#why is it so expensive and so fucking pointless

[bussyandbingus4life]

#1 op rn is Duo security. How many times do I have to tell you this is my device bitch

[pedgito]

𝐀𝐂𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐒 | Harry Castillo x reader

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summary | Five years of being his assistant and five years of failed attempts at finding love with your help, but maybe the obvious answer has been there the entire time. Alternatively, you fucked your boss? Uh-oh.

author's note | harry...randy...who knows. i'll change it if needed but given the name tag, this is what i'm sticking with for now. skip the lecture about not writing until the movie is out, this isn't hurting anyone so don't bother me about it, xo. the horny demons always win. i listened to this song i repeat while i wrote, felt fitting.

content warning | 18+ MDNI, power imbalance (boss/assistant), work wife/work husband type beat, mentions of failed dating, being superficial, mentions of sugar daddy things, expensive gifts, reader is a godly assistant with a will stronger than mine, he smokes, they drink, sex while inebriated, he's down so bad, also oral!, tense morning after, open-ended

word count — 4.5k

You knew him better than anyone.

From his breakfast order down to his specific choice of underwear, like you weren’t making the weekly purchases and filling up his rarely used fridge in the apartment that was way out your price range, arranging his schedule down to the minute, booking his flights, packing his bag.

Really, Harry should just marry you.

…it was more of a joke, but you’ve teased him about it once or twice.

He called you his work wife anyways, but in reality, you were just his assistant.

He did trust you with his life, though.

More importantly, his love life.

“Kim flaked,” he tells you over coffee, perched at his kitchen island as you typed away on your laptop, looking up briefly with eyes that begged for him to explain, he does and makes a show about, mimicking a more feminine voice as he relays the message she gave him, “same song and dance—you’re great and fun but I can’t do anything serious right now,”

“Were you nice?” you ask curiously.

Harry rolls his eyes at that, like it was a stupid question to ask. But, eventually he nods.

“Did you ask questions?” you continue, fingers folding over the screen of your laptop to close it.

“Plenty, she works in finance, loves the color blue, wants to travel,” he could go on and on, throwing his hands up in defeat before they slump to his side, “maybe I should try out a real matchmaker—not that you’re bad at it—”

“You think I’m bad at it,” you smile knowingly, “don’t you?”

“No,” you’re unconvinced, “besides—you’re my assistant, I never meant for that type of responsibility to fall on you, you know?”

“I’m doing both of us a favor,” you remind him, “I think…it just takes time.”

And fortunately, all you had was time.

It felt pointless for Harry to spend a chunk of cash to have someone pair him up with the supposed love of his life, though you knew that money wasn’t a problem, you felt a weird responsibility to protect him, unsure how quickly someone would take advantage of his kindness.

“There’s a gala,” you tell him offhandedly, “next week. I already cleared your schedule for it. I think…maybe you should just peruse this time.”

“Peruse?” he chuckles, eyes creasing in amusement, his crow’s feet deepening with the emotion, “You’re a control freak, you sure about that?”

“That’s just mean,” you retort, “you’re paying me anyways—if you didn’t like it you’d fire me.”

He knew you were right, sipping quietly at his coffee in response.

He was frustrating, predictable, and painfully superficial. 

Every date was an exercise in appearances—perfectly tailored suits, dinner at the most exclusive places, charm turned up to eleven. And yet, none of it ever stuck. He was overcompensating and you weren’t sure why.

He was a good guy, down to his core, and in the five years you had worked with him there was never a moment you thought he didn’t deserve love, he was perfect. Too perfect.

That was the problem.

“You know, you’re like prime age to be a sugar daddy,” you tease him, knowing how he felt about the topic, “there’s plenty of apps that I can—”

“You’re relentless,” he grumbles, “if you ever did that, I’m firing you on the spot.”

“You wouldn’t,” it was a gentle challenge, smirk flashing across your face as he returned it with fondness, “without me you would crash and burn, Mr. Castillo.”

And he knows it.

–

The gala is a bust.

So, as a bandaid to his wounded ego, you order takeout and keep him company in his big, lavish apartment—it wasn’t the first time, it wouldn’t be the last.

You knew what the issue was, but there was a sinking feeling in your stomach that told you he wouldn’t receive the information well.

It was after every failed date, every expensive dinner.

They saw him at the surface, the charming man with an easy, warm smile.

You saw the man who kicked his shoes off and stripped himself of his suit jacket the second he walked through the door, who couldn’t resist a late-night binge of his newest streaming obsession, someone who insisted on stirring his coffee counterclockwise because it made it taste better, a man would text you pictures of squirrels in the park that he would feed on his way home.

It wasn’t that you were pining over him. You just knew him better than anyone.

“Why are you so dead set on marriage?” you ask him over dinner, turned toward him on the couch as he reaches for the remote to pause the show on screen.

He’s had this conversation before, but he’s never asked you any questions on the matter.

“What’s your opinion on it?” he’s avoiding, clearly, but you’ll bite.

“I don’t date, I’m not interested, signing a piece of paper isn’t going to signify my feelings toward someone if it came down to that,” you admit, “I’m not cynical, marriage is fine, but this stuff takes time,”

“Well, I’m not getting any younger,” Harry gripes, arms reaching over the back of the couch as he mirrors your position.

“Oh, please,” you scoff, “you’re forty-nine.”

“Almost fifty,” he corrects, “I’m ancient.”

“O-kay,” you sigh, “do you want honesty?”

“I’d hope you were being honest with me all the time.”

“No,” you laugh softly, “like…brutal fucking honesty?”

He’s silent, but attentive. 

“You keep choosing women who treat you like they’re next getaway vacation and you fall for it every time,” his forehead creases at the words, looking hurt by your words, “I see your bank payments every month, the activity—”

“It’s not like money is an issue,” he defends, causing you to sigh dramatically and fall back against the arm of the couch in faux distress.

“This is impossible,” you groan, staring up at the ceiling before you feel his hand circle around your wrist, tugging gently,

“Okay, I’m listening,” Harry says softly, pulling you upright, “I’m sorry—I am.”

“You want it to work so bad,” you tell him, “I see it—every time you approach someone you put on that smile and it works, but you’re giving so much and yeah, maybe some of them like that, but I’m sure a few would just enjoy a nice dinner here, or something simple. I think you forget to realize that someone can just be interested in you, for you, not for what you are or have,”

It’s profound, the way his face softens at your words, his touch still lingering around your wrist.

You’ve never even considered or entertained the idea that you might find Harry attractive or even attainable—for one, you had signed a contract that agreed to a professional work relationship, as a benefit for both of you, not that he ever had any intention to begin with.

You’ve been with him for so long, it feels, a fresh and young mind to help keep him active and busy, constantly refreshing ideas and helping him not feel like he was stuck, and you were damn good at taking care of him when he’s often tended to neglect himself.

The only thing you know is that he’s never looked at you like that.

Like you could see straight through him, all his flaws on display.

But, that was because you knew all of them.

You knew everything about him, even the worse bits.

His bad habits, his self-inflicting ones, everything that he refused to bring to the surface.

Harry’s fingers still lingered around your wrist, the weight of your words sinking in. 

But then, just like he always did, he broke the tension with a huff of laughter and frowns as he brushed you off.

“You just think I’m a sucker, don’t you?”

You shook your head with a faint smile, returning your arm to your lap.

“No—I think you like to see the good in people. So much good that you’re willing to ignore red flags.”

“Jeez,” he chuckled, clutching his stomach like you had physically wounded him, “that hurt.”

You shrugged and reached for the remote to resume the picture on screen, “You’ll survive.”

–

It was your day off—Sunday, the one day.

“Have you seen my cufflinks laying around?” he asked over the video call, “Shit—my tie, too. I can’t find it anywhere. I thought you said you laid it out for me.”

“No, I said I had it hung up and for you to lay it out before you showered,” you correct him, laying tiredly on your couch as you watched him search around frantically, hair damp and his bare shoulders on display, only catching the briefest glimpses of the towel around his waist as he turned the camera around, “Waitwait—go back!”

“There’s no fucking way you saw it,” Harry argues, “I’ve been looking for the last ten minutes—”

“In the pocket of your suit, the tie is there,” you tell him, “and given that you probably tossed the suit on the bed like you always do, the cufflinks are probably somewhere hiding under the blanket,”

He tosses you against the mattress, your screen succumbing to darkness as you wait, some shifting of the sheets before you hear him make a sound before he appears again, cufflinks pinched between his fingers and a look of defeat on his face.

“What would you do without me?” you ask with a cocky grin, finger hovering over the end call button as he shakes his head.

“What was this for again?” Harry asks curiously, laying you down upright as you caught a glimpse of his bare chest as he shrugged the crisp, white button down over his shoulders.

“It’s a charity auction, your favorite,” you chirp, “and you’re flying solo, so—don’t do anything stupid or…crass,”

“If I paid you double a day of work would you go?” Harry asks after a long pause, glancing down at the screen, “Triple?”

“Triple?!” you gawk, “see—you’re insane, this is what I’m talking about,”

He chuckles despite your response, “You’re good at keeping the sharks away,”

There were particular hawking businessmen who made it their mission to hunt Harry down at events and keep him occupied, eager to do business, whatever it may be—you were the unspoken master of redirection, as much as he refused to admit it.

“Can we grab dinner on the way?” 

“Burgers?” Harry asks, perking up slightly.

It was a constant go-to for you and him.

You nod through the screen, “Don’t even bother with the tie either, I’ll do it.”

–

“I can’t believe you roped me into this on my day off,” you whisper at his side, earning a half-smirk from him.

The charity auction was as lavish as you’d expected.

Crystal chandeliers, gold accents, and far too much champagne and hors d'oeuvres. 

Harry’s hand found the small of your back the moment you arrived, steering you through a sea of designer gowns and tuxedos, feeling uncomfortable in the tight dress and stilettos that you only wore on rare occasions, biting at your heels.

“You’ll survive,” he grins, grabbing you both a glass of champagne and pressing it into your waiting fingers, “I’m gonna…peruse, alright?”

“Don’t say it—that just makes you sound like a creep,” your face scrunches up in disgust as you sip at the alcohol, “just go—go, I’ll…handle everything else.”

The evening passed in a blur of small talk and polite smiles, but somewhere between the endless speeches and bidding wars, you found yourself on the balcony, the cool night air a welcome relief in the stuffy ballroom.

You smell him before you see him, the thick and rich scent of his cologne so familiar you swear you could find him on that alone, turning over your shoulder to see him closing the door quietly, cigarette pack tucked in his palm as he approached with a neutral expression.

“You okay?” you ask, leaning against the railing of the balcony.

Harry sighed, rubbing the back of his neck and then plucking a single cigarette from the box, “Honestly? I’m just tired of it.”

“The auctions? Charity?” you inquire, a small smile tugging at your face.

“All of it.” He looked at you, his gaze lingering as he lit the tobacco, “The events, the dates, searching for—I don’t even fucking know at this point,”

“The offer stands…” you say jokingly, though he knows exactly where this is heading.

“If I wanted a sugar baby I’d find one.”

Your eyes roam over his figure as he puffs at the cigarette, pulling a deep laugh from his chest before you’re pushing him away playfully.

“Let’s go,” he tells you with a deep sigh, stubbing out the end of the cigarette and tucking it away for later, tossing his arm over your shoulder as he readied to guide you through the crowd, always protective in spaces like this, another thing that was special to him.

–

The ride home is quiet, like it always is, both of you sitting in the backseat with the partition up, watching as he looked through his phone with a scowl, occasional typing and sending a message.

Eventually, he looks at you.

“Thank you,” He says with a soft tone, “I know this isn’t your favorite thing to do.”

You tilted your head into the headrest and smiled, crossing one thigh over the other as you worked at your heels to remove them, “Oh, it wasn’t that bad—the free alcohol is always a plus.”

He chuckled at that, silently helping you remove your shoes with a soft squeeze to your foot.

That was normal—but, it forces you to pause.

His natural instinct to help, to touch, to comfort you.

Your brow furrows at the gesture before you shake it away, blaming it on the buzz of alcohol in your system, watching as he continues the gesture with the other foot.

“Having you there makes it bearable, is all,” he explains, looking up at you briefly as he undid the tie around your ankle, “you…calm me, I guess.”

You swallowed. Hard.

The warmth of his words lingering in your chest, in his touch against your ankle, “You’d do the same for me.”

And he would—if you ever needed anything, anything, Harry was there.

“Yeah,” he agreed quietly, “without question.”

The sincerity caught you off guard. 

You turned to study him, the familiar slope of his nose, the line of his jaw. There was something about the way he looked tonight—tired, maybe, but softer. 

And he keeps looking at you, checking.

The car moved smoothly through the dimly lit streets, the city blurring past in streaks of gold and blues and reds. The hum of the engine was steady, the faint sound of music barely audible from the front, through the glass, the back lit up dimly by the trim of lights on the roof and door.

Harry leaned back, one hand moved against the seat, his other hand dragging slowly over his thigh—restless. 

Instinctually, without thinking, you reached for his hand.

It wasn’t purposeful. Just a simple act of absentmindedness.

You’ve done it a hundred times before. 

Tugged at his sleeves to fix his cufflinks, brushed lint from his lapel or pants, adjusted the collar of his shirts. Constantly fixed his hair, touching him wasn’t new.

His skin was warm. Not hot, not cold.

You felt the slight twitch of his hand, like he was debating whether to move. Instead, his fingers shifted, just a fraction, enough that the edge of his thumbnail brushed over the inside of your wrist.

The contact was thoughtless, nothing.

But, in the same moment, it felt like everything.

The way his eyes watched the movement, roamed your body like they had before but with a different implication, his eyes half-lidded and relaxed, wondering how much alcohol he had consumed himself—this wasn’t friendly.

And it definitely wasn’t professional.

Harry’s gaze was on you now, your face, as you couldn’t tear your eyes away from his hand.

Then his thumb moved. 

Up. 

Barely. 

A soft drag along your pulse.

It was half a decade of avoidance, defeat in his heart and mind, and fear in your own.

Broken, by the car rolling to a stop outside of Harry’s apartment building.

“We’re here, Mr. Castillo,” the voice of the driver came from the front, a nod of acknowledgement as his hand slipped from yours.

“Oh, hold on,” you were scooting aside to let him out, readied for the next stop as he cocks his head toward the building, “I’ve got something for you—I’ll drive you home, don’t worry,”

“Harry,” you stress, looking down at his hand that waves you toward him, extending out for you to grab, insistently as his fingers wiggle in wait.

Turns out, he wasn’t totally lying.

That something was accompanied by a seven thousand dollar bottle of Leroz Aux Brulees—you knew that because you had purchased it during his trip to France, the supposed city of love.

“I’m going to murder you,” you tell him as he places the bottle on the counter and keeps the closed case of mystery at his side, “hide your body, flee country—I hate surprises, you know that.”

“I think you’ll like this one,” he grins, popping the cork on the bottle and pouring two hefty glasses, eyeing the deep red as it glugged into the glass.

“You know, if you wanted company you could have just asked,” you tell him, “I get it, you’re lonely,”

He knows you’re only teasing but it stings nonetheless, both of you taking a long and heavy sip as his fingers swirl over the velvet casing before he’s pushing it over quickly, tapping it with his fingers, “Open it,” he encourages, eyeing you over the rim.

You place your glass down and pry it open slowly, carefully, like you were deconstructing a bomb, but as the piece inside comes into view you find yourself at a loss for words or thoughts.

Your eyes are wide, staring up at him with parted lips that tingled from the lingering alcohol, knowing you should have cut yourself off at one glass of champagne and refused to come inside, that you should have just went home and enjoyed what little bit of the day you had left to yourself.

