his body as he watched you expectantly, his tail flicking small waves into motion. Sunlight cascaded over him from a glass ceiling, bathing him in a gentle light.

“You’re late.” His eyes never left your body as you neared him, eyeing you like a hungry predator.

You dropped your bag off some counter lining the walls. “I was dealing with the new shipments.”

“Oh? Am I finally getting some company?” Blade asked sarcastically, stretching like a cat in the warm sun. You don’t think it was an accident that he rolled over, shamelessly showing off his sculpted abdomen.

“Like I could just order a merman off the web,” you scoffed, sitting next to him and dipping your legs into the tank. “You’re just a special case.”

He didn’t respond to that, merely watches you with an emotion that you can’t quite pinpoint. Knowing him, it could be anything from warm affection to a mischievous desire to inconvenience you by the slightest amount. He was petty like that.

Briefly, his tail came to brush against your legs. You giggled at the action, the thin fins ticklish against your skin. A flicker of a smile flashed across Blade’s face, gone just as fast as it had appeared.

“How are your wounds?” you asked, your hand absentmindedly coming to pet his head. Where Blade would have bitten anyone else, the merman keened at the touch, closing his eyes briefly.

“Better.” His voice was barely above a whisper as you threaded your fingers through his wet hair.

“That’s good. No pain?”

“None,” he answered. As you removed your hand, for a moment, he chased it, before he met your teasing eyes and remembered himself. Coughing, he quickly turned away, refusing to meet your amused gaze.

“At this rate, you’ll be leaving sooner than expected,” you hummed. Blade’s eyes widened at your words, an unfamiliar pang hitting his chest. “I’m sure you’ve been missing your friends.”

Blade scoffed at the notion, rolling back onto his chest to stare at the floor. “Hardly.”

“Well,” you shrugged, kicking up some water. “At the very least, you’d miss the open waters.”

That, he couldn’t deny. But even still, the thought of finally leaving the facility had become foreign to him. Three weeks prior, he would’ve jumped at the opportunity to get out of this place, this tank. But now, he wasn’t so sure.

“Hey, chin up.” Your hand cupped his cheek, bringing him to look up at you. “It’s not like you’ll never see me again. You can always visit.”

He doubted that. Out in the ocean, he had little free time to himself. He would spend his days constantly on the run from various mermaid kingdoms and tribes, and if not that, he’d be hunting, searching for his next meal. He journeyed the seas without end. Blade was a vagrant, a wanderer without a home.

But here, perhaps…

His body moved without thinking. Pushing himself up onto his arms, he leaned over you, water droplets falling onto your shirt as he caged you between his arms. His gaze had become hazy, his eyes lidded. His breath shuddered in his chest as he pressed his forehead against yours, drinking in as much of you as he could.

Blade didn’t say much, but he didn’t have to. You heard his words loud and clear, without him needing to say a word.

Stay.

It was unclear who he was talking to, whether it be you or himself. There was a subtle desperation in the way his chest heaved as he breathed, breathless without a thief.

Your arms, your welcoming arms, wrapped around his shoulders like a warm blanket, bringing him in for an embrace. Immediately, he latched onto the opportunity, gripping onto you as though you’d disappear if he dared loosen his grip. He buried his face into the crook of your neck, breathing in your scent, forever engraving it into his memory.

If only he was human, he’d lament. If only he could walk the lands like you did. If only the two of you weren’t separated by land and sea. If only - his grip became just a little tighter - he could stay like this a little longer.

You stroke the back of his head gently, feeling Blade shiver at your touch. He wasn’t crying - you didn’t know if he even remembered how.

Deep inside, you wanted him to stay. You didn’t want to let him go. It was an ugly, selfish part of you that wanted to keep him for yourself. But you knew you couldn't keep him here. He had to return to the ocean, where he belonged.

He pulled away from you, yet still held onto your arms like a lifeline. You never thought you’d describe the stoic merman as desperate, but there was no other word that could properly depict the emotion swirling in his eyes.

Your hands came to cradle his face gently, unable to say a word. Blade’s breath hitched.

His lips barely parted as he spoke, his voice raspy and low.

“Forgive me.”

That was the only warning you got before he crashed his lips into yours.

His kiss was unlike any other you’ve had. Whereas your previous experiences were tender and romantic, this was hungry, raw, depraved. Blade kissed you with the fervor of a starving man, as though you would be his final meal. He was aggressive with his affections, practically clawing onto your shirt as he clutched you closer to him.

Your heart raced in your chest as you met his violent dance, parting your lips for a moment to allow him to slip in his tongue. You welcomed him in, firmly holding his face. Emotions swirled in you like the blurred voices of a crowd, overwhelming and satiating you at the same time.

To say that you were surprised by his actions would be a lie. You’ve known his feelings for a while now, and had plenty of time to accept yours. It was obvious, in the gentlest touches, in the way he could make you smile just by being around you.

You’ve avoided acknowledging these feelings for the longest time, and so did he.

When the two of you finally parted, a string of saliva connecting the two of you, the only thing you could do was watch. You studied Blade’s face, clearly now, for the first time. Your fingers traced around his jawline, admiring how his cheeks had become dyed with a pretty red. You swiped over his parted lips, still catching his breath from the kiss. Your thumb rubbed just underneath his eyes, brushing away the loose strands of hair from his face.

You’ve always known he was a beauty, but in this moment, he simply took your breath away.

Blade covered your hand in his, nuzzling into your palm. He softly pressed his lips to your inner wrist, a stark contrast from the kiss he’d just ravaged you with. He kept his eyes solely on you as he did this, trapping your gaze with his stare.

“I’m not leaving.”

“Huh?” You blinked, trying to snap yourself out of your daze. Blade smirked against your palm, swiping out his tongue and dragging it against your skin.

“Come, now,” he mused. “You didn’t think you could get rid of me that easily, did you?”

reblogs w comments are appreciated !!

[darlingdarkly]

New Year, New You Part 7

Johnny “Soap” MacTavish x f!reader

Personal Trainer AU

4.2k words

CW: dubcon!, dark fic, dark content, obsessive behavior, dirty talk, explicit language, E rated, NSFW, smut, 18+, mature themes, gaslighting

Part 1, 6, 8

You begin to drift up from a deep slumber, your head hurts and the room is too bright, you can tell even through your closed lids that the room is filled with an ungodly amount of sunlight. Had you forgotten to close the curtains before bed? Very unlike you but not an impossibility. You sure as hell were regretting it now though.

You were also still very drowsy, you can’t ever remember waking up this sleepy. Maybe you’ll rest your eyes for a bit longer.

You stir in your sleep, tongue moving over the roof of your mouth, it’s dry as sand. But you don’t want to get water, you’re still so tired and your head, Fuck! Your head kills. Maybe you could get up and get some water, close those damn curtains while you’re at it.

Your eyelids feel like they’re glued closed. One hand comes up to shield your eyes while the other rubs the crustated sleep from the corners of them. Your vision clears, and you're squinting but your eyes are open. You lift your head just slightly and examine the room.

It’s not your room, but it’s familiar. Like a room you’ve seen in a dream. Were you dreaming? Had to be. This wasn't your room. Everything blurs and you blink your eyes, your dream eyes, to clear your vision. It helps. You’re lying in bed, not your bed but the dream bed. The duvet is dark blue, it’s familiar but from where is far from even the tip of your tongue.

The room is neat, there's a dark wood dresser in the corner, a pull up bar and a stand with dumbbells progressing in weight off to the side. You turn your head to see a digital alarm clock, it reads 9:48. Fuck! 9:48?!? You’re late for work. That gets you moving, you sit up but it’s too fast and your headache triples as the world begins to spin. The dream bubble pops. Not a dream after all, but still not your room.

You recover but slowly as the room gradually stops spinning. Where were you? It looked familiar, but you still couldn’t place it. What happened last night? It’s very hazy. Nancy, you can remember that much. You had gone out with Nancy, everything else might as well had been a dream for as much as you could recall of it.

Someone was in this house with you, you could smell something delicious in the air and your stomach growled its approval. You groan and put a hand to your forehead. You needed water immediately. You stare down at the bed, dark blue, a deep navy shade. A memory, hazy, begins to come forth. Your pounding head is slow processing it, it rises to the surface from the depths of your murky brain. Your dry mouth falls open just as the door swings inward and just as your recollection had summoned him, here he was, huge grin on his face and a glass of cold orange juice in hand.

“Bonnie!” You wince at his volume and he tenses up, quieting down and even stepping lighter, trying his hardest to not pain you. “Sorry, lass. Ye might be a bit woozy. Had a helluva night last night.” You must be dreaming, but you’re not. You know you’re not.

You start to say his name but all that comes out is croaky garbles. “Here, drink this.” He hands you the glass and you’ve never coveted a glass of orange juice so hard in your life. You take huge, greedy gulps and when the juice runs over the dried strip of leather that had become your tongue you nearly cry from the joy of it. You downed half the glass and heard him from beyond it. “Easy, hen. Drink slow. Ye can have as much as ye want.”

