#with a very specific lighting scheme

[eaglestcr]

.

[vamptizm]

GIRL YOU LOUD — p. bueckers

pairing: paige bueckers x gf!reader

synopsis: you’d been out for the first wings preseason game, sitting on that bench and looking like all of paige’s fantasies and dreams combined. teasing her, messing with her—driving her insane. but she’d get back at you.

warnings: nasty smut. switch!reader. switch!paige. fingering. munch!p. strap on sex (both receiving). praise. degradation. breeding kink. calling paige daddy like twice. edging.

word count: 12.9k

♯┆taglist (open) .ᐟ ★ @brenwritesss @bueckersbitch @ekisokay @paige05bby @sierrale8ne @ohmybueckers @pboogerswbb @yailtsv @lilpaigeyherbo @prettygirl-gabi @mariahthealchemist @avvwritesstufff @vintagebueckers @naeswrrldd @thaatdigitaldiary

The irony of it all didn’t escape you.

There you were—sat on the Dallas Wings bench, in a building you used to hate walking into, a building that reeked of old rivalries and even older grudges. Notre Dame's Purcell Pavilion. Cold lights. Smeared banners. That ever-so-sanctimonious fight song playing in the background like the world was still in 2020. You rolled your eyes once at the ceiling, once at the court, and then let the smugness return to your face.

You looked good. You knew it.

And judging by the sideways glances from coaching staff, cameras, and certain opposing players, so did everyone else.

You weren’t dressed like a player today—not in your Wings gear, not in sideline sweats. The team doctors had benched you for precaution’s sake. Mild shoulder sprain, nearly healed, but not worth aggravating just before the regular season started. You had protested, briefly, then gave up the fight once you realized you could milk this little moment for everything it was worth.

So, you dressed accordingly. Black tailored, wide-legged pants that flowed like silk but cut sharp at the waist. They pooled lightly over your sleek black Diesel pumps, glinting every time you crossed your legs. Paire with a fitted black button-up that hugged your frame just right. Thin vertical white stripes guided the eye in all the right directions. Only two buttons were fastened at the center, offering a perfectly curated glimpse of your midriff and just enough cleavage—pushed together with the help of your favorite and most dangerous bra.

You looked like someone’s scandalous boss. Someone’s very expensive mistake.

Your hair was perfectly blown out, strands falling with soft, intentional volume around your shoulders. A pair of sleek, black rectangular glasses sat neatly on your face, giving the illusion of restraint. But the sharp wing of your eyeliner and the darkness smudged into your lower lash line betrayed you. There was nothing restrained about you. Your waterline was tightlined, your lips glossed to a sinful nude, and every time you blinked slowly—like you were bored, or scheming, or both—you felt the attention shift.

The cherry on top? A gold chain, subtle and delicate, with a single pendant glinting softly at your sternum. An “M.” Paige's middle name. Not obvious. Not something a broadcaster would call out. But you knew. She knew.

It started during warmups.

Paige should’ve been focused—on her stretches, her form, the way the ball felt rolling off her fingertips. But her eyes? They kept betraying her. Again and again, they dragged back to the bench. More specifically, to you.

Sitting pretty in your corporate siren getup like you owned the arena, not just the bench.

Your lips curved slowly into a smirk as you crossed your legs with deliberate ease, letting your heel tap once against the polished court. You didn’t wave. Didn’t wink. You just let her look at you.

Let her want.

And she could’ve kept it together—just barely—until Jewell broke formation and jogged her way toward you, momentarily abandoning her own warmup.

Your grin lit up instantly at the sight of her and you got up from the bench, meeting her in the middle.

The hug you gave each other was all warmth, history, and ease, the kind of closeness that came only from sharing victories, locker rooms, and late-night strategy talks. You and Jewell had been tight ever since the Paris Olympics, and even tighter once Unrivaled started. The matching tattoos on your ribs said enough. Little mementos inked during the off-season in a moment of camaraderie with Aaliyah and Dijonai.

She knew there was nothing to worry about. She knew.

But that didn’t stop her gaze from sharpening. Didn’t stop the sting of possessiveness from blooming low in her chest.

It wasn’t jealousy—it was something else. Something quieter but much deeper. Paige was chill, easygoing, confident. But with you? There was always that subtle current of ’mine’. Not in a way that made you flinch. In a way that made your skin spark.

Even during the locker room huddle with the coaching staff, as everyone went over last minute adjustments and rotations, Paige sat with one knee bouncing and cracking her knuckles, stealing glances at you every other beat. You were seated across the room, half listening, chin propped in your hand and legs crossed like you were made to be admired.

You were just as bad, truth be told. The jersey clung to her in all the right places, but it was the slicked back ponytail that had your thoughts drifting. Clean, no braids today, just polished and severe, framing her cheekbones and making her look like a problem. Your problem.

By the time you returned to the court, everyone hovering by the bench again as the arena buzzed with anticipation, the tension between you two felt like static—quiet, invisible, charged.

And when they called her name over the speakers, Paige Bueckers—#5, guard—you couldn’t help but smile. That slow, proud, shameless kind of smile. The kind she’d see from the court and feel all the way in her chest.

Your applause was calm. Dignified.

But the way you mouthed, ‘go get ’em, baby’?

Yeah. That was just for her.

The game tipped off with a roar from the crowd, the buzz of preseason excitement electrifying Purcell Pavilion. The whistle blew, and the ball was live, but you barely noticed the opening possessions. Your body was still, but your pulse wasn’t.

You lasted exactly two minutes on the bench.

Then you were up, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Chris, one arm folded against your hip, the other resting loosely against your stomach. Every so often, you leaned in to glance at the clipboard Belle held, studying plays like you were still in them.

From afar, for anyone not in the know, you looked every bit the sharp, young coaching mind plucked fresh from a promising start. A new assistant, maybe. Or some newly promoted coordinator. You had the presence for it. The look for it. Tailored and chic with that undeniable something—that weight in your stare, the seductive curve of your lip when the scoreboard shifted in your favor. It was just enough professionalism to keep things respectable… and just enough allure to leave people guessing.

Your presence caught attention. On the bench. On the sidelines. And definitely on the court.

Especially from her.

At the seven minute mark, the play unfolded like it had been drawn with her name on it.

There was something surreal about watching her from the sideline, removed from the action but still tethered to it by a thread that ran straight through your chest.

Paige controlled the ball at the wing, fluid and locked in, her sneakers barely squeaking as she glided past Chelsea Gray. You watched it unfold like muscle memory, like breathing. A surge toward the paint. One beat, two—then she let it fly.

Nothing but net.

She tumbled out of bounds right after, body catching the hardwood before springing back up without hesitation.

You barely registered the crowd’s reaction. Your grin was already carved across your face.

“Let’s fucking go, P!” you shouted before you could help yourself, clapping once with enough force to echo. Not a single drop of shame in your tone—only pride. Pure and wild.

Paige turned as she ran back on defense, the tiniest breathless smile tugging at her lips. She caught your eyes immediately, and lifted her hand, pointing once—index finger angled cleanly toward you.

No dramatics. No show.

Just a subtle gesture, paired with that look she always gave you when it was only you in the room.

That was for you.

And God, did it land.

The gesture, the grin, the unbothered claiming of you in front of thousands—cameras be damned—lit something low and unrelenting inside of you.

She was done hiding. Done pretending like the most important part of her world wasn’t standing right there in heels and lip gloss, looking like a threat and a promise all at once.

The Wings had come out swinging.

It was clear from the jump that this team, despite being stitched together with new parts, a new coach, and not nearly enough time, had potential. Paige was settling in fast, confident in her reads, driving with purpose. Dijonai was relentless on defense. Arike, as always, was a walking bucket.