Now, you were looking back at a necklace so delicate you were afraid to stare at it too long, embedded with a cluster of diamonds and nearly two years of your rent if you were doing the math correctly in your mind.

Always about the numbers, Harry constantly teased.

“I saw how you looked at it the other day,” he admits, “and I owe you a hell of a lot more, but it…I’m trying to say thank you for…being you,”

“I’m not taking that,” you refuse with a laugh of disbelief, sliding back over to him gently, downing the rest of your wine in one go to forget how fast your heart was beating in your chest.

“You are,” Harry insists, “consider it a bonus—Christmas is in a couple months, too.”

“You know…this is exactly that kind of stuff a sugar da—”

Harry makes a noise, shaking his head.

You bite your lip in thought, ignoring his subtle annoyance at your comment.

It was fucking beautiful, really.

You sigh, using one finger to turn the case back toward you, examining it closely.

Quietly, Harry presses his glass into the counter and rounds the edge toward you, his chest at your shoulder as he reaches for the jewelry, working carefully at the clasp before he’s motioning for you to relax your shoulders.

It wasn’t the stillness of the moment, but his touch, again.

He’s methodical in the way he touches you, dragging his hand around your neck as he fits the necklace into place, his fingertips pressing against the column of your throat in a way that tickles slightly, shifting uncomfortably until you hear the faint click and he breathes behind you, hands resting at your shoulders.

You’re not sure why he hasn’t moved, but you find yourself turning to speak.

“I’m just going to call an uber,” you tell him, “probably shouldn’t drive since we’ve both been drinking,”

“Yeah,” he agrees, but it sounds hollow, his eyes not following you as you move.

You hop from the chair and bend down to grab your shoes, but his hand is curling around your bicep and pulling you up and he’s staring again, the charge of his touch sending a jolt through your body as freeze,

“Come here,” he beckons, too natural.

And you listen.

He’s soft, every part of him. Skin, clothes, hair, lips.

He’s kissing you gently, like you might break, but you can tell he wants more.

Needs more.

“Are you going to regret this tomorrow?” you find yourself asking as he parts from you, licking at his lips as you both take a breath, letting the moment settle.

He shakes his head, “Are you?”

“Maybe,” you answer honestly, “maybe…not—fuck, I don’t know,”

“It doesn’t have to mean anything,” he promises, but you knew that was a lie.

Still, you nod in understanding.

–

He’s so tender with his touch, slipping you out of the dress in the dim light of his room.

Even softer as he guides you to your back and spreads himself on his belly between your legs, fingers interlocked with his at your hips as he buries his nose between your folds, his tongue splitting your cunt open in a sharp gasp that has you throwing your head back. His lips traced a slow, deliberate path down your body, igniting sparks along every inch of your skin. 

He kissed along the curve of your thighs, teasing, tasting, until the tension was unbearable and with each flick of his tongue, each gentle suck, it pulled you deeper into a haze of heady desire. 

This was reckless, dangerous, but neither of you found the moment to pause and think.

You wonder if things had been building to this for a while—if it was always supposed to happen this way or if he was acting off of greed; lust and companionship, even if just for a night.

You know you can ask him to stop at any point and he would, but even as his tongue brings you to your first orgasm of the night and he’s guiding you to your stomach, reaching blindly into his bedside table for a foil wrapping the crinkles loudly in the silence, you want this.

It was embarrassing how badly you wanted this.

He fucks you slow, too. 

It was torturous, his chest flat against your back as he palms his cock and feeds it into you.

You don’t talk, neither does he.

But, his low moans and stuttering breaths speak for him.

If you could see him, you’d know how furrowed his brow would be, a hand sliding over the curve of your ass until he can reach your thigh, beckoning for you to raise it without speaking.

You oblige, the angle of his thrusts changing on a dime.

“I can’t believe you’re real sometimes,” he admits like he’s confessing a sin.

“Please,” you plead—please stop talking, please keep going, please fuck me.

You couldn’t decide.

You feel him nod where his forehead is pressed between your shoulder blades as his fist curls into the sheet beside your head.

“Another, gimme another,” he pleads, the fingers on his other hand curling under your neck to life your chin, not expecting to meet his eyes as he leans over you.

The expression on his face so raw it makes you flutter around him, his lips parting in a deep, guttural groan, “I know you can,” he nods hurriedly.

And damn, does the praise work.

Your whimper breaks him, breathing out shakily as you locked eyes when he comes, slow and forceful thrusts until you’re nothing but an exhausted pile of tangled limbs.

“Greedy girl,” he comments through the haze, a weak giggle bubbling from your chest.

He pulls out slowly, a low grunt as he does so.

You’re not sure when you fall asleep, but you wake to a startling amount of weight over your stomach, an arm splayed possessively, the faint outline of a ring as you drag your hand over the limb.

It’s only as your eyes pry open that reality hits you, stumbling out of bed quickly.

No…nononono, where the fuck were your clothes? Jesus.

You stumble around half awake, searching for the silk dress on the floor, feeling accomplished when you find it and hastily redressing yourself as Harry stirs in bed, encouraging you to hurry, to slip out before he can say anything.

Your shoes are already on and you’re reaching for the doorknob when the voice comes, the weight of the necklace that still remained on your neck, two empty glasses of wine on the counter, a night of hasty choices and urgency laid out like a crime scene as his voice rings out from behind you, pleading.

“Don’t—don’t go,” Harry begs, “You don’t have to go,”

So much of this was wrong—it complicated everything.

Your life, your job, your relationship with him.

He can see you slipping, fingers inching toward the knob as he approaches you in a hurry, barefoot and shirtless, the kind of scene you shouldn’t be comforted with, like this was all normal to the both of you.

You’ve seen him like this a thousand times, but not when he’s looking at you so vulnerable, heart tore open and stapled to his chest, beating against your own as his hands splayed out over your cheeks.

“I don’t regret it,” he assures you again, “so please—stay, okay?”

“What changed?” you ask, voice trembling, “Five years, Harry. Five.”

“I’ve been running in circles this entire time,” he admits, “you know it—I know it.”

You had been there the entire time, learning every part of him without judgement, cataloging his flaws and skills, learning how he ticked and what motivated him. You had never quite settled on the ideal person to fit in his life as his partner, it surely wasn’t you.

It couldn’t be you.

“Please, don’t go,” Harry echoed once more.

The sick, cruel joke of it all was that this was your job. 

You had nowhere to go. If it was any other morning, you would just be arriving, leaving his breakfast in the kitchen and starting your day.

You nod solemnly, “Of course, Mr. Castillo.”

It was painstaking, forcing the mask back on.

But, you couldn’t deal with this now.

Or ever, even.

Harry looks at you with a confused sadness, thumbs rubbing at your cheekbones before his hands fall to his side.

You’d figure this out, you always did.

[writingsoftarnishedsilver]

I think of mc being very protective of her friends being a orphan and all. someone says the gaunts are all dark wizards? they are in the hospital wing for two weeks under strange circumstances. someone starts a nasty rumor about why Anne really left hogwarts? The worst tripping hex gets everyone who repeats the rumor. someone insults sebastian, you better pray that mc didn't hear about it she's coming for you

The Things We Do for Family | Sebastian Sallow x Reader

oh I loooooved this concept!!!! THANK YOU FOR THE ASK, ANON. I really hope you enjoy reading as much as I enjoyed writing it!! :')

Words: ~5,200

Tags: Reader Insert, Female MC, No Y/N, No Hogwarts House, Humor, Protective MC

There are things that Hogwarts students simply know—unchallenged truths, whispered warnings passed down from year to year.

The Forbidden Forest is dangerous. Peeves is a menace. The best snacks at Honeydukes sell out by Saturday afternoon. Don’t trust the staircases to take you where you actually want to go. Never accept Garreth Weasley’s offer to ‘test something out’.

And, under no circumstances, should anyone fuck with your friends.

It isn’t official, of course. There’s no school decree, no printed rule in the Hogwarts handbook, it's not carved into the walls. It’s just… understood.

It’s not like you’re some fearsome monster or anything.

You’re a model student, by all accounts. Brilliant. Sharp. Precise. A skilled duelist, a quick thinker, someone who turns in their assignments on time, answers when called on, and doesn’t cause disruptions in class.

You don’t start fights. You don’t pick pointless arguments. You don’t openly break the rules—not in ways that can be proven.

You play the part well.

Because that’s what you had to do.

You grew up alone. No parents. No siblings. No one to step in when things got hard, no one to defend you when the world was cruel. When you were small, scared, and helpless.

So you learned.

You learned that no one was coming to save you. You learned that fairness was a lie, that justice only existed when you carved it out with your own hands. You learned that people could be awful for no reason other than that they could get away with it.

But now? Now, you have a family. Not by blood, but by choice.

And when someone speaks against them? Bad things happen.

The Ominis Incident

It started, as most things did, with a careless remark.

A fifth-year Ravenclaw—smart but not particularly bright—thought it would be amusing to make a joke at Ominis Gaunt’s expense. A cruel one. Something about how the Gaunts were all inbred lunatics, how it was only a matter of time before Ominis ended up just like the rest of his family.

The words reached your ears in the library, drifting from a table not far from where you sat.

"You know I hear they torture Muggles for fun—it’s practically a family tradition. Gaunts don’t have hobbies, just a long history of inbreeding and Crucio."

Laughter followed, a few snickers from their table, hushed but not nearly enough. Not nearly enough to keep you from hearing.

Your quill stilled mid-word, ink pooling in place. Across from you, Ominis sat straight-backed, his expression unreadable, but you saw the way his fingers tightened around the book he was holding, knuckles whitening from the force of it.

He wouldn’t say anything.

Ominis had spent years perfecting the art of indifference. Of carefully controlled expressions, of blank politeness that masked far too much. He never reacted to comments like these.

But just because he wouldn’t didn’t mean you wouldn’t.

You exhaled slowly, carefully. Then, without a sound, you closed your book and stood.

Not a word. Not a glare in their direction. Just a smooth, effortless departure, as if you had suddenly decided the library was boring and somewhere else required your attention.

The Ravenclaws barely noticed.

But they would. They absolutely would. Because Potions class was a very dangerous place. Especially for people who talked too much.

The next day, you walked to Potions without a care in the world.

Sebastian and Ominis flanked you, deep in conversation about some essay Sharp had assigned, with Sebastian whining dramatically about how unfairly long it was, while Ominis countered that perhaps he should have started it earlier than the night before it was due.

You weren’t really listening, because you already knew what was coming.

And sure enough—just as you reached the dungeon corridor—

BOOM.

The floor trembled slightly beneath your feet. A deep, echoing explosion, the unmistakable sound of a cauldron detonating mid-brew, followed almost immediately by the frantic shouting of students.

Gasps. Choking coughs. Someone let out a screech of absolute horror.

Sebastian and Ominis startled.

Sebastian’s head snapped up, eyes wide as he looked toward the dungeon doors. “What the hell—”

Ominis twitched beside you, tilting his head, as if straining to listen.

You? Didn’t even blink. You just kept walking, calmly, like nothing was amiss, like you hadn’t been expecting it for the last twenty-four hours.

Sebastian noticed. His gaze sharpened, flicking to you with a knowing squint. “That was—”

He hesitated. Then narrowed his eyes further.

“Okay,” he said slowly, “I know that face.”

You raised a brow. “What face?”

“That’s your I-did-something-but-you’ll-never-prove-it face.”

You tilted your head, feigning confusion. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Sebastian scoffed and Ominis rolled his eyes, deadpan. “Uh-huh.”

Then the dungeon doors burst open.

A thick cloud of green smoke billowed out, sending students stumbling and coughing into the corridor. And in the center of it all, a group of very, very green Ravenclaws.

They clawed at their own skin, staring down at their hands in absolute horror. Their faces were the exact shade of an overripe toadstool, splotchy and uneven, and every time they opened their mouths, their tongues flopped out two inches too long.

Hysteria ensued.

Students gasped, some shrieked, others tried not to laugh. Professor Sharp stormed out after them, looking beyond exhausted, already massaging his temples.

“I told you,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose, “not to add the peppermint extract.”

“WE DIDN’T!” One Ravenclaw wailed, voice garbled from their too-long tongue. “I—I don’t know what happened! We did everything right!”

Sharp did not look convinced.

Sebastian looked at you, long and slow, a glint of admiration dawning in his eyes.

“Did you—”

“I did nothing.” You walked past him, as if the entire debacle were none of your concern. “I was with you all day, wasn’t I?”

Sebastian’s lips twitched. “Yeah, but—”

“No proof, no crime.” You gave him a cheerful smile before stepping into the classroom.

Sebastian grinned. “Oh, I love you.”

It was offhanded, thoughtless, a casual jest, but it sent a sharp, pleasant warmth down your spine.

You didn’t react, though. Just smirked, settling into your seat. Because the message had been sent.

And Ominis Gaunt would never hear a word against his name again.

The Anne Incident

Rumors at Hogwarts were a force of nature.

They swirled through the halls, slipping between whispered conversations and behind cupped hands, growing more twisted with each retelling.

Some were harmless—who was dating who, which professor had it out for which student, the occasional Did you hear Peeves stole all the ink from the Ravenclaws again? But some? Some were cruel.

And this one... this one was about Anne Sallow.

It started at breakfast, when you overheard a group of Slytherin sixth-years in the Great Hall. You weren’t eavesdropping—not intentionally—but you had a habit of noticing things, of hearing too much when you weren’t meant to.

"Did you hear about Sallow’s sister?"

"Yeah, I heard she went mad."

"Lost it completely. The curse must’ve rotted her brain."

"That’s why she left, isn’t it?"

"Yeah, I heard she tried to hex someone in her sleep—"

Your fork warped in your grasp. A slow, controlled bend beneath your fingers, the metal bending in your grip.

Across from you, Sebastian had gone still.

He didn’t turn. Didn’t react. Didn’t give them the satisfaction.

But you saw the way his jaw clenched. The way his hand curled into a fist against the table. The way his entire body had gone taut, locked in place by sheer force of will.

He wouldn’t do anything.

Not because he didn’t want to. Not because he wasn’t capable of it—because he was.

Sebastian Sallow could be ruthless. You knew that better than anyone. You’d seen it firsthand, the sharp edges of his temper, the way his rage burned hot and all-consuming, leaving nothing but wreckage in its wake. You’d seen what happened when he felt cornered, when he thought he was out of options.

But he wasn’t that boy anymore. Because you and Ominis had dragged him back from the brink. Because you had looked him in the eye, years ago, when the dust had settled and the worst of it was over, and told him:

"You still have a future. Don’t throw it away."

Against all odds, he had listened. And now, this was his last year at Hogwarts and he was going to be an Auror. He was going to start over. Prove that he wasn’t just some reckless, violent delinquent one step away from Azkaban.

So no—he wouldn’t react. He wouldn’t take the bait. Wouldn't defend Anne, no matter how badly he wanted to. Wouldn’t let himself be dragged down into the same pit he’d barely crawled out of.

Sebastian was playing the long game.

But you? You weren’t.

Your revenge on Anne's behalf started small. Almost imperceptible.

The first Slytherin—the one who had started the conversation in the first place—was walking to class when it happened.

A single misstep.

His foot caught on something—thin air, perhaps—and he staggered forward, arms flailing in a desperate attempt to right himself. It didn’t work. His books went flying, parchment scattered across the stone corridor, and a bottle of ink tumbled from his bag, shattering upon impact and staining his robes in an ugly, irreversible mess of black.

A small accident. An unfortunate case of bad luck.

No one thought anything of it—until the second one fell.

In the exact same spot.

And then the third. And the fourth.

By the time lunch rolled around, all four of them had tripped at least half a dozen times each.