You reluctantly pull the glass from your lips and lick them, the saliva that had burst forth from your mouth now that you’d had something to drink was overflowing and you wondered how you could have produced so much in such a short amount of time if you had been so extremely parched just moments ago.

With it under control you made another attempt at speaking. “Johnny? What’s going on?” He took the glass from your hand and set it down on the nightstand next to the bed. “Well lass, ye had a bit too much tae drink I’d say. I’m no doctor hen, but if ah’m nae mistaken I’d have tae say maybe there was a bit more to it than jus’ that.”

You definitely had had too much to drink last night. But had you? You certainly don’t remember drinking in excess but then again you couldn’t really remember much of anything about last night. Wait, what did he just say? “What do you mean Johnny?”

“Well hen, I’m no expert, but I’d say maybe ye weren’t watchin’ yer drinks too closely and I’d say maybe someone might’ve spiked ye.” What? Spiked you, like roofies or something? That can’t be. Can it? But fuck your head did hurt something unnatural.

“Ahh fuck, Johnny. I’m late for work, I’ve gotta go.” You begin to pull back the covers and get up when you notice you’re naked from the waist down. “Johnny! What the fuck! Where are my pants?”

“Jus’ slow down there, hen. First of all ye dinnae need tae worry about work, I’ve already called in tae say ye won’t be comin’ in today. Yer in no condition fer it and as yer personal trainer I took it upon mahself tae take care of ye in yer time of need. Dinnae worry, Johnny’s gotcha.”

You groan as the headache throbs back into focus with a vengeance. You have sooo many questions, like how did you get here? How did he find you? What happened? How does he know where you work and how did he call into your work and use one of your sick days for you? They swirl behind your eyes, pulsing in time with the throb of your head and instead of asking all of them like you should, you just don’t. There’ll be plenty of time for questions later.

Instead you grab again for the glass of juice and down it. With it empty he takes it from you and stands. “I’ll get ye some more, are ye hungry?” The question reawakens the grumbling earthquake in your belly and you look up at him and nod. He smiles and says nothing just turns and leaves, shutting the door behind him.

You sit in place for a moment, staring down at the bed and trying to get a grip on your memories of last night. You remember Nancy suggesting the two of you go out, you remember not wanting to, you remember getting ready and getting in the cab anyway and then it all takes on a fuzzy, unreal feel, like a dream instead of something that actually occurred.

You remember drinking and dancing but not much else. The watch on your wrist vibrates and it surprises you, you’re not sure why, you’ve only taken it off a handful of times to charge it but there’s something about it, a piece of knowledge floating on a cloud above you, refusing to grace you with its enlightenment.

You have a look through it, see the text notifications from Nancy.

“Where are you!” 12:29 am

“Are you alright?” 12:35 am

“Ok well, Thanks for coming out tonight, it was fun!” 12:44 am

“See you tomorrow ☺️” 12:47am

“Sure, you have like a dozen of them, I’ll let Mrs. Magna know. don’t worry about it.” 6:45am

All of her replies were there as notifications, but with only her half of the conversation at your fingertips you could only imagine what was said. You assume you told her something about leaving and then the last text was about not coming into work today but you certainly weren’t up at six in the morning, you didn’t feel like you were working off of only three hours of sleep.

You had to find your phone and see the rest of the texts. You got out of bed and remembered you were naked from the waist down. In all your confusion you’d forgotten to make him explain that detail, you’d have to ask him again later.

You stood and made your way over to the dresser, pulling the top drawer open and found a neatly folded stack of boxers and socks, not what you were looking for. The next was full of shirts, also of no use to you. The third drawer down you found what you were searching for. Pulling out a pair of sweatpants you pulled them up and around your waist.

Ok, that’s one thing taken care of, now you need to locate your clutch. You look around the room, on the other side of the bed, open the two other doors in the room Johnny didn’t leave through to find a bathroom and a closet. It’s in the closet you find it but still not your pants, they must be somewhere else. You pull the phone from it and immediately begin to go through your messages.

Nancy is the only person you’ve messaged in the last twenty four hours and the conversation is foreign. The first text is from Nancy asking where you are and you had replied

“Goin’ home.” 12:32 am

That’s it? That’s all you said? That doesn’t sound like a text you would write, you’d add more detail and reassure her that you’re ok. You decide to read out the whole thing.

“Where are you!” 12:29 am

“Goin’ home.” 12:32am

“Are you alright?” 12:35 am

“Fine, just had too much to drink.” 12:42am

“Ok well, Thanks for coming out tonight, it was fun!” 12:44 am

“Oh yeah, so much fun!” 12:45am

“See you tomorrow ☺️” 12:47am

“Nancy, I won’t be coming in to work today. Can’t stop getting sick. Feel so bad. Just can’t get out of bed. Can I use one of my designated sick days?” 6:30am

“Sure, you have like a dozen of them, I’ll let Mrs. Magna know. don’t worry about it.” 6:45am

???? You don’t text like that? It’s all so short hand and formal. Did Nancy really not notice how unlike you these texts were? Of course she didn’t, she was as drunk as you were.

You lock your phone as you hear him approaching the door and slip it into the pocket of your sweats. He walks in and stops in the doorway, a plate in one hand and a mug in the other. You think for a moment he may drop them but he seems to recover and sets them down on the nightstand and rushes over to you.

You are immobilized with shock as he grabs you, hands sliding down your legs, planting his firm palms on the globes of your ass and lifting. You can feel the pure strength he possesses as he pulls you up his body and into his arms with no assistance from you whatsoever. Your mouth parts in surprise and he takes the opportunity to seize your lips with his, tongue slipping inside and melting to yours.

It felt good, his lips against yours after so long, you hadn’t realized how much you’d missed it until they were upon you again and for just a moment you let yourself be lost to it. Your watch beeped and you felt him smile against your lips before you pulled away, embarrassed at being ousted once again by it.

You wanted to slip out of his arms but he held you steady, his mouth moved to your ear with a slow trail of kisses. When he reached it he whispered into it. “Did he miss me, hen? Cause I missed you.” He gently lowered your body down his until your ass nudged something hard, his erection prodding you eagerly.

“Jus’ cannae help it, hen. Saw ye wearing’ mah sweats an’ just about took ye right there against the dresser. Gonna give a man a heart attack surprisin’ me like that.” You let out a surprised little gasp as he nipped at the shell of your ear. “But there’ll be plenty of time for that later. My lass is hungry isn’t she?”

You nodded, the angry pit that had become your stomach crying out at the mention of food. He let you down and followed you back to the bed, the surface dipped as you both sat onto its plush surface. He reached over to the nightstand and grabbed the plate he’d carried in.

Sitting atop it were two round things, they looked sort of like huge meatballs. You looked up at him curiously. He simply picked one up off the plate and handed it to you. “Try it.” Hesitantly you picked yours up. It was crisp to the touch and smelled faintly like oil. Definitely deep fried whatever it was. You looked up at him once more and he nodded encouragingly. You brought it up to your mouth and took a small bite.

The rich, savory flavor of sausage floated over your tongue and you welcomed it. You chewed and swallowed and went back for a second bigger bite, this time biting into the core and getting hard boiled egg along with the sausage and you looked up to see Johnny smiling and digging into his own breakfast.

“Johnny, what is this? It’s delicious.” You took another bite as he explained. “Scotch egg. Mah mum used tae make em’ when I was wee. They’re a personal favorite. Do ye like it?” You nodded, and munched on the egg appreciatively.

“You're a good cook, Johnny.” He beams under your compliment, cheeks reddening, eyes bright and gleaming you barely catch a glimpse of as he quickly looks away to try and offset the effects. “S’nothing, hen. Cookings jus’ chemistry an’ I’ve always been good at that.”

This sparks a memory, the jumpstart of a thought just like the first that just refuses to reveal itself fully, there and gone, like someone hit you with the forget it stick.

Before you can think about it too hard he picks up the mug next to him and hands it to you. It’s warm and fragrant, a nice hot cup of coffee and as you took a sip your face puckered up a bit as the bitter twinge hit your tongue, it had a distinct pungent aftertaste, there was definitely alcohol mixed in.

He laughed and you scowled at him a little. “S’just a nip, Bonnie. It’ll help with yer hangover.” You grumbled a little and took another swallow, it went down easier the second time.

Eating made you feel a little better you had to admit, but then those questions you had made themselves evident again, circling your mind and trying to push past your lips. Before you could voice them he began asking questions of his own.

“How have ye been, lass?”

“Fine.” You lie immediately, it’s first nature. What were you supposed to tell him? You’ve been moping for a week? Just trudging through life like a lost puppy since you'd seen him last? Your watch starts to beep, indicating a tick up in your heart rate. “Lass.”

You can’t look at him, you avoid it even though you can feel the icy stare of his baby blues chilling you and you have to suppress a shiver. “I’ve been fine, works just been… hard on me.”