For a moment, just a stretch of minutes midway through the first quarter, the Wings held a lead. Slender, but there.

And then it slipped.

The Aces weren’t dominant just because of talent. They were seasoned, connected, one mind split between five bodies. It wasn’t surprising, not really. But it still stung.

Timeout was called.

You were back on your feet before the buzzer even finished blaring. Chris and the rest of the staff huddled near the whiteboard, and you stepped in next to him, nodding subtly at Belle as she scribbled adjustments onto the clipboard.

But your eyes?

Your eyes were already on her.

Paige stood at the edge of the huddle, hands on hips, sweat glistening against the curve of her neck, her jersey clinging to her like it belonged there. You didn’t speak, but you didn’t need to.

You tilted your head just slightly. Let your gaze drag slowly down her form and then back up again. Measured. Deliberate. Like you were taking inventory of something expensive you already owned.

When she caught you looking, your mouth curled into a smirk—teeth just barely catching your bottom lip before you let it pop free with the faintest bite.

Then you turned away.

Didn’t even hold her stare. Just dropped back down onto the bench, crossing one leg over the other with the elegance of a woman who knew she had an audience and didn’t mind putting on a show.

From the corner of your eye, you saw her shift. One foot stepping toward you, then back. Hands flexing once at her sides.

She was losing focus.

Not enough to cost the game. Just enough for you to notice. Just enough for her to feel.

Next timeout, you upped the ante.

This time, when the whistle blew and the players circled up near the bench, you leaned forward with your elbows on your knees, pretending to study the clipboard Belle held—but the angle pushed your shirt open just enough to give Paige a view you knew she couldn’t ignore.

You could feel her eyes burning a hole straight through the neckline.

Still, you didn’t look at her right away.

Not until the players started peeling off, headed back to the court.

Then—and only then—you met her gaze and mouthed a single, silent word.

‘Focus’

The nerve of you.

And that grin you wore as she turned away?

Smug. Knowing. A promise.

The next possession, Paige was a little quicker. A little more aggressive. Like she had something to prove.

And even when the Aces pulled away in the second half, she kept glancing toward the bench between plays, chewing the inside of her cheek, eyes dragging over the stretch of your legs crossed lazily, the glint of your necklace, the gloss on your mouth.

The whole night, she played with a fire that wasn’t entirely basketball-born.

You were the match.

You hadn’t made it ten steps down the tunnel before Paige grabbed your wrist.

The arena noise faded behind you, swallowed by the concrete and fluorescent lighting of the back corridors of Purcell Pavilion. You expected a word. A smirk. Maybe even just a look.

But Paige didn’t waste time.

She pulled you into a narrow alcove, one of the tucked away side halls reserved for storage or staff access—empty now, quiet and dim—and shoved you gently but firmly back against the wall. Her mouth was on you before you could breathe her name.

Open mouthed kisses trailed down your neck, hot and hungry. She peeled one side of your shirt open with practiced ease, fingers curling under the silky material until it hung loose, giving her more skin, more space, more you.

“Got me fucked up, y’know that?” Paige muttered against your skin, her voice low and wrecked with need. Her hands gripped your waist tightly—possessively—fingertips digging into the flesh just beneath your bra line, beneath your shirt, like she needed to memorize the give of it under her hands. “Sittin’ there lookin’ like you need me to fuck you in front of all those people.”

You shivered, half from her words, half from the heat pooling low in your body.

You didn’t speak immediately. Just let her touch and her mouth work you over, let yourself feel the way her body pressed against yours like it was trying to replace your heartbeat with hers.

But when her teeth grazed your jaw, you finally rasped, “Maybe I do.”

It was breathless, wicked. A tease and a confession all in one. “Would that be so bad?”

Paige froze—just for a second.

Then a exhale slipped out of her throat, and she pressed even closer, her thigh slotting between your legs, her hands pulling you flush against her. “Nah,” she said, lips ghosting over your collarbone. “I’ll give you whatever you fucking want, mama. I got you.”

Your head tilted back against the wall, heart hammering. You could feel her smirk against your skin, feel the thrill building between your legs like a threat.

And then—

“Paige!”

Chris’s voice echoed from the distance, firm and searching. The second half was about to start.

“Fuck,” Paige groaned into your chest, forehead dropping against your skin. Not your shoulder, your chest. Dead center, right above your cleavage. She lingered there, unmoving for a beat too long, nose brushing the curve of you as if it was her last meal. “You’re gonna drive me crazy.”

“You like it,” you whispered, grinning down at her.

She exhaled hard through her nose. Then she straightened up, one hand staying anchored on your waist, the other sliding up to your face to cup your jaw.

“Just wait ‘til I get you alone,” she murmured against your lips, barely a breath between you. “We’ll see if you’re still smiling then.”

You caught her chin lightly between two fingers and swiped your thumb across her bottom lip, wiping away the gloss she’d stolen. Your smirk never faltered.

And neither did hers.

With one last stolen kiss—chaste, but full of promise—she let go, turning toward the direction of the locker room. Her gait was slower than usual, like her body wasn’t fully ready to walk away.

She didn’t look back.

But you knew she didn’t need to.

You waited another minute. Then two. Composed yourself. Straightened your shirt, adjusted your glasses, gave your reflection in the glossy wall a once-over, then returned to the court with the grace and calm of someone completely unaffected.

You weren’t fooling anyone.

Especially not her.

Paige met your eyes the second you stepped back onto the sideline. Her pupils were still blown wide, chest still rising and falling faster than it should’ve been.

She wouldn’t find peace until she had you under her.

The rest of the game passed in a blur of controlled chaos and inevitable disappointment.

You stayed glued to the bench, shoulders rolled back and legs crossed in a way that made your pants ride up just enough to show a peek of skin above your heels. Your injured shoulder didn’t hurt in the slightest—not that it mattered. The decision to sit you out was already made. So, instead of running the floor, you sat like a vision in black and gold, sipping water and watching your team try to stay afloat against the powerhouse that was Las Vegas.

It wasn’t going well.

The starters had slowly been pulled, one by one, until the floor was left to the rookies and training camp invites—girls fighting tooth and nail for a shot at the final roster. You could see it in their eyes, the grit and desperation. It was admirable.

But it wasn’t enough.

You and Paige were seated side by side now. Not a word was exchanged, not really. Just subtle glances and shared breath. Your thighs were flush against each other, warm and pressed tightly together as if the space between you wasn’t already tense enough. Paige’s knee bounced occasionally—nerves or restraint, you couldn’t tell—and her fingers curled into fists every now and then on her lap.

You felt it too.

The buzz beneath your skin. The air charged between you. Her cologne lingered from warmups, light and clean, and her jersey still clung to her like a second skin. Her slicked-back hair was starting to curl slightly at the nape of her neck with sweat. And every time she shifted beside you, you were hyper aware of how close she was.

At one point, your heel nudged against hers—lightly, purposefully—and her head turned like she could hear your thoughts. Her eyes dropped to your lap, lingered for a breath too long on the exposed sliver of your stomach and the necklace that still glinted with that tiny “M.”

It took everything in her not to slide a hand up your thigh. Not to palm the flesh there, grip and squeeze until your posture gave something away. But the cameras were still rolling. The crowd, although thinned, was still watching. Too many prying eyes.

Eventually, the final buzzer rang, and the scoreboard didn’t lie.

The Aces had steamrolled, a thirty point deficit that felt heavier than it looked. The team filed back into the locker room in silence. There wasn’t anger, not exactly. Just quiet acceptance. It was the first preseason game, and this roster was still new—a work in progress, barely stitched together.