It wasn’t just limited to the corridor, either. They stumbled on staircases, barely catching themselves before they could go tumbling down. They walked straight into walls as if the castle itself had turned against them. One even managed to trip over absolutely nothing in the middle of the Great Hall and landed face-first into his own soup.

The snickers started soon after. The sideways glances. The poorly hidden laughter from classmates who found their sudden clumsiness far too entertaining.

It wasn’t enough to be suspicious.

Not yet.

Not until the moving staircase.

The ringleader of the group had spent too much time lingering in the courtyard after lunch, chatting up a group of girls who barely tolerated his presence. He realized too late that he was running behind and bolted toward Charms, racing up the moving staircases with zero grace and even less caution.

And then his foot caught.

There was nothing there. No loose stone or shift in the staircase, nothing at all to explain why he suddenly lost his footing.

But he did.

He stumbled backward, arms flailing wildly, fingers grasping at empty air as the momentum carried him too far—

And he plummeted.

Three flights.

A blur of robes and limbs, a crash of bone against stone, and then a sickening thud as he landed in a groaning, crumpled heap at the bottom.

A hush fell over the corridor.

Then—

Shrieking.

His friends rushed down to him, voices panicked, eyes wide with horrified realization as they took in his bruised, trembling form.

A girl ran to fetch Madam Blainey.

By the time she arrived, he was whimpering, clutching his arm like it might’ve snapped.

Hospital Wing. Immediate bed rest.

No one could explain what happened. No professor could find a cause. Some students claimed the stairs had shifted unexpectedly. Others swore that they saw nothing—no trick step, no loose stones, just an unseen force pulling him down.

It didn’t matter.

The moment he was carried off, you finally allowed yourself to smile.

Not a smirk. Not a grin. Just the smallest, most satisfied twitch of your lips.

Sebastian caught it. Because of course he did. He had been standing beside you the whole time. Silent. Still. Watching from the moment that asshole Slytherin stumbled earlier that morning to the moment he was carted off for medical attention.

And now? Now, he just exhaled, long and slow, shaking his head as his mouth curved into something unreadable.

“You’re dangerous,” he murmured, voice low.

You hummed, tilting your head in faux curiosity. “Am I?”

Sebastian turned fully then, facing you. His gaze searched your face, for guilt perhaps. For remorse. For something that might suggest you hadn’t meant for it to happen.

But there was nothing.

No trace of hesitation. No flicker of shame.

You were calm, collected, an completely unapologetic. Because nobody talked about Anne Sallow like that without consequence.

Sebastian blinked. Then, to your absolute delight, he grinned. Wide. Slow. A sharp, wicked thing.

“Yeah. You're very dangerous” he said, almost in awe.

Your stomach twisted. You ignored it. Instead, you just shrugged, voice as casual as ever.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Sebastian’s grin deepened.

The Poppy Incident

Poppy Sweeting was one of the best people you knew.

Kind-hearted, patient, and too good for the world, really. She spent more time in the company of magical creatures than she did with most people, and honestly? You couldn't blame her.

Because people could be cruel.

You first heard it one afternoon in the courtyard. A group of girls whispering amongst themselves, giggling behind their hands. You hadn’t been paying much attention—until you heard her name.

"Honestly, she’s weird."

"I know, right? It’s like she’d rather date a bloody Hippogriff than an actual person."

"Wouldn’t be surprised if she actually has."

Laughter, sharp and mocking. Like Poppy Sweeting was a joke. Like she was less than because she chose kindness over cruelty, creatures over people who didn’t deserve her time in the first place.

You turned your head and watched as one girl—a Hufflepuff, ironically—rolled her eyes, shaking her head in exaggerated exasperation.

"Beast-lover," she muttered, nose wrinkled like the word itself was distasteful. "It's unnatural, really. No wonder she doesn't have any friends outside of her precious Mooncalves."

Something cold and sharp settled in your chest.

You had no doubt Poppy had heard it. She was standing just a few paces away near the fountain, hands clenched tight at her sides.

She didn’t react. Didn’t turn. Didn’t say anything. She just exhaled, slow and quiet, like she was forcing herself to let it go.

You wouldn’t.

The next morning, that very same Hufflepuff woke up covered in fur.

Not all over, just her face.

A thick, fluffy coat of golden-brown fuzz, soft as a Puffskein, sprouting in wild patches across her forehead, cheeks, and chin.

According to Poppy, the screams started immediately, and the entire girls dormitory had woken up to it.

The girl, who turned out to be a fifth-year, had flown into a hysterical panic, shrieking as she bolted for a mirror, hands frantically scrubbing at her face like she could rub the fur away.

She couldn’t.

It was a very specific hex. One that lasted exactly one week.

Professor Ronen was baffled.

Madam Blainey was thoroughly fascinated.

And Professor Howin, bless her, had cooed over her like she was the most adorable thing she’d ever seen. You had a front row seat to the entire thing during Beasts class.

“This is truly fascinating,” she’d said, holding the girl’s chin and turning her face slightly toward the light. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen transfiguration manifest quite like this! And so soft—feels just like a Kneazle’s coat, doesn’t it?”

The best part? It wasn’t harmful. It wasn’t painful. Just… humiliating.

You considered it a job well done.

When Howin had dismissed you for lunch, Poppy pulled you aside. She didn't say anything at first. Just stared.

You blinked at her, tilting your head. “Everything alright?”

Poppy squinted. Narrowed her eyes slightly. Huffed.

"You did that, didn’t you?"

You blinked again.

Because Poppy—sweet, gentle, pacifist Poppy—did not accuse people of things. Which meant she was completely certain.

You just smiled, giving her your most innocent expression. “I have no idea what you mean.”

Poppy just sighed, shaking her head. But then—just for a moment—she smiled.

Small. Subtle. Grateful.

Like she knew exactly what you’d done. Like she knew there was no use arguing, no point in telling you not to go to such lengths for her.

And then, without a word, she reached out and squeezed your hand.

The Natsai Incident

You had never liked Callum Thorne.

Seventh-year. Gryffindor. Arrogant. Loud-mouthed. The kind of person who had never been told no in his life and walked through Hogwarts like the world owed him something.

You’d tolerated him for years, mostly because you hadn’t needed to interact with him much. But this? This was different.

You were starting the day with Defense Against the Dark Arts. Professor Hecat had yet to arrive, leaving the class unsupervised and giving Thorne the perfect opportunity to make a scene.

Natty was speaking with Poppy near the front of the room, voice calm as she explained something about the Ministry’s policies on magical creatures in Africa compared to Britain. She wasn’t being loud, wasn’t even arguing, just explaining.

That’s when Thorne scoffed.

“Merlin’s sake, Onai, give it a rest,” he sneered from the back of the room, tossing his quill onto his desk with an exaggerated huff. “Do you ever get tired of standing on that bloody soapbox of yours?”

The room went still.

Natty turned, slow and deliberate, her expression unreadable, regarding him with that same poised, unshaken calm that made her such a force to be reckoned with.

“I was simply having a discussion,” she said smoothly. “No one is forcing you to listen, Thorne.”

“Right,” he drawled. “Except you never shut up about it. Always talking about ‘justice’ and ‘change’ like you think you’re going to fix the whole bloody world.” He smirked. “News flash, Onai—no one cares.”

A few of his friends chuckled.

Your fingernails dug into your palm.

Natty didn’t react—not outwardly, anyway. She just exhaled, slow and measured, and turned back to Poppy like his words had been nothing more than an inconvenience.

You? You were already plotting his downfall, and luckily, Callum Thorne was a creature of habit.

He always stayed out after curfew to flirt with whatever unfortunate girl he had chosen that week, and he always went up to the Astronomy Tower afterwards with his friends to play cards and drink whatever contraband alcohol they’d smuggled into the castle.

Which made him the perfect target.

That night, as the seventh-year tidied up the cards, stretching and yawning, likely already thinking about his warm bed waiting for him—

His legs froze in place. Not a Full Body-Bind. No, this was different.

A soft, subtle hex. A slow, creeping sensation, his feet adhering to the stone beneath him, then his calves, then his thighs.

By the time he realized something was wrong, it was too late.

He tried to step forward—failed. Tried to yank himself free—failed.

And then���with agonizing slowness—his entire body began to lift off the ground. No warning. No control.

He drifted upward, weightless, helpless, arms flailing as the stone ceiling came closer and closer—

And then, with a soft thump, he was stuck. Face-down, body pressed flat against the Astronomy Tower ceiling.

His screaming started immediately.

Loud. Panicked. A complete meltdown.

His friends, who had started their walk down the tower came bolting back up the stairs at the sound of his shouting.

“What the—?” one of them started, eyes wide as they gawked at the ceiling.

“Thorne?” another asked, dumbfounded.

You bit the inside of your cheek, holding back laughter as you hid beneath your disillusionment charm.

“GET ME DOWN!” Thorne bellowed, arms and legs flailing uselessly against the stone. “WHAT THE BLOODY HELL IS THIS?”

His friends stared, uselessly waving their wands, muttering counterspells that only resulted in Thorne spinning in slow circles, howling in distress.

When they realized they were utterly helpless, panic completely set in.

“What do we do?” one of them asked, looking between the others with wild eyes. “Should we get a professor?”

Thorne snarled. “NO! DO NOT—”

But it was too late. Because at that very moment, the Astronomy Tower door swung open once again, and a very tired, very unimpressed Professor Shah stepped inside.

There was a long, painful beat of silence.

Shah took in the scene.

The stack of contraband firewhiskey bottles on the table. The panicked seventh-years, wands still drawn, looking entirely too guilty. And Callum Thorne, still face-down, circling against the ceiling, hissing every curse word known to wizardkind.

She sighed, long and slow, as if she had simply had enough of this entire generation of students. Then, with an effortless flick of her wand, she cast a single spell.

And gravity returned. All at once. Thorne plummeted like a sack of bricks.

The landing was spectacular. A glorious, sprawling heap, limbs tangled, robes askew, one shoe missing entirely. His friends didn’t even try to catch him.

For a moment, there was only silence. Then—

“Hospital Wing,” Shah said simply, rubbing her temples. “Now.”

Thorne was half-carried, half-dragged down the tower steps, groaning the entire way.

And you?

You slept soundly that night.

By morning, half the school had heard the story.

"Did you hear about Thorne? Got stuck to the Astronomy Tower ceiling last night."

"He was crying by the time they got him down."

"Serves him right—bloke’s a complete asshole."

And you? You sat perfectly composed at breakfast, casually stirring your tea, listening as his friends panicked about who could have done it.

Sebastian, of course, knew.

He sat beside you, arms folded, lips pressed together, shaking with the effort not to laugh.

Finally, he exhaled, tilting his head toward you.

“You are actually unhinged,” he murmured, utterly delighted.

You simply sipped your tea. “I have no idea what you mean.”

Across the hall, Natty smiled.

Soft. Knowing.

The Sebastian Incident

You had been careful.

For years, you had woven your revenge into the shadows, never once leaving a trace of your involvement in the strange misfortunes that befell those who dared to insult your friends. You were precise, patient, undetectable.

But everyone has a breaking point. And yours? Yours was Sebastian Sallow.

It happened in the Great Hall when Scorpius Malfoy decided to idiotically open his big fucking mouth.

You hadn’t been paying attention to him at first. Why would you? People like Malfoy had never mattered to you. He was just another spoiled pureblood, another self-important waste of a surname who thought his words carried weight simply because he could afford to say them.

But then his voice cut through the din, and he said Sebastian’s name.

"No family name worth a damn, no money, no influence. Honestly, I don’t even know why the professors still put up with Sallow. And he’s an orphan, isn’t he?"

One of his friends nodded, grinning like this was some kind of joke. Like Sebastian Sallow’s entire life was nothing more than a punchline.

Malfoy snorted. "So he's got dead parents, a dead uncle, and a crippled sister who’ll probably never set foot in the wizarding world again. Wouldn’t be surprised if he ends up rotting in the same gutter he came from."

The words landed like a curse.

Sebastian had been mid-conversation with you, fork in hand, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he teased you about something inconsequential—some throwaway joke that would have normally earned him an eye roll and a shove.

But now? Now, he wasn’t moving. Not speaking. Not breathing. Just silent.

Rigid.

Like the weight of those words had turned him into stone.

And something inside you snapped.

It was almost funny, in retrospect, how much effort you had spent perfecting the art of subtlety.

Every step you had taken over the years had been measured, every spell carefully woven into the fabric of coincidence, every act of vengeance so meticulously placed that no one had ever been able to definitively trace it back to you. You had built a flawless reputation, balancing on the razor’s edge between brilliance and menace, justice and mystery.

But now? Now, as you rose from your seat, you weren’t careful at all.

You didn’t move like a shadow, didn’t cloak yourself in misdirection or the comfort of silence. No. This time, you wanted them to see you.

And the moment you stood, the Great Hall stilled.

Students stopped eating, stopped talking, stopped moving altogether. The clatter of plates and goblets faded into a thick, suffocating silence, as if even the walls of Hogwarts itself were holding their breath.

Your voice came out low. Cold.

"Say that one more time, Malfoy."

Scorpius turned lazily, like he hadn’t a care in the world. Like he hadn’t just spat on Sebastian’s entire existence for no other reason than because he could.

And he smirked. Merlin, he smirked. Like you were some insignificant thing, an insect buzzing too close to his ear.

“Oh?” he drawled, tilting his head. “Touched a nerve, have I? Which part got to you, I wonder? The fact that Sallow’s got no family? Or the part where I pointed out that he’s got no future either?”

You took a step forward. You could hear Ominis hissing at you to stop, to think about what you were doing before you got yourself deep into shit, gut you couldn't. Not when it came to your friends.

Not when it came to Sebastian.

Especially when he still hadn't moved. Hadn’t reacted. Hadn’t so much as breathed.

Your hand tightened around your wand, the weight of it comforting, grounding, an extension of the fury curling in your chest.

"You should tread carefully, Scorpius," you murmured, your voice smooth, edged with something lethal. "I know you think you're clever—that you can say whatever you like without consequence, just because you were born into the right family."

Your head tilted slightly, gaze sharp, cutting straight through him.

"But you should know something about me by now."

Malfoy’s smirk faltered just slightly. And then, before he could open his mouth again—

You flicked your wand.

Hard. Fast.

Malfoy's goblet exploded.

A concussive blast of magic sent shards flying, the remnants of his beverage splattering across his pristine uniform like spilled blood. A jagged edge of glass sliced across his hand, thin but deep, and he flinched, eyes snapping down to it with genuine shock.

"If you're going to run your mouth about my friends," you said coolly, watching him clutch his bleeding hand, "then you should be prepared to suffer for it."

Your next spell came before he could react. Before anyone could stop you.

A sharp twist of your wrist, and his mouth was gone.

Not silenced. Not muffled. Just… gone. Smooth, unbroken skin where lips should be, like his voice had simply been erased from existence.

The realization hit him immediately.

His hands shot to his face, clawing at his skin, a muffled scream—horrified, panicked—rising in his throat. He lurched backward, knocking into one of his friends, fingers digging at face like he could carve his lips back into place.

But you weren’t done. Not yet.

You needed something that would etch itself into the bones of this castle, into the minds of every single person watching in stunned silence. Something that told the whole goddamn school that if they so much as breathed wrong about Sebastian again, you would ruin them.

A simple hex would be too merciful. A standard jinx—something temporary, something easily countered—wouldn’t send the right message.

No, you needed something else. Something only you could undo.

Your wand rose, fingers tightening around the handle.

A familiar thrumming sensation curled through your bones, crackling at your fingertips, humming beneath your skin like a storm about to break. Ancient magic—the power that had followed you since the day you first stepped foot in Hogwarts, the magic that had made you different. You had never used it publicly. Never allowed yourself to tap into it in a room full of hundreds of witnesses.