The watch stops as your heart rate slows. “Have ye been doin’ yer homework still?” Easy question, you answer honestly and the watch stays quiet. “Yes.” He doesn’t say anything for a moment and you think the interrogation is over but then he drops the hard one.

“Why haven’t ye come back to the gym, bonnie?” You tense a bit in your spot. What would you say? That you can’t? Does he not know your trial is up? That you can’t possibly afford a membership? What would he say if he knew you’d been by, everyday for a week but have just been too chicken to go in?

You force yourself to relax and answer nonchalantly over another bite of your egg. “My trial ended.” You prayed that he’d leave it at that, but he didn’t. “So ye havnae come back because yer trial ended.” You nod to avoid speaking but the watch on your wrist says it all for you, it beeps against your words, turning your truth into lies. “Bonnie.”

The stupid thing won’t stop. Why? Why do you keep this thing on? Yet another errant memory tries to come to the surface. Something about that watch but it’s not clear, you just can’t remember. It hurts almost, the strain of trying to remember things that just won’t disclose themselves so you let it go and give him a piece of the truth. “Ok, so I’ve been by once or twice, but I didn’t go in, I just was passing by.”

You stuff the last of the egg into your mouth to quiet yourself. He scoots closer and pulls the plate from your hands, setting it down on the nightstand as you swallow and take a sip of your coffee. He takes that from you too and there’s nothing left to hide behind.

“Why did ye nae say anything tae me, ye didnae text me or anything, jus’ disappeared.” You felt hot all over, guilty and shamed, you can feel it pulling at you, tugging you with ropes, go to him they say. Push yourself into his arms and promise him you’ll never leave. Atone.

You can’t. You have questions of your own. You take your watch off, eyes locked with his as you undo the clasp and you can see the panic in his eyes but it turns to confusion as you wrap the gadget, in all its golden beauty around his wrist. He furrows his brows but doesn’t pull away, just sits and lets you.

“What happened to me last night?” He shifts a bit but you hold his arm steady, the sensors pick up his vitals and perhaps it’s dawned on him what you were doing, but if he did he didn’t fight it. “I was comin’ home late and I ran into ye outside of the club. Ye were hanging ontae the wall, couldnae even walk, hen. I tried talkin’ tae ye, tried tae find out who you’d been with but ye were out of it so I brought ye home tae sleep it off.”

The watch stayed silent the whole time, not a beep out of it. “Practically had tae carry ye if ah’m honest. Pretty lucky I came by I’d say. Ye were right sloshed.”

You didn’t know what to say, you should be thanking him but there’s still a rift between what he’s saying and what feels like truth. He just happened to be walking by just as you just happened to be outside of the club. Did you go outside by yourself? Really?

Why would you not be with Nancy? Why would you not have talked to her first? Clearly you hadn’t because she’d texted you and asked where you were. And if you’d been too drunk to walk, how could you have texted Nancy to tell her that you were going home? You were supposed to believe you could text intelligibly but not stand upright without gripping the wall? Why can’t you remember anything?

You wished you could remember more but you can’t and your little mock lie detector test hadn’t indicated he was lying to you, it sure as hell had ratted out your lies. You decided he had to be telling you the truth, as odd and coincidental as his story was, it wasn't impossible.

You sigh, accepting his account of the night before as valid, despite your inconsistencies and you felt him slip the watch off his wrist and drape it carefully over yours, he secures the clasp and lifts your hand up to his mouth and kisses the pulse point just below where the clasp sits. A soft press of his lips in a kiss so tender you feel your face heating up at the gentleness of the gesture.

He climbs up your arm in kisses, outside looking in it would have been comical to watch him treat you like Pepe Le Pew. The sheer affection in it almost cheesy but all you could do in the moment was relax into his touch. He’s reached your neck and your head dips to the side automatically, giving him more access and he takes it. Lips parting as they skim your jaw until they’re over your lips and you lean into his kiss, anticipating it, you want it, crave so very badly to be swept up by it, but he stops and leans back.

“How do ye feel?” It’s a simple question really and you find that somewhere between breakfast and your recount of last night your headache had subsided and you had a whole day ahead of you with nothing to worry about, no work to do, just you and Johnny. You felt exalted, after a week of trudging through your love sick blues you now somehow had everything you really wanted right at your fingertips.

But you couldn’t tell him that. So you just told him that you felt better and smiled, the first genuine smile you’ve had all week and it must be enough because he leans back in like he’s read your mind and gives you what you were wishing for.

His lips are soft but demanding, urgent in their press against yours and you have no choice but to succumb to their will. You lean back and he follows, chasing your lips until you’re pressed back against the pillow and he’s straddling you, strong arms stationed on either side of your head as his tongue pushes into your mouth and dominates yours.

You want more, want to roll him over and mount him, spend the rest of today alternating between riding him until your legs quivered and being flipped over and ravaged but he has different plans as he pulls away from you and backs off the bed. You stare at him in disbelief as he gathers up the dishes, smiling that gorgeous toothy grin as he does it.

“Dinnae look at me like that. We’ve got work tae do, hen.” You can’t believe he’s actually walking away from you until he does it, leaving you to stew in your arousal and stare after him. He’s gone for a bit and when he comes back you've already gotten up, made the bed and now sit on the edge watching him expectantly. He rifles through his drawers for clothes, setting out an outfit for him and then disappears into his closet, he comes out with a very familiar bag.

“What work?” He smiles and flexes, biceps bulging as he shows off his guns, you’re lost a bit at the sight of them. If he wasn’t anything else he sure was handsome, strong and lean just like you’d always fancied men to be. It’s like he’d appeared from your teenage dreams and you took him as sort of obsessed with you on top of it, an intoxicating combination indeed. “Why, our next session a’course. What else, hen?”

He hands it over to you nonchalantly and begins to strip. You recognize it immediately, It’s your overnight bag. You pull the bag close and try not to stare as he pulls his shirt off. Rummaging through it you find your workout clothes, garments you’ve worn around him multiple times, nothing shocking but you find more than just that, the bag is practically overflowing, stuffed full.

In the bag are also sets of clothes that you usually lounge around the house in, comfy things that no one ever sees you in. There’s also a few outfits that you’d normally wear to work, business casual folded neatly in the bottom. There's underwear and bras and even a couple pairs of shoes. There’s a smaller bag of toiletries tucked in the side pocket. It looks like a bag you’d pack yourself when planning to be away from home for a weekend or maybe a whole week by the sheer volume of your wardrobe stuffed into it.

“Johnny.” You look up from the bag and catch his gaze as he pulls his shorts up around his waist. “Aye, lass.”

You don’t even bother asking him the first few questions that come to mind like when did you pack this? And how? How did you know where everything was? How did you so perfectly root through my clothes and pack me a bag so thoroughly accurate of what I’ll need while I’m away? You could even see your soap, shampoo, conditioner and toothbrush. Everything you could possibly need he had grabbed.

But you don’t know how to ask him those things, don’t even know if you’d want the answer to them if you could so instead you ask the one question you don’t think you already know the answer to.

“Why is there so much?” He looks up at you like the answer is obvious and you’re stupid or perhaps just playing coy. “So ye could stay.” And he says it like it’s a concrete thing, as sound as the sea, the decisions already been made. Signed. Sealed. Delivered.

“What are you talking about?” He looks at you and his eyes are piercing and serious. “Ye cannae go home. S’nae safe.”

[mysharona1987]

Re: The Titanic submarine. Somebody said “a scaredy cat is still an alive cat” and I can’t stop thinking about that.

Obviously you can’t live your life in total fear of everything.

But if you need that adrenaline rush: Um, surfing, rock climbing, kayaking, sky diving, etc.

Of course these activities are risky too. But unlike sealing yourself in a tin can death trap to get a brief, murky glimpse of something we already saw in the 1997 movie, they aren’t death sentences either.

[ngayawneluoer]

the relief of destruction

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ neteyam x reader

when you became partners, you and neteyam promised you’d protect each other. so even with a fatal wound in your chest, you couldn't say you regretted taking a bullet for him.

word count: 1598

As you dove off the ship into the water, a persistent feeling of dread filled your stomach. You should have been celebrating; you had finally all escaped, slipping through the wicked fingers of the sky people. But every part of you screamed that something was so impossibly and undeniably wrong. It became even harder to ignore the fear in your gut as you broke the surface of the water, only to find that you could barely keep yourself afloat.

"Ma Neteyam," You gurgled, battling against the ocean waves that seemed to want nothing but to sink your body to the depths.

Instantly Neteyam recognised something was wrong - very wrong. He spun to you as fast as lightning, anxiety deep set on his face, "What's wrong, my love?"

He swam over to you to help you keep your body above the water, answering his own question in doing so. Dread filled him when he noticed the water surrounding you was turning a murky red, your energy seeping out along with the blood pouring out of your wound. Your swimming slowed, and Neteyam struggled to keep you afloat.