On the bus, you made a point to walk past Paige without so much as brushing her hand. Your eyes met for a second, and you knew she was expecting you to sit beside her. You always did.

Instead, you slid into the seat next to Dijonai, plopping down casually as if it wasn’t a statement, as if your skin wasn’t buzzing from holding back the grin threatening to break free. You were well aware of the tension still simmering beneath Paige’s cool expression.

Across the aisle, Nalyssa dropped into the seat next to Paige—a convenient shuffle that almost looked choreographed. It was almost funny. A partner swap, if you really thought about it.

You leaned against the window, legs crossed again, phone in hand but eyes flickering over the top edge of your screen every few minutes to steal glances at her. Paige didn’t look at you.

But her jaw was clenched, her fingers drumming against her knee. You’d be lying if you said it didn’t send a thrill straight down your spine.

She could play it cool all she wanted—but you knew what the night still owed you.

w The bus ride back to the hotel was short, but the silence made it feel longer. The kind that stretched like pulled thread—thin, delicate, one wrong move from snapping. Conversations were hushed. Laughter was minimal. Even the rookies who'd given it everything were slumped back in their seats, drained.

You barely said a word. Not to Dijonai, not to anyone. You didn’t need to, your presence was always loud enough. Even in silence, you were impossible to ignore.

Paige didn’t glance your way. Not once. Not when you stood up as the bus slowed to a stop. Not when your perfume trailed in the air like a tether around her throat. She followed the team inside, nodding politely at the front desk staff, bag slung over one shoulder, her stride confident but tense.

You knew she was waiting. For the moment. For you.

And you gave it to her.

You didn’t rush to the elevator. Let the rest of the girls pile in first. Waited for the second one. When Paige stepped into the quieter lift without a word, you slipped in behind her.

The doors closed with a soft thud, and the silence inside was deafening.

There were only a few others around—one of the assistant coaches, a trainer, Arike. The kind of company that demanded restraint. But the heat was unmistakable. You could feel it coming off her in waves.

She stood on the other side of the elevator, back against the mirrored wall, arms crossed over her chest like it was the only thing keeping her grounded. Her eyes flicked toward the digital numbers above the doors. But she wasn’t really watching them. Not when she could feel your gaze on her.

You licked your lips, slow and deliberate. Just enough to draw her eyes. And when she looked, you gave her that knowing look. The one you always gave her when the air was heavy and her self-control was unraveling thread by thread.

It was intoxicating, this wordless conversation. This tightly wound tension that clung to both of you like static.

The elevator stopped. Coach and Arike stepped out, exchanging brief goodnights. The second the doors slid shut again, it was just the two of you.

Paige didn’t move. But her eyes were locked on you now. Hard.

Your back hit the wall beside her, your shoulder just brushing hers. “Long ride,” you murmured softly.

“Long game,” she said, voice low.

You could feel her gaze trailing over your profile. Your cheekbone. Your mouth. The exposed skin between the buttons of your shirt.

“And you didn’t make it any easier,” she added, her voice edged in restraint.

You smiled, just the corner of your mouth lifting. “Wasn’t trying to.”

“Oh, I know,” she muttered, eyes dropping to your cleavage.

The elevator dinged. Your floor.

Neither of you moved at first.

Then Paige exhaled quietly and stepped out, her hand brushing your lower back in a ghost of a touch—protective, possessive, and barely there. You followed, the hallway cool and quiet except for the sound of your heels on the carpeted floor.

Room 477.

She opened the door first. Let you walk in before her. The door shut with a solid click behind you both, sealing the energy between those four walls like a vacuum.

Still, nothing said. Just the sharp sound of her duffel hitting the floor and the faint rustle of fabric as she kicked off her sneakers.

You turned to her then, slowly. Your arms crossed lazily, your back leaning against the nearest wall. Your eyes never left hers.

She didn’t speak—didn’t need to.

You could see it in her posture, the tension in her shoulders, the way her hands flexed like they didn’t know whether to hold you or pin you.

And god, that restraint… it made your blood hum.

This wasn’t the moment for release. Not yet.

But it was close. So close.

And that made it all the more addicting.

You stood there, arms crossed, watching her.

Paige’s jaw flexed like she was chewing on the inside of her cheek. Her hands were stuffed into the pockets of her shorts now, and her back was to you, but you knew her tells. The slight tremble in her exhale. The way her shoulders rose and dropped a bit quicker than usual. The quiet, building storm just beneath her skin.

“If you keep looking at me like that,” you said, voice silky soft but loaded, “I’m gonna start thinking you’re mad at me.”

Paige faced you, slow and deliberate. Her eyes dragged over every inch of you—the open button shirt, the exposed skin, the curve of your body. She licked her lips, but didn’t answer. Not right away.

“You knew exactly what you were doing tonight.”

You raised an eyebrow, smiling lazily. “Cheering for my girl?”

Her eyes darkened.

“Nah,” she said, her voice gravel low. “Sitting there looking like you wanted me to take you right there on the bench. All those little looks. You knew I was watching.”

You didn’t deny it. Instead, you pushed off the wall and slowly made your way toward her—heels clicking against the hardwood, deliberate and slow like the start of a song that promises to break you by the end.

When you reached her, you didn’t touch her yet. You just looked up, close enough that your breath tickled her chin. “But you liked it.”

Paige’s eyes closed for just a second. Her jaw clenched.

You pressed closer. Just barely.

Then, your hands rose to her waist—slow and smooth—slipping just beneath the hem of her shirt. Your fingers dragged lightly along the ridges of her toned torso, nails grazing her skin just enough to make her hiss out a breath.

“I wanted to see how long you’d last,” you whispered, eyes gleaming. “You made it to halftime. I’m impressed.”

Her hand shot out—fast, like a reflex—and gripped your waist, dragging you flush against her body.

“You’re testing me,” she murmured, low against your ear, her breath hot and uneven. “You’ve been testing me all night.”

Your lips curved. “So what are you gonna do about it?”

Paige leaned in. Her nose brushed yours, her mouth hovering just a breath away. Her grip on your waist tightened, her fingers digging in like she could barely stop herself from throwing you onto the bed and showing you exactly what.

“I should make you wait,” she murmured.

You tilted your head, brushing your lips against hers but not giving in. “But you won’t.”

Her mouth crashed into yours.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t soft. It was all tongue and teeth and frustration, a day’s worth of built up heat bursting open like a dam. She kissed you like she needed it to breathe, like she could consume you whole and still not get enough.

Her hands moved fast—one sliding up your back beneath the top, the other gripping your jaw to keep you there, pressed to her mouth. You moaned softly against her lips, your own hands tangling in the front of her tee, dragging her closer, closer, until there was nothing between you but clothes and restraint.

She walked you backward without breaking the kiss, the two of you stumbling toward the bed like you were drunk on each other.

You fell onto the mattress, breathless, her weight pressing into you—her hips pressed flush between your thighs, her hand still wrapped around the back of your neck. Her mouth never left yours for long—just enough to breathe, just enough to whisper sweet nothings into the curve of your jaw before capturing your lips again.

Her free hand moved with maddening skill, unbuttoning the only two buttons holding your blouse together with the kind of ease that made it obvious she'd done this before. Many times.

The moment your chest was bared to her, your bra doing little to shield you from her hungry gaze, Paige let out a low exhale, one that rumbled in her throat like a warning. Or a promise.

"Goddamn," she muttered, her mouth descending, kissing along the curve of your breast with open lips. She sucked at the skin just above the cup, then gently bit down, pulling a gasp out of you despite your best effort to stay composed.

Her voice dropped lower, lips brushing your skin. "Look at you. Spread out, breathin’ like you need me to touch you or you’ll lose it."