Until now.

Malfoy’s body lurched.

Not by his own will, but by yours, by the ancient, crackling force curling through your veins.

The entire room gasped as he was wrenched upward, his robes twisting violently around him as though an invisible hand had grabbed him by the throat and hauled him into the sky.

He thrashed, or tried to, but the moment he moved, the spell struck.

A jolt of electricity tore through his body.

Not enough to kill. Not enough to cause permanent harm, but enough to make him scream. Or at least, he would have screamed—if he still had a mouth.

Instead, a choked, garbled sound tore from his throat, half agony, half suffocated panic, his limbs seizing as the current snapped down his spine, through his arms and legs.

And you let them watch, let the entire Great Hall bear witness as he hung there, suspended like some grotesque marionette.

And the moment he tried to move again, tried to scratch at where his mouth should be or flail his limbs, another arc of lightning danced across his body, snapping against his skin like a promise that any attempt to fight this would only make it worse.

And he knew. They all knew. He wasn’t getting down until you allowed it. But your arm didn’t waver, you held your wand high, like an executioner delivering final judgment.

Because this? This was a declaration. A statement. A message carved into the very bones of Hogwarts itself.

You do not speak against Sebastian Sallow.

You wondered if he realized that you would have done this a thousand times over. That you would have burned the entire goddamn world for him if he asked.

But before you could do anything more—before you could decide how far you were willing to take this—

A thunderous voice shattered the moment.

"THAT IS ENOUGH!"

The spell snapped. Malfoy dropped. His body crashed onto the table below, sending plates and goblets scattering, silverware clattering to the stone floor. He lay there, twitching, gasping, pathetically small as the last of the magic flickered out of his limbs.

And then—

"You."

Phineas Nigellus Black’s voice was pure ice.

You turned to face him—not a shred of regret, not a flicker of guilt in your expression.

But the Headmaster was raging. His hands were clenched at his sides, his teeth bared in fury.

The entire room was still. Waiting. Holding its breath.

"My office." His voice was low, lethal, like the words themselves were a curse. "Now."

A sharp inhale from someone at the Ravenclaw table. A hushed whisper from a terrified first-year.

No detention. No points docked. Just a direct order from the highest authority in the school.

But it was worth it, because now they knew. Every single person in this room knew.

And as you turned on your heel, heart still pounding with the remnants of power buzzing in your veins—

You caught Sebastian’s eyes one last time.

Still watching, still frozen in place, yet looking at you like you were the most devastating, impossible, extraordinary thing he had ever seen.

And then? The slightest smirk. The most faint, devastatingly admiring grin.

Like he had never, ever wanted anyone more.

[solifloris]

≡;-꒰ 𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐒 ꒱₊˚ ପ⊹ 𝑳𝒐𝒗𝒆 & 𝑫𝒆𝒆𝒑𝒔𝒑𝒂𝒄𝒆 𝑩𝒐𝒚𝒔 𝑻𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒀𝒐𝒖

── mdni sexual content ; how the boys would tease you in bed. inclusive of: pet name usage, dirty talk, praise, edging, heavy petting, slight mentions of: vaginal sex, fingering, nipple play, oral (f. receiving) ✨

⁺₊ / an: i am a big supporter of these 4 being absolutely infuriating !! xavier's has references to "pretty little mess" if you've caught it 🤭

caleb was impatient at heart. the way he teased you would never have you begging, but always buckling under the weight of his desires, always hiding your face in embarrassment, at every way he'd elicit sounds from you that you didn't even know you could make. you've known him for practically all your life; the mere thought that he could get you like this, see you like this, made you flush impossibly red with embarrassment... and he knew. he'd call you pipsqueak when he spoke, a testament of the closeness of your relationship, and you would barely retain your sanity. he'd praise you, too—relaying in your ears how good you feel and how pretty you look with his cock buried deep into you, telling you every fantasy he'd had in his head, going on about how he's addicted to your pussy and he'd never be the same without it. every dirty word from his mouth had you whimpering, clenching around his length—you hated it, but you loved it. "Oh, fuck, pipsqueak... Takin' me so well like that... fuck, you're just so, so good—"

rafayel would simply be so aggravating. the two of you are always teasing each other, and he'd always find a way to get on your nerves one way or another. so, in the bedroom... well. he'd be smirking at the way your hips would chase his whenever he pulled out of you, almost laughing at your expense, pure amusement written over every inch of his body. he loved you, yes—but he'd never let you cum. not when he was in control; not when he delighted in your whines and your whimpers, begging him for more. he'd simply rub on your arm, mocking coos into your ear about how needy you are—time and time again, whether it be from his fingers or his tongue or his cock, he would dare to leave you thrashing on his bed, your release slipping away from you slowly, slowly. it would render you sensitive to his every touch. closer and closer, reaching the peak of your high quicker every time he edged you... until just a kiss, just a nip against your skin, and you'd be shaking—coming undone, spilling over his sheets. only then would he proceed to fuck you senseless. "wow, so desperate for me! what a cutie~ you want to cum, don't you?"

xavier? sweet, innocent xavier, like you've always known him to be... not. xavier, the little shit, he's deliberate. he'd have fingers trailing all over your skin, barely-there touches that have your hair raising in response. he'd place light, feathery kisses, from your jawline, to your neck, to your collarbone... and he'd have the audacity to breathe so close to your ear, claiming he just wants to cuddle—he doesn't, obviously he doesn't. but he pretends. he pretends like he doesn't know what he's doing to you. and he'd never touch you any more than that until he got his fill, until you would rub your thighs and his ears would perk at the subtle sounds of your wetness. xavier knows exactly how to get you riled up, weak in his arms, mumbling about the unfairness of it all, whining to him how you just want him to fuck you already and skip all these pointless theatrics... but he won't stop. not until he wants to. it doesn't matter how many times you beg. if he wants to see you get even more desperate for him, then he will. "but, angel, why? i'm barely doing anything to you... are you already so wet...?"

zayne always knows what you want. of course he does, he's easily memorized every one of your expressions, every one of your reactions; what gets you clenching tight around his cock and how exactly to make you throw your head back moaning. but he won't do it. he won't do it unless you tell him to, unless he hears the words directly fall from you lips, dictating to him in detail exactly what you want him to do to you. it was never easy for you to do in the first place, so embarrassed of the filthy words coming from your mouth—but he'd make it even harder. be it the friction of his cock gliding in and out of your pussy, or the way his lips would swirl around your nipples, or maybe even just the way he'd look at you—intense, observant, waiting. you could barely form a coherent thought, let alone try to speak in words he could actually understand. "what's wrong, sweetheart? you know you have to tell me. come on, it's not too hard, is it? open your mouth. speak."

© rose-tinted-kalopsia. all rights reserved. do not: steal, copy, repost, reupload, modify, or claim any of my works as your own, regardless of credit given. absolutely do not use my works for AI training and other related purposes.

[acourtofwhatthefuck]

Needs Must — Rhysand x Reader

While I put the finishing touches to the next part of Bluebird, enjoy this Rhys x Reader that I got a sudden burst of inspiration to finish this morning!

Summary: War changes everything, and the human-fae war changed the trajectory of your life completely — most pointedly decimating the relations between you and those closest to you. It’s been a long while since you’ve seen your brother, Cassian, and your friends. But that’s all about to change.

Warnings: Suggestions of solicitation/sex work/brothels. Nothing else, really!

Word Count: 1.5k

Enjoy! 💕

It’s all pointless, you think — the red velvet drapes, the burning candles, the sandalwood-scented smoke that clouds the air and creates a thick layer of fog that hovers just above the shag carpet. Pointless, because no amount of pretty décor will change Salt’s Pleasure Hall from the vacuous and miserable place it is.

Not miserable for you, no. There is no misery in the hefty sum of gold you’ll take home on a night. You are a master of pretty smiles and hooded gazes and saying all the right things that desperate, lonely males wish to hear. There is so much coin to be had in feigning interest and attraction. Bringing their fantasy to life for a night. There is talent in making them feel as though you’ve bared yourself to them, without having removed a single item of clothing.

And to think you once begged your older brother to train you, make you like him. Turn me into a weapon like you are, Cassian. We cannot change what filth sired us. But we can stamp it out from our blood and be better, be more.

And oh, he’d trained you, alright. Turned you into a weapon. Into something he was so fucking proud of. You knew the pride it had once brought him to strut around Illyrian lands with you at his side, clad in leathers just as he was, armed to the teeth just as he was. His way of showing off that he had done something good, something useful.

Oh, how things have changed. How the mighty have fallen.

For all you are confident, comfortable, used to the job you have now worked for some time, you are nervous tonight.

Tonight is different. Tonight is territory that has so far been untouched. Tonight, this room of velvet and silk and sensuality is your domain.

The Juniper Suite is part of the most expensive package that Salt’s Pleasure Hall has to offer. The package is similar to your usual night’s work in that you will smile prettily and pour drinks and ply whichever lonely male arrives with mindless conversation.

The difference is that in Juniper, those things lead to sex. And this is the first time since becoming one of Salt’s girls that you’re crossing that boundary.

So, yeah, you’re a little bit nervous. But — needs must, and all that.

With a soft sigh and butterflies dancing around in your belly, you slowly pace the circumference of the room, stopping every now and then to study the weird little trinkets that Salt has picked up over the years. A strange mishmash of things that you suppose he thinks creates a certain ambience. But tiny metal lions and old, fraying maps will be the furthest thing from your client’s thoughts when the two of you sink into the feathered sheets.

They will be here any minute, and for the first time since you started your work here, you allow yourself to wonder what they might be like. You never usually bother, because the other girls warned you on day one what to expect — that this place attracts a certain clientele, and that never wavers.

So, your guest will likely be far older than you. He will likely have dark smudges beneath his eyes and the weight of the world on his shoulders. There will likely be the faint mark of a removed wedding band on his left ring finger. He will likely want to talk to you about why he is a victim of life itself.

And you will coo sympathetically and pour him drinks, drag your hand down his arm and hold his hand. You will let him know how sorry you feel that life is so cruel to him. You will offer him the bliss of touch and feel, and make him think, for a short while, that you genuinely care about his shortcomings.

And then when he hands you the heavy pouch of coins you so desperately covet, you’ll switch it all off.

You swallow down another sigh and cross the room to the small, compact bar in the corner. You need a stiff drink yourself, something to settle your nerves—

But a knock lands on the door, and there’s no time.

For a split second, you doubt whether you can go through with this. Playing hostess for a few hours is one thing, but giving your body to a client is something you’ve never had the courage to do, despite the extra coin it would bring. But — needs must. You repeat it to yourself as you stride to the door. Needs must, needs must, needs must. You can do this.

You brace yourself, feeling suddenly too hot and sticky in the scant clothing that covers you — a pink lingerie set, barely covered by the sheer robe that sits open and threatens to slip down your arms. You are beautiful — and strong and sexy and confident. This is your body to do with whatever you want. And if this is the course you are taking, that is fine. This will be fine.

You lay your palm on the handle and yank the door open before you have to give yourself another pep talk.

But at the sight of who stands on the other side, you freeze. Your lips part in surprise.

A pep talk is not what you need — but rather a huge hole to open in the floor and swallow you down.

“What the fuck?”

It takes you a moment to realise that you’ve uttered those three words at the exact same moment your client did — Rhysand did.

He’s just like when you last saw him, but…older, now. Even though you were adults back then, too, he seems…more mature, somehow. He’s regal and stunning and night itself.

And fuck, he’s High Lord of the Night Court now.

And yet he’s ruffled, as he takes you in, gapes at you. Neither of you know what to do.

His eyes dip down to what you’re wearing, before travelling back up to your face. And he blurts, “Pixie?”

Pixie. You haven’t heard that name in years. The fond nickname that both Rhys and Azriel had coined for you, because you were so much like Cassian and yet so much smaller, a little pixie buzzing around.

But you are not her anymore. You haven’t been her since before the human-fae war. You had changed, just like the others had changed.

And the new you doesn’t need to explain to an old friend what has brought you to a pleasure hall in Sangravah. Nor does that old friend need to explain what’s brought him here, either. You owe him nothing. He owes you nothing.

But the situation is so bizarre that your mind freezes. You don’t know what to do. All you know is that you do not want to be in front of him, almost naked. You do not want to look him in the eye. The mere thought is humiliating.

So you move fast and try to slam the door shut in his face. You don’t care what kind of reprimand Salt will give you because of it.

But, of course, he is Rhysand, and may you never forget that. He’s quick as lightning, something about him always having been wildly feline. He always bested you when you sparred, always had the upper hand.

He has the upper hand now as he wedges his foot in the door and stops it from closing.

You grit your teeth, feeling just like when you used to bicker with him in Illyria as you bite out, “Move your fucking foot.”

“No,” Rhys snaps, shoving it in further. “Open the fucking—” he growls as he shoulders himself forward. “Pixie.”

“Don’t call me that. Go away—”

You’re not exactly sure what happens next. Either he loses his footing, or you do, or perhaps you both do. All you know is that the door is swinging fully open, and your balance is suddenly off, and Rhysand’s hand is gripping onto you as you fall backwards. Your attempts to right yourself are far too late and seem to make it worse. Down you go to that musty shag carpet, and down Rhysand goes with you,

Air whooshes from your lungs as he lands on top of you, far too close than is comfortable when you’re wearing so little clothing. You attempt to sit up, shove him off you.

But he holds you firm and stares at you with wide eyes. His face is inches from yours. He gives what seems to be a baffled shake of his head.

“Pix, what the fuck?” he blurts.

[zerodaytesttape]

Guess what I have! That's right! More fucking Cal and Andre headcanons! I need diversity someone help

- Cal is awful at taking care of himself, but Andre knows that it's often not a mistake. He just doesn’t care enough to fix it. His clothes are always wrinkled, his hair a mess and dirty, and he never gets enough sleep. Andre is the opposite. He takes care of the little things, even when it feels pointless

- Cal does not know how to apologize at all whatsoever. When he messes up, he’ll give this half-assed awkward “sorry” that sounds more like he’s annoyed than sorry. Andre will forgive him anyway, he knows Cal doesn’t do feelings the same way that everyone else does. Cal often doesn't even actually feel sorry, he doesn't know why people get offended by things

(little bit of my NPD Calvin hc there)

- Cal’s always getting into trouble because he’s impulsive, and Andre’s always the one picking up the mess, even though he’s not the one who caused it💀. He does it without thinking, always making sure Cal gets out of whatever he’s dragged into, even if it means he gets into trouble himself. It’s like they have an unspoken rule like "I’ll save your ass and you’ll save my ass in return", but Andre never does anything that will get him in a lot of trouble, but if he does, Cal initiated it

- Andre’s the first one to call Cal out when he’s being an idiot, but Cal never gets too offended. It’s like they both know that whatever’s happening it’s temporary and they’ll get over it. It’s rare for either of them to actually hold a grudge. They get on each other’s nerves but at the end of the day they’ve learned to just go with it

- Cal’s favorite way of making Andre laugh is by doing stupid impressions of teachers, making fun of their mannerisms and voices in the most exaggerated way possible. Andre always rolls his eyes but can’t help but laugh because Cal’s spot-on. He tries not to show it, but deep down, he’s impressed by how good Cal is at imitating people

- Andre never wants to be the center of attention, but Cal will drag him into it anyway. He’ll make jokes at Andre’s expense, but not in a mean way, more like a way to bring them both into the spotlight, just to see how Andre reacts. It’s funny to Cal but Andre hates it even though he secretly loves it when it means he’s not invisible

- They have an odd way of communicating without words especially when they’re caught in dangerous situations. A look from Cal, a subtle gesture, and Andre knows exactly what’s coming next. No words are needed, they’ve gotten so used to this silent connection that sometimes it feels like they’re sharing one mind

- Cal RARELYYY sleeps, and when he does, he tosses and turns all night. Andre’s the only one who’s ever seen him fall asleep fully, completely at peace for just a few moments. It’s a rare thing but when it happens Andre watches quietly, wondering if that’s who Cal used to be, before everything got so messed up.