"Lo'ak! Bring the ilu here, (Y/N) has been shot!"

His panicked outcry made Lo'ak and Tsireya look over, fear taking over their faces.

"Shit!" Lo'ak cussed, navigating the ilu closer to you. As grateful as you were that you didn't have to swim any further, you found yourself unable to verbalise your gratitude. Your chest rose up and down in shallow breaths, your arms too weak to pull yourself onto the ilu.

Noticing your struggle, Neteyam lifted you up to seat you behind Lo'ak, whose hands were shaking with nerves. Neteyam sat after you, his chest against your back to keep you upright.

Now out of the water, your injury looked much worse. Blood poured out of your wound and down to your stomach, thick crimson streaks contrasting against your blue skin. With a raspy wheeze, your weak hand clutched your chest, the pain burning you from the inside out. You recognised the sound of Neteyam talking behind you, reassuring words that regrettably went in one ear and out the other. You were too dazed to focus on the voices around you.

"We need to get her to my mother," Tsireya spluttered, lip trembling as she fought back the tears brimming her eyes.

Neteyam nodded, and he lightly shook your shoulder to make sure you were still with him, "It will be okay, my love. We will get you to Ronal."

Your senses were fading in and out, but a drowsy mutter managed to leave your lips. "Okay," you spoke, and you felt the ilu start moving towards the shore. You tried to focus on the water swishing by your feet, but it was getting harder and harder to feel your legs. 

Neteyam’s promise that you would receive the help of the tsahik seemed very unlikely though, as you recalled seeing her amongst the hoard of warriors that confronted the sky people. It seemed the brothers had come to that realisation also, and with your condition getting worse, they settled on the next best thing; laying you down so they could at least try to keep your condition stable. 

Lo'ak finally arrived at a rock peeking out from amongst the waves. He got off the ilu and grabbed your legs, helping Neteyam gently pull you off the ilus back. They gently lay you on the rough, cold stone, the tightness in your chest getting worse by the second.

Your eyes darted from Neteyam to Lo'ak, who both sat beside you. Tsireya moved to sit next to Lo'ak on your left, Neteyam on your right. You slowly assessed their faces as if it was the last time you'd see them - because it likely was.

"Snap out of it, (Y/N)," Neteyam commanded, though his voice shook with unwept tears, "You will live." He took your hand in his, golden eyes staring into yours as he encouraged you to breathe. The foul, metallic smell of blood invaded his senses, so dense it almost choked him.

"Dad!" You heard Lo'ak scream, and within moments Jake appeared in your view, followed by Neytiri, who joined her oldest son on your right. You didn't have the courage or the strength to look down at your wound, but you could tell you didn't look good from their faces. Their mouths moved, but you could barely hear them, as if your head was underwater. All you could concentrate on was the severe pain in your chest now that your adrenaline was fading, and how difficult it was to breathe. Your face was pale and sweaty, brow crinkled with the effort it took to keep yourself to stay awake.

"It hurts," you sputtered, which only caused you to choke, your body producing a violent cough. Blood spilt from your lips, your body heaving as it struggled for air.

"Breathe, slowly," Jake consoled before pulling you up to inspect the wound from the back. It had gone straight through your lung.

The look on his face as he gently lowered you back down was enough. You knew you would not make it.

Neteyam's hands shook, eyes blurry with tears that he desperately blinked away so he could see you in your entirety. At his father's command, he moved his hands to put pressure on your wound, blood seeping through his fingers, "You'll be okay," He cried softly, looking into your eyes. It was consolation for him more than you, though. You could tell you were fading, and you lifted a hand to his cheek with the last energy you could muster.

"Ma Neteyam," You shuddered, teary, exhausted eyes meeting his, "I'm sorry…."

He shook his head, panicked blabbering escaping his lips, "No, no, no, (Y/N), don't do this to me."

You really wished you could do otherwise. You wanted nothing more than to stay awake and tell Neteyam that you were okay.

"I..." You started, but you were so, so tired.

Neteyam watched you expectedly, but he felt his throat close when your pupils dilated, the life leaving them and the pain in your face fading to nothing. Your body stilled, your chest fell flat, and your hand dropped away from his cheek.

"No," Neteyam quivered, bringing your hand back to his cheek, refusing to believe what his own eyes were seeing, "NO!"

He released anguished screams, his hands reaching for your face with a gut-wrenching cry. He shook you gently as if you were only in a deep slumber that he could wake you from, but your dull eyes remained unmoving.

Everything went still as Neteyam mourned the loss of his mate; the others watched through misty eyes, hearts filled with sorrow. Neteyam felt his heart ripping in two, lungs hyperventilating as if there was no more air in the world. He muttered nonsensical pleas amongst his sobs; he didn't want to believe that the great mother could be this cruel. His head rested on your chest, ears searching for a heartbeat he would never hear again.

-

Your funeral was surreal. Neteyam, along with Jake and Neytiri, lowered your peaceful body into the ocean depths. If not for his parents, he didn't think he would've been able to let go of you. They put their hands on his shoulder in comfort, and with a grieving heart, he released your body, watching as you drifted down into the bed of anemones. They enveloped your body with a soft glow, and you were gone.

His mother had once told him, 'all energy is only borrowed.' It was the way of the people; all would be with Eywa eventually.

It didn't make it hurt any less.

When Neteyam broke the surface, the absence of the ocean around him exposed the tears running down his cheeks.

-

He didn't linger after your funeral. Beneath the midnight stars, Neteyam sat on that rock. That fucking rock that he would never be able to forget. If he squinted, he swore he could still see your blood staining the jagged stone, your blood on his hands. But he knew it was all imagination, a desperate attempt to grasp that you were even real to begin with. His eyes shut as he sulked, hoping the world around him would disappear if he didn't look.

However, an unexpected glow caused him to open his eyes, and the sight before him summoned fresh tears. Swimming at his feet were numerous little squids, their tiny bodies glowing as bright as stars in the sky he sat under. They swam back and forth towards him and the ocean as if beckoning him to join them.

He recalled you swimming amongst a shoal of squids just like these as Kiri appeared to command them. You bore a bright smile on your face as you seemed to dance with the tiny creatures, and you had pulled him along with you. He remembered how silly he had felt in that moment, but he would give anything to go back. It was so simple then.

Gently, he lowered himself into the water, the little creatures doing circles around him. And finally, he dove underwater. They swam around him, flittering against him as they went. They seemed to caress his cheek the way you used to, encircling him in soothing warmth. He wished you were there with him; he thought of you, and when his eyes closed, he saw you. And for a single peaceful moment, he felt as if you were there, trying to cheer him up even if the world had separated you.

[alphynix]

Spectember/Spectober 2023 #08: Various Filter-Feeders

Admantus asked for a "freshwater baleen whale":

Rostrorutellum admantusi is descended from small cetotheres that became isolated in a large inland body of water (similar to the modern Caspian Sea), eventually becoming landlocked and gradually reducing in salinity towards fully freshwater.

Highly dwarfed in size, just 2-3m long (~6'6"-9'10"), they're slow swimmers with broad duck-like snouts that are used to scoop up mouthfuls of sediment and strain out their invertebrate prey in a similar feeding style to gray whales.

Due to the murkiness of the water, and the lack of large predators in their environment, they have poor eyesight and instead use sensory bristles and electroreceptors around their snouts to navigate and detect prey.

———

And an anonymous submission requested a "whale-like filter-feeding marine crocodile":

Sestrosuchus aigialus is a 6m long (~20') crocodilian closely related to the modern American crocodile, living in warm shallow coastal waters.

It's adapted for an almost fully aquatic lifestyle convergently similar to the ancient thalattosuchians, swimming with undulations of its long tail and steering with flipper-like limbs. But unlike other crocs it's specialized for filter-feeding, with numerous delicate needle-like teeth in its jaws that interlock to sieve out small fish and planktonic invertebrates from the water.

———

A couple more suggestions also asked for "fully aquatic pinnipeds" and "future crabeater seal evolution":

Euphausiolethrus volucer is a fully aquatic descendant of the crabeater seal. About 5m long (~16'4"), it occupies the ecological niche of a small baleen whale in the krill-abundant Antarctic waters that lack most actual baleen whales.

Its jaws contain numerous finely-lobed teeth that are used to strain krill from the water, and it utilizes all four of its wing-like flippers to swim in an "underwater flight" motion similar to that of plesiosaurs.

Highly social, it tends to congregate in pods that cooperate to herd swarms of krill for easier feeding.