You whimpered—quiet, strained—and she smirked, her hand sliding down, hooking under your waistband.

"Don’t worry, baby," she murmured. "I got you."

Her fingers made quick work of the button, then the zipper, and you felt the subtle shift in her position—her thigh sliding between yours, pinning one of your legs down while the other bent up, braced against her hip. It gave her the perfect angle.

She slid her hand beneath the waistband of your panties, hot skin meeting hotter heat and you gasped, your hips twitching in response. Her fingers grazed your soaked cunt, still over the fabric, and she chuckled darkly at how wet you already were.

"Fuck," she hissed, dragging her lips up your neck. "All this for me? Just from a few kisses and some dirty words? You’re such a fuckin’ slut."

She rubbed slow, deliberate circles over your clothed core, her breath warm against your skin, her voice pitched so low it melted straight into your bones. “You sat on that bench looking like sex, and now you’re here, already dripping. You want me to take my time, or should I make you beg?”

You chewed your bottom lip, fighting a moan, your hands clawing at her back, nails digging in just enough to make her shudder.

"Say something," she whispered against your collarbone, teasing the edge of your bra down with her teeth. "Use that pretty mouth or I’ll stop."

"Paige..." you breathed, finally cracking. "Please don’t stop."

That was all she needed.

Her mouth returned to your breast, tugging the bra down just enough to wrap her lips around your nipple, tongue flicking, lips sucking slow and firm while her fingers over your panties pressed in harder, rubbing slow, dirty circles that made your thighs tremble.

“Good girl,” she groaned into your chest. “Keep askin’. I’ll give you every fucking thing.”

Paige’s mouth wandered, but not where you wanted it. She kissed your jaw, your neck, your collarbones, the tops of your breasts—leaving marks with her mouth, her teeth, anything but her lips. She was everywhere but your mouth, and it drove you insane.

You chased her lips once, a quiet whimper escaping you, but she dodged with a smirk, sucking a bruise just beneath your jawline instead.

Her hand, still between your legs, rubbed those slow, agonizing circles over your soaked panties—drawing out your arousal like she had all the time in the world.

Then she stopped.

You whined, lifting your hips in protest, but before you could whine her name, you felt her hand slide under the fabric.

The moment her fingers made contact with your wetness, she let out a low laugh. A dark, smug sound that sent a shiver rolling down your spine.

“Jesus,” she muttered, teasing her fingers through your slick. “You’re fucking dripping. This all from me just talking to you and some kissing?”

You rolled your eyes and let out a breathless, flustered chuckle. “Shut up…”

She didn’t seem to like that.

Her free hand moved from behind your neck to grip your jaw, firm and fast, tilting your face toward her. The pressure wasn’t gentle, and the command in her eyes made your breath hitch.

“Don’t fucking tell me to shut up,” she warned, before finally crashing her mouth against yours.

It was rough. Unforgiving. All teeth and spit and frustration.

When she pulled back, your lips were swollen, and a thin string of spit still connected you. Her hand remained wrapped around your jaw, fingers digging in, keeping your face locked in place.

“You’re on thin ice right now,” she said lowly, the words thick with hunger and something darker. “You don’t get to run that mouth unless I say so.”

Your heart thudded in your chest as her fingers moved again, slow, pushing one long digit inside you without warning. You gasped, sharp and high, your mouth falling open as your body arched into her.

But Paige didn’t let your head fall back.

Her hand on your face held you steady, forced your gaze to stay locked on hers.

“Nuh uh,” she said, voice hoarse. “Keep your pretty on me. I wanna watch you fall apart.”

Your breath hitched as her finger curled inside you, the pace slow and controlled, dragging over every nerve like she’d mapped your body out and memorized it.

“Say it,” she demanded, leaning in, lips brushing your cheek but not your mouth. “Tell me who’s making you feel this good.”

You swallowed hard, barely able to form a coherent thought, let alone speak. But her eyes—those hungry, sharp, unrelenting eyes—never left yours, and neither did her hand.

“…You,” you rasped. “It’s you, Daddy.”

Her smirk deepened. “Damn right.”

And with that, she pushed deeper, knowing full well you’d break before the night was over.

Paige’s eyes flicked up to yours again, still holding your gaze like a chain wrapped tight around your throat. Her finger never stopped moving, the slick sounds between your legs growing louder in the quiet room.

Then she slowed, almost to a stop, barely curling her finger with maddening control.

“You want more?” she asked lowly, like she didn’t already know the answer. “Think you can take it?”

Her voice was smooth and mocking, thick with amusement and desire. She leaned in just a little closer, eyes never straying from yours. “Be honest, baby. You really think you can handle another one?”

That teasing lilt in her voice made your jaw clench, your fingers twisting in the sheets beneath you.

You didn’t just want more—you needed it. Your body was already begging, trembling, aching for her to fill you just a little more. And she knew it.

So you didn’t say anything. You just nodded, chest rising and falling faster, lips parted, silently pleading. She already knew.

Paige laughed under her breath. “Figures.”

And just like that, her second finger pushed in beside the first. Your head snapped back with a sharp gasp, a breathy moan slipping past your lips as your back arched. Your elbows wobbled where they held you up, threatening to give out from the sudden wave of pressure and pleasure crashing into you.

But you held yourself up. Barely.

Paige's other hand finally released your jaw and braced herself against the bed, palm flat next to your hip, hovering over you like a predator.

Her fingers moved in and out of you, curling and scissoring, switching between long, languid drags and quick, pulsing thrusts that had your thighs twitching. The room was filled with the soft, wet sounds of your arousal, and the only thing louder than that was your breath—ragged, shallow, desperate.

But still, your eyes never left hers.

Even as your legs began to tremble, your focus stayed locked on her. Eyes wide, pupils blown, your bottom lip caught between your teeth like you were holding back from begging or crying out. You looked wrecked, completely overtaken by lust, and it made her lose her rhythm for a second.

Her gaze dipped from your face to your heaving chest, down to the way her digits pumped into your sopping pussy, then back up again.

“Fuck…” she whispered, her pace speeding up before she could even stop herself. It was instinctual. Animalistic.

For a moment, she lost herself in you. In the way you looked at her like you wanted to eat her alive. Like nothing existed except her hands on your body, and the high you were chasing.

But then, she caught herself.

She blinked hard and slowed down—too fast. You felt it immediately.

“No—no—" you whimpered, hips twitching, your body already so close you could taste it. But she didn’t stop gradually. She stopped completely.

Fingers still buried inside you, she stilled them, refusing to move. You were practically vibrating, your body locked in that terrible, beautiful edge of no return.

Your head fell back in frustration, eyes squeezing shut. “Whyyyy…”

Your voice was cracked and desperate, a pathetic little whine that only made her smirk.

She slowly slid her fingers out of you with a wet, sinful sound. And then, holding your stare again, she brought her fingers to her lips and licked them clean.

“Tastes like heaven,” she murmured, letting her tongue run over the pad of each finger.

Then, smirking down at you—panting, trembling, and glistening between the legs—she said lowly, “You know damn well why, mama.”

She leaned in close, lips just brushing yours but not kissing. “You don’t get to come ‘til I say you can.”

And you swore you could’ve come from just those words alone.

Paige sat you upright with a quiet kind of urgency, the heat in her eyes doing more than words ever could. Her fingers curled around the edges of your button-up, tugging it off your shoulders and down your arms until it slipped free. She tossed it somewhere behind her without a second thought. Then came the gentle taps on your hips and you instinctively lifted them, letting her drag your pants and underwear down and off in one smooth pull. Her movements were sure, practiced, reverent.