- They both keep a journal, but not for writing. For drawing. They both have scribbles, random sketches of things that are important to them but hard to explain. Cal’s drawings are chaotic, rough sketches of things he’s too afraid to put into words. Andre’s are calmer, more detailed, full of hidden meanings. They would rather off themselves then let anyone see their journals

- Andre’s the first to notice when Cal’s drinking too much, and it worries him more than anything. Cal won’t show it, won’t admit it, but Andre knows the signs. He knows it’s just another way Cal deals with the chaos in his head. Andre doesn’t know how to help him but he’ll always stay close, ready to intervene when it gets too much

- Cal’s weirdly protective of Andre, but it’s subtle. He’ll pick fights with people who mess with him and he won’t even think twice. Andre notices it but he never says anything. It’s not something that needs to be talked about it’s just a part of their silent agreement to keep each other safe

[veryintricaterituals]

I know I'm a perfect stranger, but I'm a fellow fan, and I need to vent this shit to someone. That was the most heartbreakingly dissappointing and infuriatingly insulting half hour of television I've ever personally experienced. Especially because they had Guillermo there as the perfect audience stand-in relating to all of our pain. I was in tears watching him desperately grapple for some kind of character development, meaning, revelation, resolution, something, ANYTHING. Amid unfunny and often straight up insulting, callous jokes at his and our expense. Plot points brought up and left unresolved, character development left uncompleted. All the obvious Nandermo hints straight up queerbait, Nandor will remain romantically lonely and never discover the love "right under his nose" that was obviously seemingly intended to be Guillermo, Colin will never know Lazlo really raised and cared for him, Memo too, Guidja was never going to happen, Lazlos Dad locked in the closet with Colins Funkos seemingly hinting at making a comeback, not happening. Jerrys betrayal arc anticlimactic, badass parts of Guillermos last fight scenes with his cousin pointlessly cut for unfunny pointless bullshit, Nadja never getting an independent business or whatever, Guillermo and Sean mortal and destined to die and be lost to their friends forever someday. WHY THE FUCK DID COLIN BEAT HIM!?? they were hinting towards him being an EV but now that scene makes no fucking sense missing an opportunity to also explain where EVs come from. The Guide being pushed to the wayside. None of the other characters were brought up again. 3 fake endings obviously meant to insult us for, of course, being upset by this real bullshit one, one of them insulting us for wanting the Nandermo they had hinted at themselves, needlessly stretched between 3 episodes. The shitty Nandermo mocking 'cameras off' comment near the end. We were strung along with Guillermo for SIX FUCKING YEARS, and all of it wasted, none of it mattered. It was all pointless. The writers didnt care. And by the end seemed to hate us for loving and being attached to the show they made for so long and wanting more, and wanting Nandermo, which they set up, and just queer ship rep that they had been setting up in the first place. I guess you could say Guillermo grew the most, but I would've liked to see more about where he ended up. They had the option of another episode they turned down. There was just so, so, much wasted potential with what this show could have been and how much more time could've been spent on it without 'jumping the shark' as Waititi claims if it had competent, progressive, brave, writers who gave a shit all the way through and it didnt need to have constant jokes later on with less dramatic breathing room. They just wanted to be done with it. I can see now why Matt Berry seemed so unenthusiastic in interviews and apparently Harvey seemed annoyed with Simms in promos, and that comment he made in an interview about his last moments on set reminding him of Titanic and "Nandor and Guillermo finally being able to be, y-know" So fucking heartbreaking him experiencing this after getting invested in these characters and their relationship as a queer man himself. I was sitting there watching Guillermo walk into the foyer and just sit there silently defeated in tears, staring into the void as the other characters sang "we'll meet again" in the background, and I'm just crying with him.

The good thing about fandom is that we're all perfect strangers and great friends at the same time, as high school musical once said: "we're all in this together".

Go ahead and vent in my comments! Scream your truth! They fucked with us!

I guess I'm actually not that angry because I could see it coming from a mile away, I feel like I've been grieving this show since season five ended and they destroyed Guillermo's arc, I just didn't think it'd be this bad.

There's just nothing there, no purpose, no aspirations, no character development. I get what they were going for, they been trying to ram it in since season 4 "Vampires don't change and everything stays the same" but the problem is that they have changed and significantly so throughout the seasons, they have grown and learned and loved and lost.

It's just fucking disappointing and such wasted potential, like not even thinking about Nandermo, but in general. They couldn't give an ending to any other character because they had destroyed their characters and arcs so completely there was nothing to say. And they knew that, they had a whole season to figure it out and instead just went, ehh let's use Guillermo as a stand in for the audience and gave us nothing anyway.

I have so many thoughts because I've been watching since season 1 and ughhh, I have so many drafts that I'll be posting in the next few days. All I'm going to say is thank G-d I have interview with the vampire because I would be way more devastated if I didn't have beautifully written gay vampire media to fall back on.

Anyway feel free to come and vent to me!! It's the way to get through this! also we're totally friends now 💜💜

[thursdayinspace]

For today's lunchtime porn, how are we feeling about some angry!sex? (Lunch breaks are for writing smut, aren't they?)

Whatever he’d expected when she showed up at his door that night, it hadn’t been this.

She’d looked so angry when she’d stormed in, tossing a file folder onto the small table by the window, telling him, fury in her eyes, “Here’s your fucking autopsy report. Don’t even bother reading it. I didn’t find a damned thing.” He’d felt bad for not listening to her. He’d still tried to argue his point.

And now here they are, on their knees on a creaky motel bed, the frame rattling as he pounds into her from behind. Her hands are gripping the slats of the headboard, bracing herself as she pushes back against him, and he holds onto her hips and doesn’t hold anything back.

“All day I spent in that morgue,” she pants, “all for nothing.”

He groans. She can’t let it go, even now. “It was our best lead and you know it.”

“No, Mulder.” She gasps as he hits a particularly good spot, but it’s not enough to make her let this go. “What I know is that I told you there was nothing there. And I was right.”

“Fuck,” he growls, and changes his angle until he gets her where she needs it on every thrusts, determined to make her beg for more. “You could have just as easily been wrong.”

“But I wasn’t. Oh god.” She drops her head and moans. “Harder.”

Irritation spikes in his chest. “I can’t fucking go any harder.”

“Seriously?” She throws him a look over her shoulder. Her face is flushed, and he can see she’s enjoying this. “I spent hours wasting my time on one of your insane hunches, and this is all you’ve got?”

He clenches his teeth and reaches one hand up to grab the headboard for leverage as every last shred of control falls away. He drives into her with a force he didn’t know he was capable of, and finally she lets go as well, rewarding his efforts with the most beautiful sounds he has ever heard. “You want it like this?” he asks, his voice rough. “Then fucking take it.”

“Yes,” she breathes, “That’s better.”

They’ll break the bed, he thinks, and she can explain that on their expense report. She’s the one who asked for this. He holds her in place with his free arm slung around her and, with his last functioning brain cells, wonders if this should feel as good as it does. “God, Scully,” he manages, and she moans out loud.

“A little more, just—” She slips a hand between her thighs and he knows she’s close, and he’s relieved because he honestly doesn’t know how much longer he can keep this up.

But he will make her come, and he will make her come from this. He’ll make it so good for her she’ll be too fucked out and orgasm-high to continue this stupid argument. He doesn’t know why he thinks that will mean he’s won, but he’s not thinking straight, so it doesn’t matter.

She comes hard, crying out loud enough for the neighbors two doors down to hear her. He falls over the edge right along with her, ramming himself into her as deep as he can go, filling her up as the world fades to black for a second.

As reality swims back into focus, he’s on his back with her half draped across him, and he’s exhausted, but it feels amazing. “Holy shit, Scully,” he says, and she laughs softly against his chest.

“Yeah. I think that sums it up.”

“That was…”

“A very good end to a very long day?” she suggests, and he cards a hand through her hair and leans up to kiss her forehead.

“Are you…are you okay?”

“Better than okay.” She sighs. “I don’t really remember what we were fighting about, to be honest.”

“You were angry because I made you do that autopsy—” He bites his lip, mentally kicking himself for bringing it up again.

She raises her head to give him a dark look. “Oh. Right. The one I repeatedly told you would be entirely pointless.”

He closes his eyes and puts one hand over his face. “Scully…”

“I mean, seriously, what were you even hoping to find…”

He groans. He should have known better than to think he could win this one, but he’s definitely not ready to give up.

[pinkgorecat]

Hole in the Ground

Derek Goffard x Reader

Warnings: Rape/Non-con Elements, Mind Rape, Mind Manipulation, Kidnapping, Loss of Virginity, Forced smoking, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Non-Consensual Blood Drinking, Tom harm (I’m sorry my little baby), Dumbification, Burning, Classicism, Praise Kink, AFAB reader, She/her pronouns, Hurt No Comfort, Reader is only referred to as she/her/hers, Begging, Stabbing, Breeding, Not Beta Read

Can also be found on my A03 @sponkynun :3!!

The cave door creaks open, and a plume of dust kicks up from the floor. She enters and shuts the door swiftly, pressing it back into place and hearing the latch click behind her. She rushes to Tom, who is laying on the dusty cave floor. He isn’t looking too good.

“Tom? Tom?” She asks worriedly, “Please wake up, it’s me.”

Tom slowly starts to regain consciousness, he looks at her lazily.

“I…I don’t think I’m going to last much longer.” He confesses, and tries to stand on his feet.

The cave entrance opens roughly, pebbles clatter onto the floor. The two scramble to hide in the small space, but it’s in vain.

The ‘scorpion’ is back, baseball bat in hand. His blonde bang wavers in the cool night breeze, and his chest heaves with anger.

“What the FUCK?” He seethes, “why the fuck are you with MY property?”

His attention is focused on Tom, who tries to scurry away. He gets only a few feet, as Derek saunters over to him. Derek swings and smashes Tom’s left hand with the bat. Everyone in the room can hear the crunch of his delicate bones. Tom squeals in pain, recoiling his hand to his chest. He looks up at Derek with raw fear.

Derek scoffs, “Get out… GET OUT!”

Tom scrambles to his feet, and looks at his fellow captive. She’s standing near the ‘table’, but on the wrong side to try and make a run for the entrance.

“Don’t look at her, you fucking weasel. Get out of this fucking hole in the ground before I change my mind.” Derek snaps, as he turns his attention to her.

Tom silently sobs, and he uses his unbroken hand to push the cave entrance open. Fleeing into the open desert.

Derek smirks down at her, he holds his bat threateningly over his shoulder. He sees her tears pour down her cheeks, and takes note of her worried expression. But she’s obviously not looking at Derek, her attention is focused on the cave entry…on Tom. Derek can feel something rising in him, a childlike jealousy that makes his words catch in the back of his throat.

“How sweet,” Derek hisses, “Don’t cry, that idiot is getting off so much easier than you are.”

His words obviously do little to comfort her, in fact they make her feel even worse. She refocuses her attention onto her captor. Glaring at him, trying not to give away how terrified she is. He pulls out a pack of expensive cigarettes from his coat pocket, and bites the butt of a cigarette into his mouth. Never moving his bat from his shoulder. He shoves the pack back into his pocket, and lights the small stick.

Derek takes a long drag, and blows the smoke into her face. To his surprise she doesn’t cough, she doesn’t try to move her way out of the smoke cloud. She just looks at the cave floor, at the pebbles, inhaling the secondhand smoke.

“You’re…very oblivious, you know that?” He beguiles. “ I bet that’s how those freaks from the auction got you there, I bet you didn’t even see them. They just grabbed you, before you could even notice. You’re kinda…dumb.” He flicks some of the ash onto her hair.

“You didn’t even see me following you to this cave. I mean, you practically invited me in.” He laughs sardonically, and she can see the rage wash over his features in an instant, “to this disgusting hole in the ground, with your weasel of a boyfriend. Did you let him take your virginity? Just so I wouldn’t get what I’m owed?”

She looks puzzled for a second, he can’t really mean Tom? The man looks like he’s four steps away from dying of thirst. Exerting any energy on something like that feels more than pointless. She looks back into his eyes, and knows he expects an answer.

“What?” She asks exasperatedly, “No, he-we didn’t do anything.”

Derek doesn’t say anything, but his features soften just a little. He flicks more ash onto her, and can see her eyeing his cigarette. He smirks.

“You want one?” He beguiles again. His voice is sickly sweet, yet obviously filled with venom.

Despite every fiber of her being screaming no, she reaches out for the new cigarette Derek lit just for her, before she can grasp it he jerks it away from her slightly.

“Ah, ah, two rules: You have to finish all of it, and if I even think that you’re going to try and burn me, I will bash your skull into the floor. Are we clear?” He grins, ear to ear. It’s still not enough to turn her away from the comfort of a cigarette. She nods her head, but it’s obvious he wants a verbal answer.

“Yes.” She says dejectedly. Reaching again for the cigarette, but he pulls it just out of reach from her again.

“Yes, what?” Derek arches his brow as he asks.

She can’t tell what he wants her to tack on. She’s not a mind reader, and even if she were, Derek would still be a challenge.

“Yes please, sir.” She’s mortified, more-so when that creepy look washes over his face. He reaches the cigarette back out, and she’s finally able to take it from him.

“Wow!” He chimes, “that was very well behaved of you.”

She takes a long drags off her cigarette, eyeing Derek closely. She tries to keep the cigarette pointed away from him at all times.

“Hmmm..” he hums, reaching out to tossle her hair like an animal, “look at you…I found you. When the third day came, and I couldn’t find you, I seriously thought you escaped me. I think I gave you way too much credit.”

“What are you going to do to me?” She quivers, and she can see rage wash over his features again.

His harsh slap echoes off the cave walls and leaves a stinging patch on her cheek. She looks up at him pathetically.

“Don’t fucking talk unless I want you to, bitch.” He seethes. She takes the last puff of her cigarette and puts it out on the cave floor.

“Hmm. Have another.” He takes the pack from his pocket and lights another. Holding it to her lips this time.

“It wasn’t a question.” He warns, taking note of her hesitance. She immediately puts the cigarette into her mouth, grateful he gave her any warning at all.

“Finish it without taking it out of your mouth.” Derek chuckles. He pats her stinging cheek a little too roughly.

She holds it in the corner of her mouth and tries to only inhale oxygen through her nose. She’s significantly slower at smoking it this time, and Derek is beginning to grow impatient.

“Come on! Hurry up. There’s like…6 more in here!” He yells, and taps his bat threateningly against the cave floor.

She takes deeper inhales, and finishes the rest in under a minute. Before she can take it out of her mouth, Derek nabs the cigarette from her.

“Give me your hand…” he says impatiently, “or I’ll break it, just like I did to him.”

Derek rests the bat behind him. She puts out her hand for him, and watches in horror as he presses the lit cigarette butt into her skin. She screams in pain and tries to jerk away, but his firm grasp keeps her in place. Her skin sears and blisters against the ash until it’s finally put out. She shakily takes her hand back and looks at the damage. The skin is red, puffy in some parts and blistering in others.

“More.” He says curtly. Handing her two cigarettes at once.

She looks at Derek, bewildered. She can’t tell if he wants her to say anything.

“May I speak, please?” She asks quietly, swallowing every last ounce of dignity she has left.