[neocentral]

rating: 18+. mdni.

content: stepcest, stepbrother!jisung x reader

masterlist

you loved knowing that you would be jisung’s first.

the first pair of lips to attach themselves to his hesitant lips, delicate neck, and burning ears. the first hands to trace and explore his body, stroke his swelling cock and tangle into his hair as you directed him. the first hot, reactant, gummy walls that clenched around him so tightly when he pushed himself inside you.

jisung's eyes rolled at the fluttering of your pussy, the sensation unlike what he had experienced with his fist or the flashlight he hid beneath his mattress. your warm, soft body under his fingertips, different from the rare, innocent brushes he had experienced for years. your familiar face and voice taking on different tones and contortions he had never seen. that he wasn't supposed to see. jisung was immediately addicted, entranced with everything about you as you fell apart, guiding him as he worked to satisfy you. it was something he hoped he could see again and again until he had every reaction, noise, and touch memorized.

but reality set in the following morning when you awoke to your tangled bodies scented with sinful acts, and the voices of your parents through the walls. the agreement to never speak of your intimacy again was full of uncertainty as you both struggled to hold your tongues. you tried to reason with yourself as you watched jisung pull on his clothes. it was never supposed to happen.

still, you loved knowing that he still thinks of you when he fucks someone else, glimpses of you flashing behind his eyes as he forces himself to finish, only to be crawling into your bed when he gets home to take what he really wants. and you welcomed him.

the feel was just as addictive for you as it so clearly was for him as he continued to ram himself into you, filling you perfectly. murky, darkened irises trained into each others as they struggled to stay focused no matter how hard you tried. the suffocating air in your dark bedroom held uneven breaths, unrestrained moans, and forbidden feelings.

[lunareiitic]

HSR 2.1 SPOILERS AHEAD BE WARNED.

---

Okay now that everyone who hasn't caught up has left: let's talk framing of the IPC.

When Topaz released, a lot of you were ragebaiting and telling people you hoped their jobs exploited them when people were like "oh I like her as character." Notably, I personally haven't seen that kind of ragebaiting with Aventurine's backstory and the answer isn't just misogyny, but it is related to how little some of you pay attention.

Topaz and Aventurine are peers, and are clearly juxtaposed as two sides of the same coin. While Aventurine was a literal slave, his people wiped out Aventurine eventually gambling his way into the IPC to become a Stoneheart, his backstory doesn't actually differ that much from Topaz's. Remember: both of these characters are antagonists to our Crew when the audience learns their histories.

Topaz lost everything to the IPC. She's a kind of scary career woman nowadays, but you have to remember that her world was on the brink of collapse and her world's leaders sold their entire population to the IPC. While Topaz may come across as more well adjusted than Aventurine is, the IPC's main strategy is putting their victims in a position where they can't reasonably refuse. It's why Aventurine is such a good lapdog of theirs: since he's willing to bet everything in order to win. He's adept at playing desperate and risky. A lot of discussion of Topaz's character misses this coercion aspect of her backstory because of how it's framed.

The Topaz Interlude is less focused on Topaz herself and more on showcasing the dark side of the IPC. Topaz herself is put in a murky light: friend, foe, and unlikely ally all in one. Her arc in that interlude puts the theme in neon lights "IPC bad, they're solutions aren't necessary if people work together" and Topaz as the "villain" is then "Defeated" and she withdraws and takes the L, leading to her arrival in 2.1 alongside Jade for Aventurine's plan.

Arguably, Aventurine is worse than Topaz in a lot of day-to-day regards: he doesn't have Topaz's sense of compassion and desperate desire to do good, he's openly lying to the cast and doesn't care particularly about their safety, and is actively trying to put Penacony back in the hands of the IPC so they can turn it back into an interstellar prison. (We don't have time to explain why Prisons Are Bad. Go listen to Angela Davis and get back here.) His goals don't feel as evil because of several factors: the first being that HSR knows he has a tragic backstory and is milking it for all that it's worth. Dead parents? Dead sister? Dead culture? Enslavement leading to indentured servitude leading to a deathwish? They give him the game's first perspective shift so you're even more willing to empathize and sympathize with him and his plight, something they'd never do for Topaz, a character whose morality is considerably more conflicted and put on the spot.

Penacony is also a much darker locale than Belobog: when Topaz arrives on Jarilo-VI, we've already solved all of their conflicts (theoretically. we're trusting that bronya can fix all of the shit her mother wrecked), so Topaz arriving is a unifying force of characters we already know an like. Penacony is a lot darker, and you're already primed to distrust and dislike them since they're well. The Family. People who might be just as bad as the IPC. This creates a weird moral flip in the eyes of the audience if you're not paying enough attention: the plot isn't "Penacony bad, therefore IPC good now" it's pretty clearly "Penacony bad, IPC possibly even worse" and the fact that Aventurine has set them up to win should send shivers up the spines of the viewers. Does the Dreamscape deserve to exist? If the IPC gets their way, it won't matter what the answer is. And Aventurine has gone all in to make sure it's so.

[chococolte]

can i have "you only belong to me, right?" with heizou, kazuha, diluc and xiao?? also congrats on your 400+ followers! 🎉🥳

event closed!

word count. 894

୨୧ — ꒰ cw. yandere, unhealthy relationships, possessive & obsessive thoughts/behaviors, g/n reader. i do not condone yanderes irl.

୨୧ — ꒰ a/n. finally working on my event shit xbuxbfbg im sorry

heizou

"You only belong to me, right?"

Heizou’s heart, almost shamefully, stutters in his chest. It beats a thousand times before it finally calms. His eyes drink in the small, playful smile tugging at your lips with a ravenous thirst.

He shouldn't find your words this appealing. He shouldn't find his knees trembling, neither should he find himself unable to muster a response. It's unlike him; unlike Heizou, unlike the great detective; he should be playful, coy, and a bit mischievous. His response should leave you flustered, heat enveloping your cheeks— but instead, Heizou only finds himself speechless.

You probably said the words as a joke. It's the only reasonable deduction. Yet, they still make their mark on his mind, searing his flesh; he ingrains them into his memory, repeating them over and over like a lovesick fool.

Maybe, if he does it enough times, the novelty will wear off on him. He'll go back to his normal self, once more your teasing companion.

But it doesn't. It only makes it worse. His mind struggles to come up with a comeback, a one-liner to leave you unable to look him in the eyes. He comes up with nothing, only a weak, small smile; vulnerable and desperate, a sight only for your eyes.

"Of course," he says finally. The words feel unnatural on his tongue, a moment of weakness he's already regretting. "Only if you belong to me, too."

kazuha

Kazuha's smile is as bright as the matutinal sun.

A faint pink dusts his porcelain skin. With light filtering through his sooty eyelashes, casting shadows on his cheeks, he really does look like a doll. Small and delicate hands, calloused and wrapped with gauze, grab your own.

Kazuha directs one of your hands to his chest, keeping the other intertwined with his fingers. From the thin fabric covering his most important organ, you can feel his heartbeat, skittering like a stone skipping on a lake. He pushes your hand further until it's slipping past his clothing, warm palm touching the heat of his skin.

You can feel how fast blood pumps to his heart, how quickly it runs as if rushing with adrenaline. In all the ways that matter, it is.

Before you came, Kazuha was merely a wanderer. A stage with its curtains closed. His story had already ended long ago with the fall of his clan. You are like a bright star; you illuminate the way forward. With your every step, Kazuha basks in the light you pave.

"I am already yours," he says softly. There's a certain edge to his voice, an assuredness you don't seem to notice. "I always will be."

diluc

From underneath Diluc's hair, you think you can glimpse the red tips of his ears.

Diluc can't bear to look you in the eyes. It's almost painful. Shame pools at his stomach, eating through his gut. He shouldn't be flustered by you, at least not this easily.

He can't deny the euphoria coursing through his veins at this moment, however. Like the light flaps of a crystalfly's wings, his heart flutters in his chest. Diluc feels almost dazed with happiness. If only you weren't in the room— he can't stand the thought of you witnessing him in such a weak state.

What would you think of him, then? To know how easily he caves, how quickly he crumbles in on himself— only for you, and perhaps, you would like that. But would you like his dark, nasty thoughts; the ones he keeps buried deep within himself, who float to the murky surface of his mind whenever you breathe in his vicinity?

What would you think of him, then, if you knew how horrible of a person he really was? Undeserving of you in every way, barely able to keep himself collected in your presence.

"I've always been yours," he whispers under his breath, eyes soft and fond as he finally looks up at you.

xiao

Xiao's grip on his polearm falters, knuckles trembling with every passing wind.

His face softens for a brief moment before it returns to form; lips pulled tight into a frown, teeth clenched, and jaw tense. Xiao's eyes are sharp as they look over you, narrowing into a fine point when met with your expression.

There's a smile playing on your lips. The kind that makes Xiao weak, the kind that makes him unable to think of anything else other than you. His grip tightens, and then he tears his gaze away from you.

A deep red paints his cheeks, his usual pallor bursting with color.

Xiao tries not to get caught in the implication of your words. The idea of his feelings returned in kind. He wants nothing more than to ask you for clarification, but he's aware of his social ineptitude. He knows next to nothing of human customs, and has only barely come to understand your emotions.

He is already frighteningly lost when it comes to the surge of ecstasy in his veins whenever you brush against him, even more so concerning whether your words are genuine, or just a playful jest.

Still, his heart sings from where it perches in his chest, the fool that it is.