Her mouth found the curve of your neck again, soft lips pressing against your pulse as she reached behind you with one hand, unclasping your bra with that same cocky ease you’d never admit drives you crazy. The straps slid away, and she tossed that too, her breath warm against your collarbone as she pulled back just enough to take you in—fully bare now, save for the necklace with her initial that rested right above your chest and your heels, which she deliberately hadn’t touched.

“Y’look so fucking good wearing my name.”

She stood up straight, eyes lingering for a second longer before she reached over her shoulder, tugging her own shirt off. Her muscles flexed subtly with the motion, her nike sports bra clinging to her frame, rising just a bit with each heavy breath. Her shorts still sat low on her hips, but she didn’t touch them yet.

Instead, her hands found your waist again. She dragged you closer to the edge of the bed, her palms firm on your skin, possessive. Your knees parted naturally, thighs relaxing around her shoulders as she dropped to her knees—slow, like she had all the time in the world. Her arms wrapped under your thighs and she pulled you forward until you were right where she wanted you. Her face hovered close, her nose brushing against the inside of your thigh, eyes flicking up with that look—the one that made your breath catch every single time.

"Look at you," she murmured low, almost in awe, her voice rough. “prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen.”

Her grip on your thighs tightened slightly, anchoring you in place. You could feel her breath against your skin, warm and teasing. Every part of you felt like it was pulsing in anticipation—mind hazy, legs tense, spine arching ever so slightly as your body leaned into the gravity of her.

"You wanna act like a brat," she whispered, her voice husky and dangerously calm, "so now you’re gonna take everything I give you, right?”

And all you could do was desperately nod.

She didn't move yet, not really. She just stayed there, admiring you, kissing the inside of your thigh once, twice, with maddening restraint. Teasing. Waiting.

And then her grip shifted again, just slightly, as if she were finally ready to devour you whole.

The air in the room was thick with heat, not from the summer night, but from the slow, delicious burn building between you and Paige. Her palms pressed against your thighs, thumbs brushing lazy circles into your soft skin as her eyes roamed over your body with dark intent. From her position on her knees, she looked like worship and sin all at once.

She didn’t rush. Paige never did. She took her time, like she wanted to commit every inch of you to memory.

Her lips ghosted over the inside of your thigh, moving higher, then lower again, teasing. She nipped gently at the sensitive skin, just enough to make your breath hitch—and then soothed it over with the flat of her tongue, a silent apology that somehow only made the ache worse. Your hips shifted slightly, not enough to beg, but close.

Her arms tightened under your thighs as she pulled you a little closer still, locking you into place. Her breath was hot and steady, and her lips so close—so achingly close—but still not where you needed them.

“You’ve got no patience,” she murmured, mouth brushing your skin, her voice thick with a grin you couldn’t see but could feel. “You sit all pretty on the sidelines all game, teasing me... and now you want it all at once?”

You didn’t answer, couldn’t, really. Your throat felt tight, your body strung out with anticipation. You didn’t need to speak anyway. She could feel the way your thighs trembled slightly beneath her grip, the way your hips bucked without realizing, the way your fingers clutched the bedsheets behind you.

Paige pressed another kiss higher up your thigh, dangerously close, then paused. Her gaze lifted, locking onto yours with that same fire that had been there since tipoff.

"Use your words" she breathed, low and commanding. "Tell me what you want."

Your voice was barely above a whisper, but it was enough. “You.”

She smirked, not cocky, but hungry. “Yeah, mama?” Her tone was thick with heat, her lips brushing against your skin between every word. “You’re gonna get me.”

And then she dipped her head again—slowly, reverently—as her grip tightened and she finally closed the space between you.

Your breath caught in your throat the second Paige finally moved. Her mouth found you like she’d been waiting her whole life to do it, licking a stripe up your folds—slow at first, like she was savoring something forbidden. Her grip under your thighs remained firm, keeping you right where she wanted you, like she didn’t trust you not to squirm away from the intensity she brought with every calculated kiss, every hot breath against your skin.

She moved with intent. No rush, no hesitation, just pure control. The kind of control that had your head tilting back, eyes fluttering closed, and one hand coming up to grab the sheets as your body tried to process it all.

Then came her voice, low and muffled against you, still cocky even down on her knees. “Mm... this what you wanted?” Her voice alone had your stomach tightening. “You were damn near begging for it without saying a word.”

You whimpered in response, because yes, this was exactly what you wanted. Maybe more than you could admit.

Shuffling your feet, you managed to kick your heels off.

She didn’t let up. The hand that had held your thigh adjusted, her fingers brushing over your skin possessively, thumb stroking idle circles into your hip while she worked you over, relentless and deliberate. Lips wrapped around your lips, tongue teasing your entrance, slurping up everything you gave her.

You were soaked, needy, and trembling, your body starting to rock toward her without thought—like your hips had a mind of their own, chasing the high she was expertly building.

Then, just when your breaths were getting short and your grip on the sheets was threatening to rip the fabric, Paige pulled back, just slightly.

Your eyes snapped open in protest.

She looked up at you through her lashes, chin glistening, lips swollen, and all she did was smirk. “Don’t look at me like that,” she murmured, voice dark and dripping in amusement. “You knew I was gonna take my time.”

Still kneeling, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and climbed up slowly, hands gliding up your sides before she leaned in, the weight of her body settling comfortably against yours again. Her mouth hovered just beside your jaw, her breath warm and teasing.

“I’m not done with you yet,” she whispered, pressing a kiss right beneath your ear. “Not even close.”

Then, her mouth found yours, and this time, she didn’t hold back.

You could still taste yourself on her lips—warm and sweet, a reminder of how she’d had you moments ago. The kiss between you turned greedy, tongues tangled in a dance of desperation. You tugged at her waistband, your fingers curling under the elastic with an urgency you didn’t bother to hide.

Paige grinned against your mouth, the cocky tilt of her lips a stark contrast to her breathlessness. “Damn, baby. Slow down,” she murmured, voice teasing and low. “I’m not going anywhere.” But she gave in, tugging them down and kicking them off.

You rolled your eyes, not bothering to respond—instead pulling her mouth back to yours, swallowing whatever quip she might’ve had lined up next. The two of you shifted, clumsily but in sync, toward the center of the bed. Your back hit the pillows, hair spilling across the sheets like a halo, while Paige loomed above you in her boxers and sports bra, every inch of her radiating heat.

The ache between your thighs was still there, pulsing in time with your heartbeat, and before you could stop yourself, the thought was already spilling into the space between you. You bit her lower lip, sharp enough to make her pull back with a dramatic wince, though the glint in her eyes betrayed how much she liked it.

She licked her lips slowly, gaze dropping to your flushed, eager face. “What was that for?”

“Wanna try it” you murmured, fingers brushing the edge of her waistband again. “On you.”

Her brows lifted slightly, curiosity igniting behind her eyes. “Try what on me?”

You exhaled, slightly exasperated. “You know what. Your ‘mousekatool’ as you call it. Don’t make me spell it out.”

That earned a quiet snicker from her, and her head dipped as if to hide the grin spreading across her face. “You mean my strap?” she teased, voice pitched low with faux innocence.

A soft laugh escaped you despite yourself. “Yes, Paige. The strap.”

She tilted her head, amused and entirely too smug. “Who says I brought it this time?”

“You always bring it,” you countered without missing a beat, your tone equal parts accusing and needy. “You bring it everywhere. Don’t lie to me.”

She smirked, fingers idly tracing along your thigh, like she was in no rush at all. “Maybe I like being prepared,” she hummed, leaning in to press a kiss just beneath your jaw. “You been thinking ‘bout it?”