His face lights up, “ Only because you’re being so good for me.” She curses herself for the way her heart flutters at his praise.

“Please, no more, it’s starting to irritate my cut on my…tongue..” She trails off, realizing as soon as the words leave her mouth that he’s not going to take any pity on her. As if he could ever feel empathy for anyone.

“Aww, it hurts?” Derek mocks, “Don’t you know what the word all means? Or are you that stupid?”

She can only look at the ground in response.

“Show it to me, now.” Derek demands.

She looks up at him pathetically, and he revels in it. She opens her mouth and slowly shows him the scab beginning to form. It’s a grotesque, painful, permanent, reminder of what he had done to her in the open desert. Derek runs his thumb over the healing wound, she whines in pain, but she dares not to move away from him.

“Haha, you’ve still got that pathetic look all over your face.” He gleams, “now take these fucking cigarettes, my hand is getting tired.”

She takes them from him, and puts them in her mouth for him to light. He reminds her not to use her hands again. Her strategy for inhaling oxygen is ruined by the second cigarette.

She lets out an exasperated cough as she finishes the first quarter of the two cigarettes.

“You’re lucky I’m even letting you smoke these. Do you know how expensive these are? I bet you couldn’t even afford them on your own.” Derek sighs.

The insult cuts a little bit deeper than it should. Obviously Derek had to be from money. He literally bought her in an auction, but being all but called poor by this sick freak really stung. He was expecting a ‘thank you’. She could read it all over his face, and in the way that he eased just a bit of pressure off his bat. Ready to swing it again.

“Thank you.” she mumbles, trying to keep the cigarettes pressed between her lips as she says it. She gags on the thick smoke again as it billows from her mouth and nose.

“Aww, you’re such a good girl,” he cooes, “but I guess the dumb ones are always the best behaved.”

Her loud coughs fill the room, and she accidentally lets a cigarette slip from her lips. Derek rewards her with another painful slap, it echos off the cave walls. He puts the cigarette back in her mouth.

“Thank you.” She says passively.

Derek laughs snidely. Even standing over her as she kneels on the floor is enough of a power trip for him. But he barely has to do any work, and she was already using her manners for him. It makes his cock twitch to think about it. He watches intently as she chokes down the last of the cigarettes.

“Hand.” He says, jutting his open palm, and putting the bat behind himself again. She screws her eyes shut and she reaches her burnt hand to him, along with the cigarette butts.

“Beg me to stop. Cry for me.” He grins.

He doesn’t have to ask twice. He probably doesn’t have to ask at all. She looks up at him, fearful of his next move.

“Please, please stop. I’m begging you, please have mercy on me. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please, please don’t burn me again. I-it hurts so much, I’m begging you, please.” She chokes out. Her tears fall in puddles onto the dry floor. She tries to never break eye contact with him.

“Haha!” He cackles, loosening his grip just a bit, “You’re good at that! Just like when I fucked your throat. Where’d you learn how to do that?”

“You…” She whispers, her voice quivers.

“Aww, you’re kinda cute.” He cooes, but his hand re-tightens its grip, and he thrusts the cigarettes on to her skin again. They sear the same spot on her hand, but are put out much quicker. She wails in pain, almost doubling over onto her other hand. There’s black marks on her skin, and she can’t tell if it’s charred flesh or ash from her cigarettes. When she examines it, she can see where parts of her skin are almost melting together. Shallow craters form in her flesh, it almost looks fake.

“Please stop!” She cries, “please, I’ll do anything!”

“Quiet.” He grumbles and flicks the cigarette butts across the cave.

“I’m bored now.” Derek sighs, his hands return to his baseball bat, “Get on that…table thing.”

She gets onto the table, it’s hard and shockingly cold. She sits and suddenly feels a slight jab on her stomach. The knife! She had almost forgotten it, she prays Derek can’t see its wavy outline in her shirt.

But he can, his eyes immediately move to it.

“Aw….what do you have there?” He cooes, and quickly snatches the knife before she has any time to react.

“What…What the FUCK!” He growls. Derek shoves her down into a lying position on the stone table. The force he exerts whacks her head against the table, and disorients her for a moment.

He holds the knife in front of her accusingly.

“Did you think you were gonna’ stab me?” Derek cackles, “You are such a bitch! Where were you going to stab me, you little slut?”

“I wasn’t!” She lies, sobbing at the knife that is now pressed against her throat. She’s almost unable to form a coherent sentence with the way her head is spinning.

His smirk is full of malice as he presses the tip of the blade into her skin. Her flesh bends at the slight force, and eventually spreads itself around the very tip of the blade.

She whimpers at the stinging sensation. Derek’s silence is telling, his lustful gaze is even louder.

“Please,” she sobs, “don’t kill me. I swear, I wasn’t going to stab you.”

Derek eases up the pressure of the knife, but doesn’t remove it from her neck. He uses his freehand to lift up her thin tank top, exposing her breasts to the cold cave air. But she doesn’t have time to think about how embarrassing this is, she’s still so focused on groveling.

“I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you,” She whimpers, “please, please forgive me.”

Derek jerks the knife away, now aiming at the center of her chest. His grin is evil, and spreads almost from ear to ear.

“Liar.” He says flatly, as he drives the blade into her skin, not deep enough to be a stab, just enough to slice through her skin. A pained scream erupts from her lips and her whole body tenses. Derek grabs a fistful of her hair and forces her to watch as he slices her.

At first his cuts seem unplanned and uncoordinated. He moves the knife around roughly, and each time he lifts and pierces her skin again it somehow hurts more. The cuts aren’t shallow, but only some are deep enough to warrant stitches. Blood oozes from each wound and smears across her chest.

“Stop bleeding everywhere, you’re messing me up.” Derek seethes.

She can only whine loudly in response. Any words would just come out as a broken, jumbled mess.

Derek finally sets the knife down, and takes a moment to appreciate his handiwork. He watches how her tears roll down her cheeks, and down her neck.

“Look. Do you know what that says?” He asks sweetly, as if he were teaching a child to read. His sudden change in demeanor almost gives her whiplash.

She shakes her head no, and Derek whips out his phone and takes a picture of her cuts. The flash of his camera is bright and feels almost blinding to her. He turns his phone around proudly.

She squints her eyes to look at the picture, but doesn’t even see the cuts at first. Tears well up in her eyes as she realizes he’s one of the only people that have ever seen her like this. Definitely the only person to have a picture of it.

“What does it say, can you not read?” He beguiles, and underneath his feigned sweetness is a sickening amount of arousal.

While she most definitely can read, the blood smeared across her chest and oozing from her cuts is not making it very easy. But after staring at it for a minute she’s able to make it out.

‘Property Of Derek Goffard.’

“No..” she chokes out a heavy sob. This sick fuck mutilated her, carved his name into her. If she even survived this long enough to get a partner, what were they going to say when they saw that?

“Now, everybody will always know you belong to me.” Derek hums. He delicately rests a hand on the open wounds at first. His hand squelches against the blood, and it coats his palm. He brings it up to his face to inspect it.

Tears stream down her face violently as she watches him lick her blood off his palm.

“Stop, stop, stop.” She repeats. Her head shakes no, and he lowers his hand to her face.

“Clean it.” He says coldly, his eyes half lidded in boredom.

“Fuck you!” She sobs, and tries to push herself up to smack his hand away.

She misses his hand and instead collides with his shoulder, he feels much more muscular than he appears. Especially with his slightly oversized coat hiding his arm.

“Fucking bitch!” Derek yaps, he’s unfazed by the hit, only upset that she’s disobeying him. He chuckles a little, out of a weird mix of anger, pity, and egocentrism.

“Aww, are you dehydrated or something? Did I not give you enough water? I didn’t even feel that.” He smiles. He thrusts his fingers to her lips.

“Drink up.” He cooes. He can feel the power rushing to his head.

She can’t hold back any sobs, even though she knows it’s only exciting him more.

She sticks out her tongue to lick her blood from his fingers. She wraps her lips around them, and sucks them clean.

“Better?” He feigns, and wipes the spit on his fingers onto her face.

Obviously it isn’t, blood can’t rehydrate her, but she feels the need to nod her head so he doesn’t make her drink more of it.

“Please, let me go.” She begs, even though it’s pointless. She hopes he will leave her like their last encounter.

“Shut up. You have something that belongs to me.” Derek barks, and slaps her across her face once more .

He eyes her crotch, covered by those uncomfortable grey boxer briefs. She immediately feels self conscious of his gaze and presses her legs together. Only drawing his attention to it more.

He waves the knife around threateningly, “Hmm, spread them.”

She violently shakes her head in disapproval, “No, no, please.”

Without a second thought he aggressively stabs her thigh. It goes all the way in, up to the hilt. A broken scream escapes her lips, as she feels the knife tear through her skin, fat and muscle.

“Fuck!” She cries out, “you fucking bastard!”

Pain explodes behind her eyes, it feels like every single nerve is on fire. It makes her dry heave, and curl up defensively. He’s pleased with the way she cowers at his hands. He’s not even mad she cursed at him, rather disrespectfully. He’s only enamored by her reaction. Derek taps the end of the knife with his fingers, and chuckles at her reaction. Her pain coated whimpers flood the cave.

“Do it, or I’ll stab you again.” He orders, and she can tell he’s more than happy to do it again.

With teary eyes she slowly spreads her shaking thighs apart. The movement alone makes her feel like she’s being stabbed again.

“Please don’t do this.” She begs.

Derek reaches out and slides his finger along the rough cotton fabric, right against her folds. It feels scratchy against her and she whimpers in discomfort.

“Stop. Please don’t, please don’t touch me.” She sobs quietly. She tries to stop herself from jerking away from him. Knowing it will just make him more volatile, and irritate the knife sticking out of her leg.

Derek again finds himself internally surprised. He usually would feel much more upset with her insubordination.

“Fuck,” he gruffs, his voice is sticky with lust, “I can’t even focus on being mad at you with all those cute noises you’re making.”

“Does your leg hurt?” He asks. His fake-sweet voice makes her stomach churn. He puts his hand on the handle of the knife.

Before she can give any response he tears the knife out of her leg. Blood that once slowly seeped from her wound now pours onto the cave table.

The scream that follows is inhuman, if Derek hadn’t seen her mouth open he could’ve sworn it was a wild animal outside. She places her hand over the wound quickly. She tries to apply as much pressure as possible, but her blood seeps from between her fingers.

“Fuck. Fuck. I’m,” She pauses, “I’m gonna’ die.”

She can feel herself becoming lightheaded from the blood loss. She feels like she barely has the energy to cry, and her sobs just come out as a broken, pained groan.

“I’m going to die.” She weeps. After she had made it so far. Surviving so much in these short three days, she’s really just going to die in this dank cave.

Derek can’t help but let out a genuine laugh. The kind of laugh that makes his stomach start to hurt. He almost doubles over and cackles on the cave floor.

“Haha, oh my god. No, you’re not going to die.” He removes his bandana, and finds a long, straight piece of rock on the floor. “I’m not even close to done with you yet.”

He’s almost purring. The sight of her blood is so arousing for him, it’s distracting. Derek slides his bandana around the fat of her thigh and uses the rock to make a makeshift tourniquet. The pouring of blood slows to a slight trickle. His sudden concern for her life, even if it’s for purely selfish reasons, is almost brain-washing. Accompanied by how light-headed, and out of it she feels, it seems he's put her under a spell.

“Thank you.” She fawns, and he can tell her words are sincere.

Derek doesn't reply, and he doesn’t really care. He’s too focused on how her blood seems to sparkle in the dim lighting. He delves his fingers into the pools of it on the table. He raises his hand to his mouth to again lick the mess off. She knows his preoccupation with her blood is a horrific omen, but it still disgustingly makes her excited that he enjoys such an intimate part of her.

Derek runs his index finger over her stab wound. She hisses through her teeth at the stinging sensation he’s reawakening. She tries to stifle a cry as he pushes the tip of his finger into the wound.

“Don’t be quiet now,” he flashes a devious grin at her, “I want to hear you scream.”

He pushes his finger deeper into her battered leg. She wails at the sudden intrusion. It burns her skin and the original pain is amplified by his sadistic actions. She’s unable to hold back any whines.

“Please?” She begs pathetically.

She feels almost winded, and she can feel how flushed her face is. Despite every other part of her body feeling cold, like she wasn’t even attached to it anymore. She can feel her head becoming fuzzier, and it lolls to the side as she slips into a gentle unconsciousness.

Derek’s rough tapping on her cheek startled her from her peaceful daze.

“Hey! Hey, what’s your problem?” Derek asks anxiously. In her drained state she can almost convince herself he is worried about her. But deep inside herself, she knows he sees her as an object. Her life has no real meaning to him.

“Are you seriously fucking dying? Already?” Derek barks, lashing out like a small child about to throw a tantrum. She can make out the frustration all over his face. He looks like he’s shaking from how angry he is.

“No! I’m alive.” She said worriedly, her speech sounds distorted, cloudy, it feels almost delayed.

His hand flies to her waist, and he leans over her figure. The strands of his blonde hair tickle the skin of her face.

“You don’t get to die until I want you to.” He whispers to her.

“Dumb bitches like you, you don’t want to have to think for yourself. It’s so much easier to let me choose for you. Isn��t that right?” Derek asks, his hand moves up to caress her cheek.

The foggy part of her brain is screaming at her reminding her how degrading this is. She’s so disoriented though, and has been stuck in fight or flight since he brought her here. It feels good to let go.

“I…yes. I don’t want to choose anymore.” She mumbles, her throat gets tight. If she had any tears left, they’d be pooling at the corners of her eyes.

“Beg. Beg me to own you. Beg me to let you be the dumb bitch you are.” Derek says excitedly, his hand moves from her cheek to his cock. It’s rock hard and throbs every time he catches a glimpse of the ‘memories’ he’s inflicted on her.

“Please,” she whines, and she can hear him unzip his pants, “don’t make me think anymore. Please just let me be dumb. Please just don’t make me think, and don’t kill me.”

Derek revels in the way her words seem to fall from her lips. They’re unplanned, unfiltered and so pathetic. He wonders if she knows just how pathetic she’s being.

In a moment that feels too fast for her, his pants are off. Discarded onto the cold cave floor. He yanks her upwards, so that only her head lays off the dirt table. She groans at the sudden movement. He positions her head between his thighs, his long erection rests gently on her face.

She gets the memo and parts her lips. Derek impatiently presses his length into her mouth. It doesn’t take long for the tip to fill up her mouth, then to fill up her throat. She feels how she’s struggling for air, but can’t manage to even tap him and silently beg him for a breath.

“I think it’d be nice to see you die on my cock. Should I suffocate you?” Derek purrs, finally thrusting the entirety of his cock down her throat.

She’s too weak to fight back, too scared to bite him. The slow oxygen deprivation burns her lungs and she desperately gags on his cock for air. A particularly violent gag causes more spit to coat the length of his cock. His hands twist around her neck into a choke hold, her throat was already tight but when he thrusts again the added pressure draws a moan from his lips.

It’s sloppy, needy, and loud. Even in her delirious state, she recognizes it. She can even recognize the disgust she feels when it makes her ache for him. His thrusts are shallow, testing how tight the addition of his hands is. They finally settle into a pace, and seeing her face turn to a shade of bright red excites him more.

“Look at me.” He orders.

She opens her eyes, and can’t hide the lustful look on her face. All her pain feels mellowed, she can only focus on the lack of oxygen, and wanting him to feel good.

“You are nothing.” He moans. “You’re such a stupid cunt.”