Xiao gulps before he can bring himself to say anything. "Yes," he says simply, when the weight of your eyes is too much for him to handle. "Always."

[holybibly]

Divine Rosa  ❢ot8xreader❣ 

❣ Pairing: yandere!otx8 x reader ❣ Genre: Dark Romance, vampire au, angst, horror, yandere au, smut ❣ Summary: The moth always pours itself into the flame; what a pity that in the end it burns out. After the tragic death of her sister, MС tries to find answers to the questions she left behind. This leads her to a gated cottage town known for its luxurious rose gardens. In addition, there are also these mysterious men who manage all the affairs in the city. Too sweet, too helpful, too intrusive, and too in love. ❣ WARNING: only!18+ Themes of death, suicide, severe depression, stalking, blood, yandere behavior. ❣ Disclaimer: I don't support yandere behavior, stalking, or religious imposition. Themes include violence, obsession, possessiveness, and emotional or psychological manipulation. This book is intended solely for entertainment purposes.

English is not my native language, so if you see any mistakes, please let me know.

Published on AO3 like FleurRi

❣ Prologue: Roses scarlet like blood ❣

 Every story has a beginning: a magical, inexplicable moment—an elusive contact between reality and dreams. When thoughts emerge from the edge of consciousness, a stream of colorless letters appears on the parchment of our fate, eventually becoming an event. Life's intersections, fragments of various plots, are continuously repeated, lost, or deliberately forgotten. They are like unwritten melodies; the echo of their angelic voices follows us through life, like the bright tent of a wandering circus that incessantly makes noise. is full of tinsel, and raves with dreams.

  There are millions of them. No. Billions, like the sleeping stars, sway peacefully on the sky-blue wire; their scattered light tells the wayward souls the way in the velvet folds of the night's darkness. These are our memories. Some are dazzlingly bright, as fresh as summer breezes, while others are barely flickering, covered in the marble ashes of time and a diamond crumb of emotion. And they all live so far away and at the same time prohibitively close together, there, in the labyrinth of the underground sky and on the endless roads of the blood rivers, where it is impossible to find them: in our memory.

  Just as a pebble thrown into the ocean sinks into the murky depths, so does memory. Drowning into the viscous muddy depths without a bottom, in that rich and uncharted area that we call “oblivion,” it sinks in time. And few of us have been given the opportunity to preserve living images of memories of the feelings we have ever experienced: to drown in the bittersweet water of sorrow and joy; to fill our consciousness to the brim, like a vessel with golden honey, with the feelings of pain and keen passion, and to die. Die happy. The greatest privilege of all.

  Seconds, minutes, days, and years—colorful fragments of time; sharp crumbs scattered under our feet. Unlike us, those who plunge into eternal sleep, our memories that have insidiously dissolved in ink in our blood will not disappear. They fear death, flee from it, and hide in the thick of the earth that blossoms with fluttering glass, forget-me-nots and drunken petunias that, in their intoxicating happiness, kiss the eyelashes of the blind God. You hear them whisper, “I’ll never forget you…”

  My story begins with an innocent question that I’m sure you’ve heard more than once: “Do you like roses?”

  Once upon a time, I would have answered, "Yes, I love roses." But, as it turns out, all our words are followed by consequences, and small rosy spikes can be much more dangerous than they seem at first glance, just like in the fairy tales that we were told in childhood.   You know, there are things that we might call fatal: people who decide other people’s lives as long as they reach out to them like they're God. And then there are the flowers, which keep the mysteries tenebrous and ancient.   I'm almost a hundred years old, maybe more. I should start my story right now; this is the perfect moment.

  I will tell you about who I once was and who I am now. I will tell you about love, which is akin to obsession, and the death of her faithful friend. I will also tell you about the people, ghosts, or maybe illusions that were around me. They were with me once…   Now, there are others, but they’ll be in my story later. They will come into my life with a chorus of angelic voices; the sound of a heavy autumn downpour, and the pretentious solemnity of death. Yeah, they’ll be there, though, if you think about it, they were always there, from my first breath to my last breath, by my side.   But I’m forgetting what’s important.   I have to tell you about the roses, and only about them.

· · • • • ✤ • • • · ·

Mina's long hair shimmered like luxurious silk under the early morning light. Bloody strands fell in curled doll curls onto her bare shoulders, as if in Baroque paintings. The lush blossoms of white roses woven together in her hair made her look like the ancient Greek goddess of spring.   Her appearance has always been astonishing, blatantly perfect rather than real, but that was sometime in the past. Now she was like a pale ghost of herself, a blurry reflection on a black surface of water on a moonlit night. The only thing that reminded her of her former beauty was her hair, which remained perfectly groomed and scarlet, like blood. Oh yeah, there are still roses.  These flowers… there was something unnatural about them, something otherworldly. Each petal was painfully perfect, as if made of satin. But the flowers were real; they were alive and breathing and too demanding. It seemed that just because they wanted this, Mina could wear them in her hair. It was their choice, not hers.  “Do you like roses, Rosa?” · · • • • ✤ • • • · ·

This is the moment when my life changed forever. If I had known that this innocent question would be the beginning of my end, but can this be called the end? Would my answer have been different?

  I’ve thought about it a thousand times. Over and over again, I played this scene like a broken record, crossed my answer out of the script, wrote a new one, and made comments and footnotes, but…   But the answer was the same. I couldn’t change anything; it was destined. Much later, when I fall asleep in a warm bed, I will feel a gentle kiss on my closed eyelids and hear San’s angelic voice whisper in my ear that fate is never wrong. That they would find me or that I would come to them does not matter; in the end, we would still be together in life and in death. In eternity.

  I’ll come back to that later, I promise. In the meantime, I’ll continue. · · • • • ✤ • • • · ·

“They’re beautiful, Mina, but I don’t like them anymore.”  I sounded terribly rude from the outside, and I could see Mina’s eyes filled with tears, as if I had slapped her.

 “But Rosa!” Mina reached out her pale arms to me. “Look how perfect they are; don’t you care about their beauty? Doesn’t your heart beat faster when you look at them? O Rosa, these flowers are special; they never wilt.” She shook her head, as if confirming her words. “Yeosang gave them to me before I left” Her long, thin fingers reaching for the white rosebuds in her hair. “I want to give you one.” Hooking the flower, Mina gently pulled it out of her curls and stretched it towards me. I didn't have the desire to accept her gift; something in her behavior and her voice caused me anxiety. And there was this name: Yeosang. It wasn’t the first time I heard it, but it was a long time ago, and I still remember that Mina mentioned others with that name: Hongjoong, San, and Mingi. They sounded familiar to me as a song once learned by heart. She pronounced them in a special way: with a gentle intonation and an exciting euphoria. As if it had been repeated countless times at the same completely new to her.  All I could hear was the echo of that song, which came along with those names in the conversation. It was an ominous echo, like an impending, inevitable storm. Mina was still holding out a rose, and I looked at her hands. Arms with a faint web of blue veins that looked like dried stems of faint flowers. For some reason, I came up with the idea of sirens holding out their hands to pirates while their voices led them into the welcome embrace of death. Did they look like Mina’s hands now?

I remember these hands weaving long pearl threads into my hair during festivals. I remember the feeling of intertwined fingers as Mina led me down the dark corridors of my grandmother's old house. I remember them gently wiping my tears when I was rubbing my feet until I bled in ballet class.

I remember the touch of those hands… I know him. These cold fingers that so carefully hold the snow-white flower no longer belong to my sister. Their touch changed, becoming foreign and distant, as did the mysterious land where these perfect, never-fading roses grew.

Didn’t that sound like a fairy tale? Just in our history, there has been no magic mirror, no Queen-Witch whose crown shines like a star, and no apple full of poison, but there is a coffin of shimmering crystal, and a prince that sleeps in it. Of course, there are also roses—thousands of roses.

“Rosa” Mina turned to me again. “Please take them; you will surely love them. Just try to feel them…”

She put a flower in my hands. The drops of nectar froze on the wax petals, and the first rays of the dawn sun made them sparkle like diamonds. “This variety is special.” Her voice sounded soft. “It's called the Deva-Rosa. I want to show you where they grow. It’s so beautiful. I want you to come with me, Rosa. We’ll be there together, you and me.” Mina smiled dazzlingly, but something was wrong with that smile. The once-sensual kiss lips were painfully curved, the corners awfully lifted, like the forever-frozen smile of a Venetian mask, and the warm pink shade was gone.

I was always jealous of her lips. They were so tender, plump, and enticing. All her features attracted attention, but it was her lips that made Mina's beauty unique.

She shone like the sun, easily becoming the center of everyone's attention—a beautiful white swan. The main heroine of the story. 

Then there was me, only a shadow of her perfection—gloomy and pale as the moon, the complete opposite of the burning heat and the sexuality of my sister. Unlike Mina's, my features were not sensual and breathtaking; no, they were old-fashioned, like those of a porcelain doll. I didn’t find myself ugly or unattractive; just ordinary. One of a hundred million. The classic tragic heroine of a Gothic novel, someone like me, doesn’t make it to the finale.