“For a while,” you confessed softly, voice almost shy beneath the tension in the room. “Like a lot.”

She paused for a beat, her breath fanning against your skin as her lips curved into something darker, softer. “Yeah? How long’s a while?”

You rolled your eyes again, clearly not in the mood for her games, and gave her shoulder a small push.

But Paige only laughed under her breath — a low, husky sound—before finally nodding, the shift in her expression signaling a silent ‘okay’. Her gaze held yours for a beat longer, just long enough for your breath to hitch, before she pushed up off the bed to retrieve what you both knew she had packed.

The anticipation thickened the air, the weight of the moment drawing everything tighter. She was quiet as she moved, deliberate and smooth, her back flexing beneath the dim light while you watched her, bare and wanting and more than ready.

And she could feel it too, the heat that simmered in your stare, the tension in your posture, the glint in your eye that made it abundantly clear. She wasn’t the only one who knew how to take control.

When Paige returned, the familiar shape of it in her hand, your smirk was immediate—small, sly, and a little too eager. You reached for it without hesitation, and she let it go just as quickly, the edges of her mouth curling in a low chuckle.

“You waste no time, huh?” she murmured as she watched you from the foot of the bed, eyes hooded, mouth still glistening faintly from you.

“Could say the same about you,” you replied, voice light but your fingers focused as you stepped into it, adjusting the straps and tightening where it needed with a practiced ease. Confidence hummed beneath your skin, electric and heavy, and you didn’t bother hiding it.

Once it sat snug and secure against you, you tilted your chin, nodding toward the bed, a silent instruction.

And to your pleasant surprise, Paige obeyed.

No eye roll, no sarcastic comment. Just a quiet spark of something between amusement and anticipation in her expression as she crawled backward, settling herself against the pillows. Her breathing was calm, but you knew her well enough to spot the tension—the subtle way her fingers curled into the sheets, the way her eyes tracked your every movement just a second longer than usual.

She was curious, excited. And nervous.

The realization that she’d never let anyone else do this, never even entertained the idea, filled your chest with a kind of fierce pride. It wasn’t just trust.

You climbed onto the bed slowly, knees on either side of her hips. The sight of her spread out beneath you, still in her sports bra and chest rising and falling, was enough to make your breath catch. You tapped her hip gently.

“Lift,” you said, quiet.

She obeyed again, and you tugged her boxers down with care, dragging the fabric past toned thighs, revealing her inch by inch. Her skin was warm beneath your palms, and when you looked up at her again, her gaze was already locked on yours—unreadable, but heavy with something unspoken.

You leaned forward, catching her mouth in another kiss. Slow at first, exploratory. But it didn’t stay soft for long. Soon it was hungry again, mouths open, lips swollen, tongues sliding in sync. You deepened it purposefully, pouring reassurance into every motion, letting your hands slide over her. Grounding her, and reminding her this was you.

Her legs shifted slightly beneath you, and you felt it. The tension in her thighs, the way her fingers grazed your arms, seeking anchor. So you kissed her harder. One hand cradled the side of her face, thumb stroking her cheekbone, while your hips stayed still for now—letting her adjust, letting her breathe.

You didn’t need to rush.

This was new. But it was yours to explore together.

Paige's breathing had shifted, deeper and slower, like she was trying to brace herself for something unfamiliar. You hovered over her, letting your eyes roam, deliberately dragging your gaze down the length of her body. The contrast was striking. Strong, confident Paige, laid bare in front of you, chest rising and falling with anticipation she hadn’t put words to yet.

You let your fingertips trail down her sides, a whisper of a touch. Featherlight at first, just enough to draw goosebumps along her skin. Her stomach twitched beneath your hand when your palm flattened just above her navel.

“You good?” you asked, voice hushed but edged with something firmer, more grounded.

She gave you a small nod, eyes burning into yours. “Better than good.”

That was all the confirmation you needed.

You kissed her again, but not her mouth this time. You pressed your lips to her neck, slow and indulgent, tasting the skin there. Down to her collarbone, where your tongue traced the curve, your hands moving to her hips to keep her steady. You heard the slight hitch in her breath when your lips dipped even lower, pressing along the top swell of her chest, still caged beneath her sports bra.

You smiled against her skin. “This in the way?”

Paige huffed a quiet laugh, lips quirking. “What do you think?”

You didn’t hesitate. You slipped your hands under the band and dragged the fabric up and over her head in one smooth motion, tossing it to the floor. The second she was bare to you, you didn’t even look. You leaned in, kissing the top of her breast first, then lower, letting your tongue sweep over skin that was already flushed and warm. Her hands found your back, blunt nails digging slightly when your mouth closed around her nipples, drawing a soft, reluctant moan from her.

She arched into you without thinking, chest pressing against your mouth, and you took your time—suckling gently, then switching sides, giving her equal attention until her grip on your shoulders turned into a quiet plea.

“Mama.”

“Mhm?” you murmured against her.

She gave a small shake of her head and exhaled a half laugh. “Teasing me already?”

You kissed your way back up her collarbones, up her throat, and then caught her mouth again, messy and hungry. She could taste your hunger on your tongue and it only made her pull you closer.

One of your hands slipped between her legs, stroking over the inner thigh, slow and measured. You were deliberately avoiding where she wanted you most. She tried to shift her hips, subtly guiding your hand lower, but you held your place—firm, patient, smiling into the kiss.

“You’re not the only one who gets to tease,” you whispered against her lips.

“God,” she muttered, tilting her head back slightly, eyes fluttering shut for a beat.

You used that moment to lean in, letting your mouth hover beside her ear, voice low and deliberate. “You want it, pretty girl?”

Paige’s brows knit together slightly, breath catching again. Her hands clenched the sheets beside her. “Yeah.”

Your hand finally slipped lower, brushing softly over her core,slow and maddening, enough to make her hips twitch. You dragged your fingers in circles, watching her expression unravel in real time—almost cursing at how wet she already was.

The look in her eyes—wide, dazed, dark with hunger—made your stomach twist in the best way.

You slowly pulled your hand away, earning yourself a disappointed sigh from the blonde underneath you.

A smirk tugged at the corners of your mouth as you casually brought your fingers to her mouth, her tongue immediately darting out to lick off her own slick. It was nothing short of intoxicating and addicting to see her like that.

You slipped your fingers out of her mouth and your hand curled around the strap, getting a feel of what had been inside of you countless of times, before slowly spitting down on it. You watched as you stroked the silicone, wetting it. Suddenly, you understood why she found so much enjoyment in it, why she always took her sweet time while you waited impatiently.

And now the roles were reversed.

Paige was just about to protest, wanting to tell you to hurry the hell up, but the feeling of the tip of her own strap circling her entrance had her swallowing her own words and her breath catching in her throat.

“Y’good, daddy?” Your voice is silky smooth and sweet like honey, a smug look etched into your features.

Paige wanted to just flip you over and have her way with you. Calling her that while teasing her after you’d practically begged her to let you fuck her? You knew exactly what you were doing.

She didn’t reply, not with words. Her hands rose up, curling tightly around your hips, nails digging into the plush of your skin.

But you didn’t react—not even when she tried to pull you closer.

You positioned the tip at her leaking entrance, the sight causing you to unconsciously lick your lips. She needed you desperately, and probably had been all day long.

Slowly, hand still wrapped around the strap, you moved your hips closer, only the tip pushing in. You watched her for a moment, eyes glued on the way her lips parted as her head tipped back. Then, your gaze traveled down, taking in the way it slipped deeper inside of her torturously slow, inch by inch until you bottomed out.

Paige gasped at the delicious stretch, barely loud enough for you to hear.