Spit drips from the corners of her mouth and sticks stray hairs to her face. Derek uses his grip to slide her head up and down his cock. The saliva her gag reflex is producing creates a thick coating of lubrication. Derek shudders as he lowers her down on it again. His thrusts squelch, she makes a lewd noise every time he rests too deep for too long. The choking sends vibrations up his length. He lowers her again, painfully slow. She can feel every last bit of oxygen escaping her again.

She gasps raggedly, the color slowly comes back to her face and she pants, and gazes up at him. The light in her eyes seems dimmer. She looks like a puppet, brainwashed, broken.

“Good girl.” He pants. He seems pleased, but his violent aura never dissipates.

“Thank you.” She says slavishly. Internally fighting to stay on his ‘good side’.

He smirks coldly, and moves away from her head, down to her battered thigh. He lets his dick slap against her open wound. It becomes coated in blood, and splatters droplets over the pair.

Derek has the urge to press his cock into the open wound. To listen to her scream as he rips it open wider around his painful erection. His fun however, it can’t be over yet. Irritating a wound like that with something as girthy as his cock would mean a much quicker death. He was surprised that fingering it hadn’t killed her, he couldn’t really afford to take more chances.

Against his better judgment he presses the tip against it, just a bit. The wound is barely affected by the new pressure. She hisses, but the pain feels so much duller than it did previously.

“No, not my leg, please.” She whines desperately.

Derek cackles, “What happened to not thinking anymore? You told me I get to choose.”

He applies more pressure to her pained leg, and she curses at the awful sensation.

“Aw, does it hurt? Should I just rape you instead?” He asks rhetorically.

Her head is swimming. Neither option is in any way pleasant, but dying still feels worse. She can’t bring herself to suggest either. She weeps dryly, waiting for him to steal the decision from her.

“You don’t get to choose.” Derek says impatiently.

He tears a hole in the rough gray fabric that covers her sex. Embarrassment crashes over her, and so does a strong sense of fear. Derek pauses, and just stares at her. It makes her more uncomfortable than if he were to just say something. He’s studying her, as if she were some scientific experiment.

“Don’t look.” She whimpers, trying to muster the strength to cover herself.

“Stop fucking telling me what to do!” Derek shouts. His face has a tinge of red to it, and he’s shaking again. His blonde hair is disheveled and falls into his eyes.

He smacks her pussy, and watches the way it jiggles. It isn’t particularly rough, as though he’s still examining her. She still squeaks at his touch. She fights to keep her pleas back, not wanting to upset him further.

He giggles, “I just realized you’re all shaved, did that bastard from the auction shave you?”

She can’t help but wonder why he’s so jealous, why does he really care? What did any of it matter? She knows he wants an answer.

“No, I did it.” She pauses, “before.”

He seems pleased with her response.

“Aw, am I going to steal your virginity from someone?” He teases, and flicks her clit.

“From me you fucking asshole!” She weeps, and she can feel her tears returning. Every tear that falls is a silent plea to god.

Derek can’t help but laugh callously. His eyes wide with excitement at the resumption of her crying.

“This isn't fair, this isn’t fair..” She cries, mostly to herself.

He laughs again, watching her break was just so funny to him.

“That’s now how the world works.” He laughs, “fair, not fair, it doesn’t fucking matter. All that matters to you now is what I want. No one is going to save you. I’m gonna’ fuck you, and then I’m going to kill you.”

He ends his sentence by shoving two fingers into her opening. He slides them around, she’s barely lubricated so it doesn’t feel good. He roughly slides his fingers around, exploring her most vulnerable and private area.

“Please, please no more” She weeps.

Derek ignores her and starts to settle into a rhythmic pace. He slides his fingers as deep as they can go, and scissors them open. She can’t hold back a small moan that escapes her lips every time he opens them.

“You fucking slut. You’re getting wet from this?” Derek barks out a laugh.

“I, I…” she trails off, her mind hazy from fear, lust, and blood loss.

She mewls around his fingers, and a slickness starts to form as he begins to move at a much faster pace. Derek pulls out the knife again, and without warning begins to slice her non-stabbed leg. She screams in a mix of ecstasy and agony.

“Please, please stop. Please? I’m sorry, please no more.” She babbles incoherently. Her hands move to cover her eyes.

Her begging only excites him more, without warning he rips his fingers out. Replacing them with his large cock at her entrance.

“No! No, no!” She cries as she feels him begin to force his way into her walls.

“Shut up whore! I know you want it!” Derek laughs, barely pressing the tip in. “Oh fuck, beg me to rape you.”

“What?” She asks, bewildered.

“Do it, or I’ll fuck your leg and let you bleed out. That’ll hurt more than me killing you with that bat.”

He laughs and cups her face.

“Please, don’t fuck my leg.” She sobs

“You dumb bitch! Are you even Listening? You know what I said.” Derek spits.

“Please,” she has to force the words out of her mouth, “ Please rape me. Take my virginity, just not my leg? I’m begging you, please, I’m scared.”

He stills for a moment. Before she can feel any sense of relief or dread he shoves himself in farther. A broken scream falls from her lips, and blood coats the half of his cock that’s inside of her.

“You really are a virgin!” Derek gasps a laugh, and thrusts into her shallowly.

She closes her eyes and begins to dissociate. She tries to focus on something, anything but the way he feels inside of her. Derek presses harder and is able to fit most of himself in. He wraps his hand around her neck as he begins a long stroke. Derek’s hips snap forward, and the force makes her rock underneath him.

“I want to watch you cry.” Derek moans, and uses his free hand to seat hers away from her face.

He thrusts more, they’re sloppy and with no real rhythm. She wonders how this can even feel good for him.

“Derek, stop.” She chokes out.

Derek tightens his grip around her neck, and thrusts harder. Her juices cover his shaved pubic area. He’s gripping her throat so tightly she can make any noise, each thrust in feels like he’s squeezing her tighter.

The pain of her virgin hole being forced open is beginning to subside, thanks to the lubrication of her arousal and the blood coming from her.

“Stick out your tongue.” He commands, and through the haze of oxygen deprivation she obeys. Fearful of the punishment that would result from her insubordination.

“You,” he grunts as shoves himself as deep as possible, “you look so fucking stupid. You’re my dumb slut.”

His moans are breathy and loud. The lewd sounds of slapping skin and squelching echo off the cave walls. His grip loosens and she’s able to gasp in a large breath.

“Say it. Say you’re my dumb slut.” Derek groans.

Maybe it’s the throbbing pain in her head, the lack of oxygen or the blood loss. But she can’t stop herself from moaning. She feels a pit in her stomach begin to form.

“I’m your dumb slut!” The words fall out in between involuntary moans from her violent orgasm. They sound like they’re coming from someone else. She definitely couldn’t have just said that out loud.

“Fuck, did you just cum from this?” He groans as he feels her shudder around him. His thrusts become impatiently fast. His hand returns to her neck as he snaps in and out of her.

“Fuck, fuck I’m going to cum inside you.” Derek grunts.

She has no energy to beg him not to, she just lays there and feels Derek’s cock throbbing inside her. With a last, particularly deep, thrust he comes undone inside her. He shudders and breathes raggedly. His grip loosens around her throat and he pulls out. Their juices fall out unceremoniously onto the cave table. She whines at the sudden emptiness, and curses herself for subconsciously wanting him back inside.

“Get the fuck up.” He demands, and the reality of her situation sinks in. He grabs the once discarded bat off the floor. She musters the last of her energy to push herself off the table and into a kneeling position on the floor.

The stab wound and her chest wounds ache from the movement. She buries her face in her hands and sobs. She feels pathetic, sitting on the floor and not even trying to fight back. What is there to do, she can barely move.

“Hey, hey!” Derek’s fingers snapping pull her from her thoughts.

“He’s almost here, get ready.” Derek barks. She’s confused, who was coming?

The man in the dog-ish mask bursts through the door. He’s covered in blood, and without asking she knows exactly which captive it belongs to. The smell of Jack’s cigarettes makes her nauseous as he circles her slowly.

“You really want to keep it?” Jack asks. Before she can question, Derek sighs.

“Shut up and grab her!” Derek huffs, crossing his arms impatiently.

“No, please, just do it already.” She weeps as jack manhandles her. He throws her over his shoulder like she weighs nothing.

Derek strides up to her and pats her cheek roughly again.

“I don’t think I’m finished with you yet.” He says slyly.

Somehow, that makes her feel worse.

[farmhandler]

Ahhhh pls do Logan & cable attempting to bond, maybe over Wade??

There was supposed to be more bonding sjhskjhsa it's truly "there was an attempt" here

---

"You smoke?" Logan asked. He didn't know why he did, only that Wade's constant chatter about his latest job with Cable had involved several long monologues about the two of them "getting along".

He and Cable got along just fine.

"No," Cable said. He took the cigar Logan was holding and examined the label. "Expensive habit. Where I'm from, we don't make it a habit."

His tone said, you're all fucking idiots in this timeline.

They didn't not get along.

"Beats drinking myself to sleep," Logan said. "Can't exactly get cancer. But fine, just thought I'd offer. Where's Wade?"

"He told me he was going to find you."

Logan thought about how Wade had told him that exact same thing and shook his head. They were outside the X-Force base of operations, after hours, so he lit up.

"He'll find us when he gets bored of being an asspain," Logan said around his cigar. He pulled out his phone and tapped on it.

where the fuck are you, he texted Wade.

“What have I done to deserve your ire?” Cable said, which was exactly the kind of thing that earned said ire. Fucking prick.

Cable looked at him like he'd heard it. Logan forgot he was one of the telepaths around here that had zero qualms about abusing his powers to get what he wanted.

"You murdered Wade lately?" Logan said evenly. He pulled his cigar away and met Cable's eyes.

“Is that it? I see no point in stating the obvious, but since it seems you forgot, I will. We've both killed Wade. Multiple times.”

"You're awfully fucking comfortable making use of his inability to die." He took another puff and shifted to face Cable. "I read the mission reports shared by the X-Men."

"We make tactical, strategy-based decisions." Cable paused; probably reading Logan's fucking mind again. "No one under my command is thrown into unnecessary danger." He breathed out through his nose. "I don't need to explain myself to you. This is pointless."

"Wade can take it," Logan said. "Doesn't mean he should."

"What can I take?" Wade asked, popping up from seemingly nowhere. His mask was rolled up, and when he walked over, he laid an exaggerated, smeary kiss across Logan's cheek.

Then, probably because he wanted to piss Logan off, he tried to do the same to Cable. Logan was sure Cable would do their usual routine where he shoved him away, but he just sat there while Wade kissed his cheek.

Logan took a very, very long puff of his cigar while it happened.

"Well now it feels like cheating," Wade said, frowning. "You were supposed to stop me."

"I don't see why I should, considering that evidently I don't make any attempts to stop you from doing what you want, whenever you want."

"Of fucking course," Logan muttered.

"This no longer feels like it's about me," Wade said. "Are you two talking about the mission from the other day? I told Cable I could handle it, and I did. Everyone in the building fucking died!"

"Including you," Cable said. He sounded pissed. "I gave you very clear instructions. Orders."

"Which you knew I wouldn't follow," Wade said blithely. "We have an understanding. You try to do things by your annoying little book and I ignore you. It works every time."

Meeting Cable's eyes, Logan felt maybe a little chastened hearing that. Domino walked out calling Wade's name, and Wade skipped towards her.

"Be right back!" he called. "Don't fight over me until I am!"

"I don’t need to read your thoughts to hear how often you assume the worst of me,” Cable said to Logan.

"You're...yeah, you're fucking right," Logan admitted. "Sorry."

Cable looked at him for a while and then sighed.

"I don't make much of an effort either." He crossed his arms and pulled from his pack, of all things, lip balm. "I don't go out of my way to get Wade hurt. But in many ways, his skills are unmatched."

"I know. And I know you care about him. Same way I care about him," Logan said. He thought back to Wade's kiss on his cheek. He chuckled. "Maybe not the same way."

Cable's lips lifted into the closest thing to a smile Logan had possibly ever seen on him.

[lemotmo]

Yeah please just let it be for a reason. Let it matter.

Q. So you believe that it won't actually be about Bobby but will be about Buck or someone else instead? Tim and Oliver both said the Buddie storyline is on pause for the two parter so I don't have faith at all that it will be something we've not already predicted or pretty much seen, the leaked funeral stuff.

A. Okay I have several asks from people saying Oliver and Tim said the Buddie storyline was paused for the two part event. I don't know where that came from because I don't recall reading that anywhere. So many people are saying it though that I'm guessing I just missed it somehow? Unfortunately I think it's going to be exactly what we all think it's going to be. Bobby is dead but not really dead and he has to figure out how to make people aware he's not dead and then they have to rescue him before he really does suffocate and die. I'm not expecting anything different from that. The problem with that though is that makes this two part event absolutely irrelevant and pointless in the end. That's my problem with it. They've done such a good job of weaving the Buddie storyline into every episode for the back half of the season so far and pausing it to for a storyline that will end up not mattering at all, is annoying as fuck. That's my problem. Doing all of this and devoting this much screen time to a two part event, and the aftermath today's episode will also cause, all for none of it to matter in the end is mind bogglingly stupid. To pause an actual storyline in favor of what would amount to nothing but a gimmick in the end is ridiculous. That's what bothers me. Bobby 'dies' or almost dies multiple times a season and it has never ended up mattering or changing anything long term. It's a storyline they tell every single season and it never ends up being anything. So I cannot get excited about these kinds of episodes. Literally no one believes he's actually dying. So why are we here? Yes the acting will be good. Yes the episode will be enjoyable in the moment, but once it's over it will have been for nothing. I don't want Bobby dead. I don't, but doing this multiple times a season, at the expense of genuine character storylines, all for it to amount to nothing in the end is insane. That's all I'm saying. Make it mean something. Make it have a purpose of some kind.

Thank you Nonny!

Okay, I'm first just going to copy/paste (italics) what I sent earlier to Ali in our personal conversation. That way I don't have to type it all again. 😋

Well... I'm still living in Buck nde spec land I'm afraid.🤭I refuse to believe that the whole Bobby 'fake' dying is real. I still think it might all be a 'red herring'.

I'm probably horribly wrong🤷‍♀️, but I still feel there is something bigger they are hiding. I am not to be deterred. 🤣 They didn't really say that the Buddie storyline was paused. It was more a general 'the personal storylines' will be put on hold during this emergency. At least, that is what I saw in one of the interviews.

But that doesn't mean they can't show us Eddie's reaction to the 118 being in danger and/or it doesn't mean the Bobby 'fake' death storyline is actually happening.

I could have done without Tommy though. Enough is enough at some point. 🙄 Now, am I excited about the episode? No, not as much as I probably should be. Because there is indeed the possibility that all of the 'boring and obvious' theories will be true.

But I'm still kinda curious and in disbelief that these theories will be true. I still think they might possibly surprise us in a good way.

Then again... you know me, forever the optimist.😋 It might all turn out to be wishful thinking from my side. But I'll worry about that after I've seen the episode tomorrow morning.

For now? I am still curious to see what is going to happen. 🤷‍♀️

For those of you who don't know about my Buck nde spec, go to this Ali post. I added all the relevant links in my answer to this ask. Anyway yeah... I'm not sold on the whole Bobby dying storyline at all. If they do this so soon after another Bobby almost dying storyline? And with all those 'leaks' of the funeral out there? It would be the most boring anti-climactic ending to that episode. Even if it was only a 'fake' death.

Seems that all the journalists got screeners, but were not allowed to post or talk about it at all on social media. I don't even think the 'emoji' journalist posted her usual emojis for us to guess what they mean. This while the entire 'fake' funeral was spread out over Twitter and other social media with the journalists commenting on it. Everyone interested in 911 saw it. I'm sorry... I'm not buying it. 🤷‍♀️ I don't live in delulu-land, don't worry. 🤣 Both feet are firmly on the ground. I'm highly aware that I might be severly disappointed tomorrow morning after I've seen the episode. But I'm also prepared to be happily surprised.😋

¯\(ツ)/¯

Heads up! For anyone who is giving me the shifty eyes for reposting Ali's updates instead of reblogging. Read this.