Now looking at Mina, I can no longer see her life; her fire has almost been extinguished, leaving embers smoldering. And only her hair, like a burning sunset, was the only bright spot in her appearance. They crimson her white dress like blood rivers in the snow. 

 “Rosa, come with me.” The touch of her hands was icy and gave me a nasty shiver. It wasn’t Mina anymore. “Let's go, please. We can admire roses together. We can be together, Rosa. Remember what we promised each other when we were kids? Forever.”   Mina leaned towards me with her whole body, completely trespassing into my space, and with her intimacy came the suffocating, sugary smell of roses. It was a thick, enveloping aroma that instantly sat in the lungs. I thought that if I breathed it in deeper, these strange, unnatural flowers would sprout in my veins, intertwine with my bones, and create a new home for themselves in my body.

 “No!” I exclaimed, pushing Mina away from me. “I don’t want that, Mina. I don’t want you or those freaking roses in my life.”

  Suddenly on my feet, I took a few steps away from the pale Mina, who was staring at a rose that had fallen to the ground. Her posture was as vulnerable as that of a wounded animal, and her limp arms reached for the flower, which, surprisingly, began to darken and fade, touching the ground.   In her eyes, once radiant with happiness and dreaming, stood tears, and her lips began to tremble. It was as if a child whose beloved toy had been mercilessly abused had fallen to her knees, picked up a dying bud, and, in despair, pinned it to her lips.

“How can you be so cruel, Rosa?” Mina whispered, her lips gently touching the petals. “You hurt them; it breaks their heart. Can’t you just accept their love? Accept the roses?” She continued to kiss the petals.

 “What are you talking about, Mina? Whose love should I accept?” I asked cautiously. Her behavior began to frighten me.

 “You must give yourself to them, Rosa; I must give you to them.” Mina ignored my question, methodically kissing a faded flower. His dead petals began to fall away, slowly, baring his heart. “O Rosa, the rose is a rose; the rose is a deva; the deva is a rose; is a rose.”

 “Mina!” I called her by her name in an alarm. The entire situation had me in a state of primitive terror.   Mina began slowly swaying from side to side in time to your words, all the while continuing to say, “Rose is a rose, the rose is a deva.” It was meaningless, like the ravings of a madman.  The words were repeated in an endless circle, like a prayer or a ritual chant. Mina’s voice grew louder, higher, and higher until it broke, and abruptly she stopped all movement, standing there like a graceful statue.

  Once I admired her every move; now I want to cover my eyes so I never have to see her again.   What happened after became the most traumatic thing in my life. I can never forget it, no matter how much I want it. It seemed to be imprinted on my eyelids, and even after closing my eyes in my sleep, I couldn’t get rid of those memories.

  Her movements were fleeting, like the wings of a butterfly. Here she is before me, tense and waiting, and then her throat crosses a ragged line, and blood rushes through her body like a waterfall.

  Eyes shining from tears are wide open and so resemble smooth black pearls, and lips are opened as if waiting for a kiss.   For a second, Mina's body stretched like a thin string and then softened, falling on the grass.   I heard someone start screaming; the sound was so deafening and heartbreaking that I wanted to curl up in a ball and cover my ears with my hands, so I couldn’t hear.

  I found myself screaming. I needed to call for help; I had to call an ambulance, and I had to try to help her. Put my arms around her neck and cover her gaping red velvet wound.

  But I was yelling about something else instead.   My name is not Rosa; you hear me, Mina!   I am not her. · · • • • ✤ • • • · ·

I awoke in a frenzy, sweating profusely and with a wildly pounding heart from an endlessly recurring nightmare.

 This dream has haunted me for months since Mina’s funeral. Night after night, I have lived this sunrise over and over again. I didn’t like morning anymore; I started avoiding sunlight and hiding in the velvet folds of the night, sharing my loneliness with the darkness. I made the moon my friend, and the stars my silent witnesses.

  My memory is folded paper, folded a thousand times. Sometimes, I want to unwrap it, but not completely: open the brittle edges of the fragile sashes, smooth out the folds and creases with my fingers, spread out the time sequence. Unwrap it just a little, and then fold again, mixing letters and days, reality and dreams. I never want to open the pages where the memories of that morning are stored. Every time I get almost to the end, moments before the final, I run away to the safety of happy days.

  I try to come up with a new ending to this story, a different ending, but the dream comes to me like a cat, gently calling me into its embrace, and I find myself again in a place I don’t want to be.

  It’s early in the morning, and the sun is just rising above the horizon, shimmering like a limitless purple-pink ocean.

 In Mina’s crimson hair are snow-white roses, and her dress looks like an intricately woven ruffle and lace. Her pale hands holding flowers, her puffy lips in a painful smile, and her bare feet—the ground must be cold since it was the middle of October.  Her blood… and the roses.   And if it were possible to personify hatred and death, then for me, it would be roses.

  I hated and despised these flowers with all my heart. They brought only sorrow and gloominess into my life. The beautiful symbol of mourning solemnity.   They started it. They ended it all.

· · • • • ✤ • • • · ·

I was sixteen when Mina first called me Rosa. One January afternoon, she came home with a basket of the most gorgeous flowers I’ve ever seen in my life. Scarlet like the blood of a rose, they were magnificent and perfect. From that day on, I became Rosa. Why did Mina start calling me that? She never spoke.   But she completely forgot my real name. For the whole world, I was now Rosa.   After this case, every day in our small apartment, the roses became more and more numerous, until every inch of free space was filled with scarlet buds. Their smell was suffocating, thick, and sticky like honey. It is absorbed into the skin, hair, and dissolved in the blood. It made me dizzy and nauseous, and I could taste it on my tongue with every breath.   But it wasn’t just a smell. It was a color that screamed “red,” like blood itself. It poured over our house, coloring the entire apartment in a disturbing shade.

  After that, every day in our house, the roses became more and more numerous until they filled all the surrounding space.

  Soon, they became so numerous that our house looked like a tomb filled with scarlet petals hanging from the ceiling. We've been arranging here with all honors, breathing in a haze as imperceptible as rose-scented mist. 

  In all the time I lived there, not a single flower withered. It was frightening and exciting at the same time. Day followed night, and night gave way to day; but no petal lost its pristine beauty, and no bud bowed its heavy head in sorrow. There was not a single bouquet that would dilute this velvet sea with its mourning black.

  And if that did happen, Mina cried long and hard over these flowers and blamed herself for not saving them. At night, I heard the sound of her apologies and her fanatical prayers. 

  Whether she prayed to God or to the Devil, I couldn't tell. I'll find out for whom these prayers were intended many years later.

  Roses were always sent with a postcard and a box of expensive chocolates with some intricate filling. The box was necessarily in the form of a heart. The signature was also one; once the unchanged calligraphic handwriting deduced only one phrase, “For you,”

  Mina never told me who gave her these magic flowers or why the roses didn’t wither.

  I tried to ask her these questions several times, but she only brushed them off, throwing her long hair from one shoulder to the other and angrily declaring, “You must love them; you don't need to know more.”

 Mina also dyed her hair scarlet, like roses.

  I couldn’t take it anymore. Constantly surrounded by these flowers was unbearable, and one day I packed up all my things and moved in with a friend, leaving Mina alone in her regal rosary.

  My first night away from home, away from the roses and Mina, I couldn’t sleep. I tossed and turned anxiously in bed hour after hour; but the dream never came, and then the phone rang. Mina called. Crying, she begged to come home, and when I asked her why, she barely whispered, “The roses are wilted.”

  I hung up, and Mina never called me again. Two years had passed. My life had changed, and I think my luck had smiled. I found wonderful friends who were eccentric and bright. I had a great and caring boyfriend, and the internship at ballet school was promising. Everything worked out perfectly, and there were no more roses.

 Until my twentieth birthday, a huge bleeding bouquet of scarlet roses tied with topaz-embroidered ribbon appeared in my new apartment. The candy box was heart-shaped, and the caption read, “For You.”

  I burned the bouquet, threw out the chocolate, and tore the note apart, and blew it to the wind.

  No one was supposed to see or know.   Even me.    Exactly eight days after these flowers appeared, I got a call from former neighbors in the apartment complex Mina was still living in.   I was urged to come and deal with the situation; the smell of rot and death was unbearable, and Mina didn't open the doors or answer the phone.   I opened the door with my key. Opening it wide, I crossed the threshold and could not contain a short scream. All the once-luxurious roses had rotted, dripping thick, stinking jugs on the floor and accumulating in gleaming poisonous lakes. Every corner of the space was occupied by large vases with black velvet buds and tall candles. After my move, Mina got rid of all the furniture, leaving only the big bed, which was now covered with dried stems strewn with thorns.