“This okay?” You felt the need to ask, to make sure she was comfortable under your care and give her time to adjust to the intrusion.

“Fuck,” the blonde cursed under her breath, her grip around your hips tightening as if you were her lifeline. “It’s good, mama. You can move.”

Nodding your head, you pulled out half way, easing back in with deliberate patience.

You shifted above Paige, the leather strap harness snug around your hips—foreign, unfamiliar, but grounding you in the moment. Your palms braced on either side of Paige's bare waist, breath catching as you looked down at her.

Paige was already flushed. Blonde hair a halo of gold across the pillow, pale chest rising and falling in shallow waves. Her legs fell open again, instinctively, as if inviting something she’d never asked for before.

Her lips parted, just barely. “You can… go slow.”

“I was planning to,” you murmured, voice low, nearly sweet. Your fingers brushed up Paige’s thigh in a soothing pass, a grounding gesture for both of you.

The first push back in was gentle. Careful. A slow rock forward as you let the strap guide you, adjusting to the rhythm, to the tension and give of Paige’s body beneath you. Paige’s breath hitched—sharp and soft at once—and her hands curled into the sheets.

Her blue eyes fluttered up, catching your gaze with something between disbelief and desire. She’d ever felt this full. Never been looked at this way.

You leaned down, lips grazing Paige’s jaw. “Still okay?”

Paige swallowed, nodding, her fingers sliding up to grip your forearm. “More than okay.”

You set a rhythm, slow and purposeful, letting each roll of your hips press deep and linger. Paige’s moans started soft, reluctant at first—like she was surprised by how good it feels. Each one drawn out, breathy, as her thighs trembled slightly with every thrust.

You watched her unravel beneath you. How Paige bit her bottom lip, how her fingers dragged along your bacm, how her lashes fluttered every time you sunk in deeper. It wasn’t just about control, it was about giving, too. Giving Paige something she never thought she wanted, and now couldn’t seem to get enough of.

Sweat beaded at both of your skin, the room warm with breath and heat and slow tension. When Paige wrapped her legs around your hips and pulled you in closer, your bodies locked together, like it was meant to feel this way all along.

“Fuck,” Paige breathed, voice wrecked. “You feel so good.”

You brushed your lips against her temple, whispering like it was sacred. “You feel even better, Baby.”

And then you rocked in again—harsher, deeper—and watched Paige slowly fall apart all over again.

The way she clung to you, the sound of her moans unraveling in your ear, the heat radiating off her body. Every time you sank into her, every time her hips tilted to meet yours, it got a little harder to hold back.

You didn’t even realize you were moving faster until her breath hitched again, more desperate this time. Her fingers dug into your hips like she needed something to ground herself, something solid while you pulled her apart.

Your eyes stayed glued to her. To the way her lips parted just before every moan. To the way her brows pulled together when your thrusts got deeper. To the way she took you, like it was too much and not enough all at once.

And then your gaze dropped, locked in on where your body met hers. How the strap stretched her glistening cunt.

You swore you could feel her. Swore you could feel every squeeze, every flutter, every reaction she gave you—even through the strap. And it drove you fucking insane.

The pace picked up, your hips rocking harder now, the sound of skin on skin thick in the air. Paige’s moans came faster, choked and breathy, and still she didn’t tell you to stop.

She didn’t want you to stop.

One of her hands slipped up to her mouth, knuckles pressed to her lips as she bit down, trying to keep quiet, trying to keep herself from falling apart too loudly.

“Don’t hide those sounds from me,” you warned, voice low and ruined, one hand grabbing her thigh to yank her closer with every thrust. “You’re so fucking pretty when you moan.”

Her eyes rolled back, her back arched, and a whimper escaped around her hand despite her best efforts.

“Look at you,” you murmured, nearly breathless yourself, the rhythm hard and steady now. “All spread out for me… letting me fuck you like this for the first time. You feel it, don’t you? You feel me in your guts.”

She nodded, mouth open but words gone, completely lost to the feeling.

And you were gone, too. Gone in the way she clutched at you, in the slick sounds filling the room, in the way she trembled every time you hit just right. You’d never seen her like this—never been inside her in this way. And it made you feel invincible.

It made you feel obsessed.

“I could stay right here all fucking night,” you whispered harshly, eyes devouring her. “You feel unreal. Don’t ever wanna stop.”

Paige let out a broken, muffled moan—legs shaking, knuckles white against her mouth, body arching into yours like she couldn’t bear a single inch of space between you.

And with every thrust, every cry, every sweet wrecked sound you pulled from her lips, you made her yours.

She’d taken taken two orgasms from you. Stolen them, really—left you shaking, wrung out, and aching with nothing to show for it but trembling thighs and the ghost of her mouth still between your legs. And now, with every thrust of your hips, the straps pressed hard against your core. Slick and pulsing and needy, and it was driving you insane.

Your fingers curled tight into the flesh of her hip, holding her in place, like if you didn’t keep her still you’d lose your fucking mind. Her legs locked around your waist, dragging you in deeper, and you leaned down to kiss her, messy and hungry and almost angry with how much you wanted her.

She moaned into your mouth, high pitched and breathless, and it broke something in you. The squelch of wet, filthy friction echoed between you, loud and obscene, and it made your stomach tighten. She was so fucking wet for you. You could feel her flutter around the strap again, tightening, pulling, like her body knew you now.

Her breath hitched, over and over, those beautiful little gasps coming faster, more ragged. Her thighs trembled against your sides. Her hand shot up to the pillow, grabbing desperately for something, anything, to ground herself.

“Oh my god—” she whimpered, breathless. “I’m gonna—fuck—I’m gonna—”

“I know,” you growled, not slowing for a second. “I know, baby. Look at you. So fucked out, clinging to me like this. You gonna cum all over me? Gonna soak it for me like a good fucking girl?”

Paige choked on a sob, nodding frantically as her mouth opened but no words came. Just sounds, broken, ruined little moans that made your hips stutter with the sheer heat of it.

“That’s it,” you panted, the rhythm wild now, completely consumed by her. “Take it. Take all of me. You feel that?”

“Y-yeah,” she gasped, her hand clawing at your back. “You fuck me so good—shit—baby, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can.” Your mouth dropped to her neck, biting down just enough to leave heat and pressure behind.

She cried out then, loud and raw, back arching as her orgasm hit like a fucking storm. She clung to you, muscles clenching hard around the strap as she came, soaking you with it, thighs twitching uncontrollably. Her moans turned into whimpers, then into wrecked little “oh my god”s and “don’t stop”s as her high dragged out, long and messy.

You didn’t stop, not right away. You rode it through, watched every flicker of pleasure twist across her face, obsessed with how beautiful she looked undone like this. She was yours. Wrecked by you. Filled by you.

And through it all, Paige kept whispering, voice hoarse and trembling. “So good… fuck, you feel so good… never—never been fucked like this before… you’re so fucking good, baby.”

You slowed eventually, panting against her skin, her praise still echoing in your head like a damn prayer. And all you could think—half crazed, overwhelmed, euphoric—was ‘I’d do it all over again.’ Just to see her fall apart like that one more time.

Her moans still echoed in your ears. High, strangled, ruined, and yet you still hadn’t cum.

She’d robbed your from it twice earlier, dragged those highs from you with her mouth, her fingers, her body pressed into yours like she had something to prove—then left you hanging. But now? Now it was your turn.

You didn’t give her time to come down. Didn’t even let her legs close. You fumbled with the straps, tugging the harness of and sitting back. Your thighs slipped between hers, only to be met by the hot, slick press of your cunt grinding down onto hers.

Her gasp was sharp, almost pained, but her hips lifted into yours anyway, her body betraying her sensitivity in favor of your shared need.