Remember, no hate in comments, reblogs or inboxes. Let's keep it civil and respectful. Thank you.

If you are interested in more of Ali’s posts, you can find all of her posts so far under the tag: anonymous blog I love.

[liquid-bonhomme]

Okay, to the anon who sent me the breakdown of what happened to Liquid Lily:

Thank you for the write up. I do appreciate you filling me in. But I'm going to use this as a chance to address the ground rules of how we address Courtney going forwards on this blog.

Let me be perfectly clear here:

Courtney's behavior as of late has been very upsetting. To me, to many of you, yes. I have very much privately expressed my own thoughts, feelings and frustrations on the matter in more private settings. There's no sneaky shade here, everything I've said I'd be more than willing to say to her face. I'll send her screenshots myself of everything I've said if she so requests it. I'm not here to gossip and bitch and not stand by it when confronted.

And Courtney on the off chance you're reading this, on the off chance you give a shit what I think of you and want to hash it out, my DMs are still as open to you as they have ever been. I'm not going to be brow-beaten because you don't agree with my perspective on things, I'm not interested in a pointless back and forth, but any concern you have with my presence in this cursed space I am always willing to hear you out on. The offer will always be there if you want me to signal boost something you want out there, of what little I can. It doesn't have to be a whole thing.

I'm also not going to wag my finger and tisk tisk on anyone else sharing their thoughts on Courtney's behavior. Nor do I want anyone to think I'm implying Courtney deserves to be coddled and babied because she's too fragile to handle people criticizing her.

With all that said. . .

Courtney will remain a no-poop-touching subject here on this blog. Obviously, she exists, bring her up when relevant, but we are going to refrain from name-calling and casting judgment. We are not making jokes now at Courtney's expense. We are not psychoanalizing her, speculating, making a circus side show. I will bring her up or respond to asks aboit her if I feel it's appropriate, relevant, or necessary.

Here's the thing gents:

Courtney and I have had some very similar life experiences. I'm not going to pretend to know her whole truth or suggest I'm an authority on her because of that, but. I know for me, having gone through what I did didn't help me become the most pleasant person on God's green earth either.

I never intended to hurt anyone, but I did. I have. I am very aware I have the capacity to do so again if I don't keep myself in check. I take full responsibility for the ways I have absolutely set bonds with friends, family and lovers on fire before. I hate it, I feel the full weight of that guilt to this day, but it's better to accept it and do what I have to to be better than pretend I'm a Saint. I've been told by people in flesh space and online how much they appreciate how "level-headed" I am. There isn't any kind of trickery afoot, I learned the hard way one too many times the cost of me not managing myself appropriately. I've put in the work to learn, and even then it's not like there's zero chance I won't eat shit and have a public meltdown caught in 4k. I hope that doesn't happen, lord knows I'm doing what I can to mitigate that risk-- but if it does all I can do is take the L and try to do what I can to fix it. I'm always hopeful the people in my life will forgive me-- and I'm thankful most do. But some don't, and I understand why. Some do, but it's better for both of us if we give each other a wide birth. Being a big boy do be like that sometimes.

And to be frank, if my abuser became an internet lolcow you couldn't fucking pay me to engage or come forwards. All of Lily's known victims are much braver than me. There's always going to be this extremely isolating disconnect when it comes to passive observers engaging with your abusers shitty behavior and you. The deep, crippling, profound panic and imminent sense of heightened danger is never going to feel the same. You might as well be on a different fucking planet, no matter how empathetic or accommodating they are. I can all but 100% garentee the histrionic way I'd be acting wouldn't paint me in a flattering light either.

I've heard some concerning information on some of the things that might be going on in Courtney's life right now. I trust the source it came from but have no way to verify if it's true. If Courtney publically confirms it I'll consider adding my two cents, having had lots of experience with what may be going on. Not that it justifies her actions, again, just very much contextualizes it.

I will say, I do think the sentiment of Courtney's frustration is more than valid-- I just think she made a lot of very poor decisions in who she directed those feelings at, then escalated things far beyond reason. I also empathize with her frustration over everyone and their mom telling her to log off because she's having an episode. I can tell you from my experience I would not respond well to anyone but a very close, trusted person in my life telling me that regardless of whether or not it was true. I've also seen plenty of OTHER dickweeds call Courtney "damaged goods" and the like all over the internet so I really don't blame her for shadowboxing ghosts now over it. You know who you are.

Being a victim doesn't make you incapable of harm or absolve you of personal responsibility. Lily's the fucking poster child for that.

The thing is, within reason, I believe in giving people a healthy amount of space to be messy bitches. Glass houses. It's one thing for me to comment on Courtney somewhere where there's little to no chance people will see it without context, it's totally different for me to put it out there in a space anyone can see it without knowing what went down.

Anon, I'm not scolding you, but I'm going to ask you be careful where and how you describe Courtney in the future publically. The last thing she needs is for more people to treat her like her trauma isn't relevant-- and unfortunately people routinely do expect victims to be perfect little angels. I'm not going to risk putting Courtney in the line of fire for that kind of behavior.

Thank you for your understanding.

[rafeandonlyrafe]

the very first night

words: 700

warnings: toxic work environment

you’re rushing as quickly as you can, balancing two drink carriers, filled with coffee, some piping hot, others iced. you took everyones orders before you left the office, knowing if you didn’t get back quickly, before the ice had melted is what one of the bosses has said, that you would get in trouble. you were already running behind, the starbucks being incredibly busy.

you blame your nerves for not looking where you’re going. you briefly think that you’ve walked into a telephone pole, or maybe a street sign, but you realize mid fall it’s a hard body. you land on the ground, the drinks flying out of your arms, raining down on you in a mix of espresso and chocolate.

“fuck!” the figure shouts. somehow you missed getting any of your coffee on him, but his own coffee did spill a bit on his shirt, ruining the crisp white button down.

“i’m so sorry, i wasn’t looking i-” you can’t even finish your sentence as you let out a sob. the stress of your internship, mixing with his mishap, has you unable to hold back tears. 

“are you hurt?” the man bends down, and you get a real look at him through your tears. he’s handsome, probably close in age to yourself, with sandy blonde hair falling on either side of his forehead.

you shake your head no, but let out another sob, and it looks like he doesn’t believe you, giving a scan over your body. 

“i’m not mad.” he says, grabbing some of the coffee cups that now litter the ground, attempting to put them back in the carrier, but you know it’s pointless. too much time has passed and too much has spilled. you’re no doubt going to be fired from your internship.

“it’s not that.” you shake your head, trying to fling some of the coffee off your clothes. pointless. “that-” you have to take a deep breath to prevent yourself from crying again. “that was all for work. i’m an intern and they’re going to fire me now.” 

the man frowns, brows creasing together. “they’re going to fire you for an accident?” he asks, and you just nod. you know they will. they were a fast paced company, and don’t accept mistakes.

“i’m sorry.” the man sighs, then sticks out his hand. “i’m rafe.” “y/n.” you mutter his name, shaking his hand. you move to your feet, rafe rising with you. you look down out your outfit, brown splotches all over your previously pink dress.

“what company is this that would fire an intern for not bringing coffee back quick enough?” rafe asks.

you tell him the name, starting to pick up the cups to throw them in the trash. no point even going back now. you don’t want to face anyone, looking like this.

the corners of rafes mouth fall down into a frown. he helps throw a couple of the cups into a nearby trash can, including his own. he doesn’t feel like drinking it anymore.

“sorry again about your shirt.” you say with a sigh.

“it’s really no problem.” the shirt looks expensive, but rafe also looks like the type of guy to be able to afford staining a nice shirt.

“well. time to go figure out what i’m going to do with my life now.” it’s not like you enjoyed interning at that company anyways, and you certainly don’t want to work there full time, but it was your plan for the summer until college starts.

“hey.” rafe stops you before you can walk away. “let me give you my number, yeah? you can let me know how it turns out and i know a lot of the businessmen in town. i can help you find a better internship.”

“really?” you squeak. “you’d do that for me?” 

“of course”

-- three months later --

“rafe!” you shout, running up to him. you hold your phone in your hand, and read the headline out loud “cameron enterprises buys local company.”

rafe just smirks. “mhm.” “you bought the company that fired me. i know it was you who convinced your dad.” “it’s a good business move.” rafe shrugs. you’re not entirely sure how true that is. the company certainly wasn’t a serious competitor.

“but that’s not why was it?” you ask.

“not at all.” rafe smiles full on now, pulling you into him, pressing a kiss against your lips. “as soon as i saw the prettiest girl i’ve ever seen sitting on the ground, crying and covered in coffee, i knew i would end that company.”

[anewnewcrest]

Lincoln Evans, somewhere on SimChan...

I can't fucking believe it! My best friend - practically my brother - picked all those bitches' feelings over me! ME! He doesn't want to move in with me, and told me that he's not "comfortable" with me hating women. What a pussy. He just pretends to be woke and weak so he can get laid! And my fucking sister still isn't giving me my money! She got some fake-ass girlie lawyer to explain to me that my father put my money in a trust fund that I can only touch when I'm thirty and have a stable job! As if my dad would do something stupid like that, I bet my mom and my sister put that idea in his head! At least I can get some money for living expenses out of it, but things would be easier if I had a roommate. Cleaning is stupid and pointless and I have to fix the pipes myself when they act up instead of making Kathryn do it! This is women's work! Why am I forced to act against my natural instincts! I really need a girlfriend!

guy.going.his.own.way I'm a plumber and that is not women's work!

mrlinc @ guy.going.his.own.way It's part of household chores that makes it women's work!!!!11!1 and it's fuckin gross and ur fucking gross too.

[itssomeonetofightfor]

Things I hate about part 2 of Cobra Kai (a rant if you will)

This is an absolute deconstruction of everything that was set up for the last 6 seasons!

Johnny and Daniel STILL fighting about idiocies instead of focusing on the absolute fucking mind fuck that has just been played on both their kids ( not blaming Tory by the way) . Robby is her boyfriend and the last I knew Johnny was aware of Sam and Tory's budding friendship. They decided to best do nothing for them except blame each other. YAY! Off to a good start.

Lets follow it up with the least efficient support system in the world for your captain. Apparently Robby is not allowed to be fucking devastated by the fact that the ONLY person that he trusts fully has abandoned him . Apparently they, and by they I mean Miguel and Sam ( who should know better by now) , in spite of hearing endless Johnny sob sories of how he left his child behind, decides to chide him and undermine him about how he doesn't deserve to be captain. Even though we have had to put up with all his girlfriend drama, INCLUDING him re- dislocating Robby's shoulder to get a win in season 1 because he was jealous. You want to be a leader? Prop him up! God knows he needs it after everything, but NOO lets make him feel less than. And please, when he asks you to back him up you stay silent. Thats the way! It doesn't help whem Sam piles on with half winded information. That is enough to get the rest of the team to demoralize him some more..

Hawk and Demetri becoming the most hypocritical and spineless duo of the season, reverting all the work done in previous seasons. They were annoying as all hell and I couldn't care less if they were there or not. If I was an athlete on their team I would rather withdraw...what a draaag. How they acted about Kenny was so ludicrous that I wanted to punch them in the face. They also acted as if it was only Robby's fault they were failing FUCK OFF!! AND FUCK MIT HAHA.

That's how the writers made me feel, undoing all the greatness that these characters once were. I loved Miguels struggles and Sams defiance of her father. I loved the picked kid Eli becoming Hawk. I even loved Demetri's neurotic insecurities maqueraded in a ball of sarcasm. But what the writers did this season is make everybody useless so that one common purpose could be reached...MIGUEL AND JOHNNY! It would be beautiful if it wasn't at the expense of every single character in the show.It was built up only to be flattened down at the end. That's what pisses me off.

Daniel has all but forgotten the he had a mentee once. Let's give him a pointless kiddnapping story only for him to be off balance and be obsessed about Miyagi ( who these writers should not be messing with btw).

Let's keep Robby off balance for most of the five episodes. Which became a fucking nonsensical plot point by the 1000th time he looked at at Tory.

Yes, Miguel shines as the glue and hope of Miyagi-do..the only one who can keep it together for everyone., and it would be fine IF it wasn't at the expense of everyone else performing down and out of character.

But ALAS!! His lightbulb moment comes only after Johnny assures him that he is is top dawg even if he alludes that he supports Robby ( must have missed it, but if you SAY so) and finally he starts giving Robby some encouragement.

Only then, they let Robby have his well earnt moment, not only with his protegeé Kenny but for himself. IT. IS. GLORIOUS! But then, they undo it the next day by returning his rival to the tournament just to swiftly kill him... why all this you ask? Well to set up the next rival. Who for? Yes you guessed it it's for Miguel using Sam as bait.

My question is why the writers went this way and now unfortunately, because the internet internets I know leaks.

 Why? Why kill Cobra Kai's captain in the most idiotic way.

Why make Robby seem like the most undisciplined and unfocused member of the team?

Why make Sam the most irrelevant party in this tournament (unless it has to do with next rival drama).

Why neither Sensei is there for their kids (Except Miguel of course, how silly of me).

Why keep Tory in Cobra Kai?

Because in one season they are going to deconstruct all of this for it to fit Johnny and Miguel winning together as father and son as it was always meant to ( nevermind his own son who he hasn't had a scene with, but they are going to gaslight you into thinking they did)  All in the name of unity and family. They have done all characters dirty, including Hawk,  Demetri, Devon, Kenny and lets not forget..lets get Daniel distracted with Mr. Miyagi ( and ruin his legacy in the process) so that there can only be the sole father and son combo for the win. Why else make a fake miscarriage about if not for them to be reignited in the fight for the win. Miguel and Johnny. Our heroes!! They will never take accountability or flack for anything. Just as fan service in media loves it. Fuck the overarching story.

Don't get me wrong, I love Miguel and Johnny, I just don't love how they want to get to their endgame.

[jayden-killer]

MIGUEL O'HARA AS YOUR BF

(expect this is a realistic version because i'm tired seeing silly versions of him, like IDGAF).

Miguel is the type of guy to observe surroundings around him (and also people). So he would watch you while you do things, any kind of things. You always feel his eyes on you, as if they are judging you.

He doesn't like PDA that much, not because he's against it or smth, he doesn't despite it either. He's just not used to affection so he would open up with you after a long, long time... He needs courage. Give him some time, and he'll start holding hands, brushing his thumb on your hand palm and maybe he'll even hug you.

That previous headcanon also counts with kisses.

In arguments he will let slip from his mouth mean things, how of much "he wished he'd never met you" or "how fucking useless you are". He has angry issues (ofc he has them, we saw that in the movie), he doesn't control himself. He doesn't mean that of course, anger clouds his mind.

He doesn't respect boundaries at all. If you want some time for yourself, then he will start putting pressure. "Why are you keeping distant from me? Did I do something? Don't do this, it's pointless".

But if he is the one wanting to have some time for him, OH BOY-he'll push you away and avoid you like plague until he's feeling better. If you try to make him feel better, he'll yell and throw a tantrum like a child.

Miguel is extremely jealous, to the point to make you avoid all of your male friends (if you have them). He doesn't accept any no for answer.

He's also the type of guy to project his insicurites and past trauma on you, making you feel small and self-concious.

His way to show how he loves you is giving you gifts, like expensive necklaces or bracelets and even cute things like your favourite flowers or a dress you'd like. He does it because he's not good in expressing his feelings out loud, neither with words.