 This place was like a grave — cold and dark — where my sister was supposed to rest.   Going deeper, I found no hint of Mina's presence. Absolutely nothing.     Only putrid roses and an empty heart-shaped box.

  Mina was gone. For a whole year, I tried to find her without success. Old friends, distant relatives, acquaintances, and any other connections she might have ever had—I checked everything, but there was nothing to help me find her. It’s like she never existed.

 In the two years we’ve been apart, I didn’t know anything about her. Mina didn’t call, and when I tried to contact her, she would reply with a short message, always the same: "Roses have wilted; come back." just like the night I left her.

  All Mina had ever thought about since that unfortunate January day were these sinister roses.

  The police began an investigation. Two years after her disappearance, Mina became officially missing.

  And a year after that, she showed up at my door in the twilight of the fall morning, barefoot, in a sophisticated lace dress with a rose crown on her head. From the Mina that I knew, all that remained was her hair—long, silky, and crimson like blood and roses.

  She still kept calling me Rosa, calling me out, and promising that we’d be happy together. That it will be only us, forever. She promised to show me where these strange flowers bloom, which she called the Deva-Rose, although these were not her words, but those of someone distant and unfamiliar to me, Hongjoong.

  And then...then Mina died. The dawn painted her body in pink shades, flooded the grass with sparkling gold, and dyed the white roses of her crown scarlet. She slit her throat. Ragged a sharp spike into it. As it turned out, even the tiniest rose spikes were deadly.   It was a nightmarish and, at the same time, majestic end to her story.   The image of Mina haunts me in dreams even now—this distant gaze in her pearly eyes and a complete absence of fear of death. No, Mina wasn't afraid. She welcomed death as an old friend, graciously opening her arms.

  It was her exodus.   I remember screaming loudly. Blood thundered in my ears, and tears flowed in an endless crystal stream. I screamed that my name wasn’t Rosa; that I wasn’t her, and never would be.

  Her funeral was truly a royal one. Rain and thunder rattle in the sky, as if raising a toast in her honor. The flat haloes of the black umbrellas swayed peacefully as the guests made their sorrowful speeches.

  Mina seemed to fall asleep, dressed in an old-fashioned wedding dress, lying there like a princess, drowning in thousands of roses.   The flowers were brought at dawn. Their color was deep and dark, as if every petal was filled with the gloaming of the night. They mourned with me.   But I knew better. It wasn’t the end; it was the beginning.  Death follows life in an endless cycle of rebirth. When one flower fades, plant a new one.  Back home that night, I found a black envelope at my door, sealed with a monogram wax seal.

  It lacked an address and the sender's signature. The message was clear and concise. "I live for you, my Rosa."

· · • • • ✤ • • • · ·   I went to the window and opened the curtains with my newfound determination. It’s time to stop being afraid and run away. Whatever it is, I’ll find out what happened to Mina. Let her start it all, but I’ll be the one to finish the story.   The last surviving girl.

· · • • • ✤ • • • · ·   How naive I was then, how stupid. The moth always flies to the flame, attracted by the warm fluttering light; he himself goes to his death.

I was that moth. Without realizing it, I came to my inevitable fate, which has been waiting for me for centuries, maybe longer. Their hands have stretched out since the darkest times, when the light didn't exist, and the Devil was as real as you and I. At that time, everyone knew his face, felt his hot breath on his skin.   The story I’m going to tell you isn't going to be bright and sweet; we’re going to go down to hell and come back. I'll take you through the dark woods to the horrors of uncharted lands where barefoot priestesses rock their sharp teeth in alluring smiles. I will take you to the castle where the prince rests in a crystal coffin and make you drink wine that tastes like blood.

  Now I have to ask you, "Are you afraid of the dark and what’s hidden in it?"   But my question is, "Love, do you like roses?"

[chocoshrooms]

:: BEN DROWNED REALISTIC!HEADCANONS ::

• i do not own the image above •

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!! TW: suicide mention, murder, not super gory because i didn’t go all out! but be warned!!

:; in the darkness of a room, you can see two red dots glowing, a body shape outlined in a faint green, and hear a low buzzing hum when ben is there

:; he will wait silently in the dark without making any noises, taunting you. the red dots will slowly get closer, same as the humming every other blink you take

:; sometimes ben will stay in the same spot, waiting for you to turn on the light then disappear to make you think you’re imagining things. but once the lights are back off, the dots reappear a little closer each time but not enough for you to realize until it’s too late

:; ben can easily overpower you, and if he can’t, he uses things to help him. such as electrical wires

:; ben can control these wires, so he uses them as an advantage to tie you down. the wires zap and get tighter the more you struggle, it’s best just to stay still or you’ll start to lose feeling in your body parts. the zap is very painful, it sends a shock through your entire body to where you’re shaking uncontrollably after every one

:; ben’s voice is very glitchy. it swaps between being a higher pitch and a lower pitch. but it’s usually lower when someone’s done something to upset him

:; his teeth can easily tear through flesh or leave deep puncture wounds with a bite. he’ll gently bite down on pieces of flesh that cover main arteries to taunt you

:; his nails also have the same effect! i like to think when he’s in full demon mode they grow a bit longer and his teeth do, too

:; ben can shock you with electricity. it can vary from a small shock (feels like when you get zapped by an outlet), or go up to a shock that makes your heart stop

:; ben is a stalker. mostly an internet stalker, but he will travel on feet if he needs to see more (you’re not around anything electrical which is mostly unlikely but you get what i mean)

:; he will go waaaay back, as far back as your childhood internet searches just to know every detail. he knows what you eat for breakfast everyday to what your second grade teachers name and address is. just a bit weird i guess

:; he can remember anything. if you tell him something a week before and try to go back on it, he can replay exactly what you said. he’s like the internet. whatever you put on the internet can’t be deleted completely because it’ll always somehow be there! so, whatever you say to him will always be remembered so be careful with your words… he can and will definitely use this against you

:; when ben reverses music, it’ll put you in a trance like state to where he has control of what you do. your ears, nose, and eyes will bleed, too.

:; ben will send messages to your family members to make them believe you’re still okay and not being held hostage by him. he’ll go as far as sending them pictures of you smiling (which he forces you to do) and edit backgrounds to show you’re just on a mini vacation or randomly moved out of town! he’s a pro at photoshop obviously

:; the codes that float around ben are similar to much smaller demons. they whisper things to him constantly (which drives him more insane), but they’ll talk him into doing horrible things. you see them as codes but in ben’s eyes they’re much smaller, gremlin-like creatures. he usually swats them away when they’re annoying him too much

:; they sometimes speak to you, but it’s usually just insults. they whisper things to ben like, “make them suffer, cut off their fingers one by one!” , “they tried to escape! don’t pity them, drown them in a tub.”

:; ben can fill a room with water! and it’s not clear water, it’s always murky, dirt and fish filled lake water. similar to what he was drowned in.

:; ben can convince you of anything the longer you’re around him. he manipulates your mind into thinking what he wants you to believe. if he hates your friend, he will tell you how horrible they treat you (when they don’t), how much they hate you, and how they only hangout with you because they “feel bad”. this will lead to him killing off your friends and family to isolate you

:; ben is a shapeshifter, but only can change himself to look like a human. but! if you’re smart, there’s always flaws in who he shapeshifts to look like, so you’ll be able to tell it’s ben you’re talking to. he knows this, but doesn’t try to hide the changes. he thinks it’s more fun to mess with your mind and let you figure it out yourself, all while messing you up even more making you believe you’re actually talking to someone you know and not him!

:; he also loves to leaves things out, like a key to get out the room, a screwdriver to unbolt the window, etc. just to see what you do! he doesn’t leave them in plain sight, but they’re there. he makes the room similar to an escape room. you’d have to be really smart to get out, but not much is waiting outside his door besides much worse. (*cough* jeff)

:; if you do end up getting caught by another creep, ben will simply pretend he doesn’t know who you are. the more you beg to go back to him, he will consider taking you back (only because he’s a weirdo and likes being begged for), but if he’s done with you, the creep can have their way with you

:; if ben ends up taking you into his game, he’ll use the clock tower to let you know how much time you have to “get out” before he kills you himself. it depends on if he takes you back to the mansion or not, usually once you’re in the game there’s no way out besides death so he’s just lying to get your hopes up. he doesn’t like getting his hands dirty so he lets his victims commit themselves. it’s more fun to him to drive someone into insanity

:; ben does travel through electronics and can come out of them, but if he comes out of a phone, it either blows the phone up, or drains the batter completely. if he comes through a tv or computer, they also get fried, or half the screen ends up not working/only audio works or something along those lines. they’re pretty much useless after that but it’s not like you’ll ever get to use them again after encountering ben!

:; he can disappear and reappear. if you go to hit him, he’ll just reappear behind you and have his arm wrapped around your throat before you can even think of what to do next

:; just remember, ben is always one step ahead of you in everything you try! nothing gets past him.

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Hello there! just a random post not requested by anyone, BUT if you’d like to request something, go right ahead! thanks for reading. <3