“Oh my god,” she whines, head rolling back as your cores met, swollen and soaked and completely unfiltered. The friction was messy, wet and loud and absolutely obscene, but you didn’t care. Neither of you did.

You moaned, high and needy, grinding harder as the sensation built—bare skin dragging against hers, nerves shot and screaming, the strap still hanging from your hips, forgotten now. It was just you and her—sliding together, chasing it, drowning in it

“Fuck, Paige—” you gasped, eyes half-lidded and locked on her flushed face. “I need—need to cum.”

She groaned, reaching for your hips with shaky hands, guiding you, matching your rhythm even though her legs were trembling.

“Take it,” she rasped, breath still ragged. “Fucking take it. You’ve earned it, baby. Cum for me, rub that pretty pussy on me until you fall apart. Don’t stop.”

You whimpered, the sound punched from your chest as you rolled your hips harder, faster, your wetness mixing with hers in a way that made everything slip and slide just right. Too much and not enough all at once.

Then—without warning—her hand slid up, two fingers pressing against your lips. You didn’t hesitate. You took them into your mouth, sucking hungrily, eyes glued to hers like she was your entire world.

Paige’s eyes darkened, her voice dropping into something deep and dangerous.

“Look at you,” she growled, the fingers in your mouth curling slightly, holding your jaw. “So desperate. So fucking wet. You gonna cum just from this? Grinding that needy little cunt on mine like a good girl?”

You moaned around her fingers, nodding, the coil in your belly threatening to snap. Your hips stuttered, rhythm breaking as the pressure built, dizzying and intense.

“That’s it,” she whispered, her voice a husk, her eyes wild with want. “C’mon. Show me. Take what you need, mama.”

You cried out around her fingers, your entire body locking up as your orgasm tore through you—hot and violent and blinding. You shook against her, thighs trembling, nails digging into her sides as you lost yourself, your high crashing into hers, mingled and messy and soaked with everything you’d been holding back.

And through it all, Paige just held you. Let you ride it out, while coming down herself. Her fingers slipped from your mouth, trailing down your jaw, down your neck, and she whispered,

“You’re so fucking perfect.”

Your chest was still heaving, legs quivering and damp with both your releases. She leaned in, her touch featherlight on your jaw, caressing your cheek like she hadn’t just dragged the orgasm of your life out of you.

“You good?” she murmured, voice hoarse, but laced with something dangerous underneath. Something eager.

You nodded, dazed, your lips parting to respond. But before a single word could come out, she flipped you onto your back with terrifying ease, making you gasp.

“You’ve had your fun,” she rasped, reaching behind her for the discarded strap and sliding it on like it was muscle memory. Her eyes never left yours. “My turn.”

Your breath caught. That quiet ache between your legs that had just barely dulled now flared back to life. Your heart kicked up again. You could only watch, eyes wide and pulse skipping, as she adjusted the straps against her hips, rolling them once to test the feel.

You expected her to climb over you again, to press her body flush against yours.

But instead, she grabbed your thigh, flipped you again, and hauled your hips up until your knees dug into the mattress and your chest hit the pillow.

“Wh—Paige—” you barely managed, dizzy from the motion, your ass up and exposed, slick still dripping between your thighs.

“Shh,” she said, low and firm, one hand splaying against your lower back to keep you down. “You’re ready for it, baby.”

And then she sank into you.

No warning. No teasing. Just one smooth, hard thrust that punched the air from your lungs. The stretch burned for a second, sensitive and overwhelming, but your body welcomed her fast, the slickness easing her in and making the glide so damn deep.

You gasped into the pillow, your fingers clawing at the sheets.

“Fuck!” You tried to back away from the sudden intrusion.

“Oh, now you wanna run from this dick?” she growled behind you, her pace already brutal, hand gripping the back of your neck and pinning you down. “Stay with it, ma.”

Every word was punctuated by a thrust, the sound of skin meeting skin loud and wet, echoing through the room like sin. The bed rocked, your thighs shaking, your jaw slack as moans spilled from your lips without warning.

“You feel that?” she panted, hips snapping forward. “So tight—still sucking me in like you didn’t just come all over me a few minutes ago.”

You whined, eyes rolling back.

“Messy fucking girl,” she hissed. “Dripping all over my thighs. Can’t even think straight, huh?”

You tried to speak—tried to beg, moan, something—but all that came out were high pitched sounds, your cheek rubbing against the pillow as she fucked into you like she owned every part of you. You knew it was gonna leave makeup stains.

“You like being used like this?” she breathed. “Stuffed full of my cock like a good little slut?”

You whimpered, nodding frantically, and Paige moaned behind you, a low, almost possessive sound that made you clench around the toy still sliding in and out of you.

“Yeah, you do,” she said, her voice unraveling. “So greedy. So fucking wet for me. You’d let me do this all night if I wanted, wouldn’t you?”

You would. God, you would.

And she knew it.

Her hand slipped down your back, finding your ass, squeezing once before giving it two sharp slaps that sent a jolt through your body.

You were loud. Too loud.

You knew it the second the heel of her hand shoved your face further into the soft pillow, muffling the wanton moans that kept slipping past your swollen lips. The hotel room felt like it was vibrating with your sounds—high, helpless, wrecked. Paige’s thrusts hadn’t let up for a second.

“Shh,” she gritted, eyes blazing as she hovered above you, sweat dripping down her chest. “You want the whole floor to hear how good I’m fucking you?”

Your response was just a choked whimper, muffled against the pillow. You couldn’t stop trembling.

She’d slid out and flipped you fast, like you weighed nothing, shoving you onto your back and sliding right back in with a single sharp thrust. She slapped a hand over your mouth, covering it. Now your legs were everywhere. One pinned tightly against your chest, the other slung up and over her shoulder, spreading you open, folding you. The angle had her deep—so deep you couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything but take it. You swore you could feel her in your lungs.

“Fuck, look at you,” she rasped, her eyes dragging over your face. “Mascara running, mouth open, pussy clenching like you’re trying to milk me. You can’t stop, can you?”

You tried to shake your head, tried to answer her, but all that came out was a cry into her hand.

“That’s what I thought,” she growled. “Drippin’ on the sheets, crying for my cock.”

You blinked up at her, more tears threatening to spill now from overstimulation, from how full you felt. You were so far gone it didn’t even feel real.

And then her voice dropped lower—dangerously low. Possessive.

“I could fuck a baby into you like this, mama,” she murmured, eyes locked to where she was sliding in and out of you. “Folded in half, stuffed so deep you’d take every last drop.”

Your entire body tensed at her words, another sharp cry muffled against her hand.

“Oh, that got you,” she cooed, rolling her hips slow and deep, pressing until your breath caught and your toes curled. “You want me to fuck you full, huh? Knock you up?”

You whined, your hands scrambling up to her wrist, not to pull her hand away—but to hold her there, like the weight of it grounded you.

She leaned in, sweat-slicked chest and hard nipples brushing yours, her palm still sealing your mouth as she whispered filth in your ear.

“Everyone down the hall could hear you if I let go,” she breathed. “You want them to know what I’m doing to you? Want them to hear you beg me to cum inside? To fill you up so good you’ll still feel it tomorrow?”

You couldn’t take it. Your back arched, tears spilling now from the intensity of it all. Her words, her thrusts, the way your body had no control anymore.

“You gonna cum for me again?” she growled, pace turning brutal. “So messy, so loud, soaking my cock like it was made for that pretty pussy?”

You screamed into her hand as your climax hit you hard, your body locking up, shaking beneath her like you’d been electrocuted. Every muscle trembled, your cunt pulsing around the toy like it was real, like your body couldn’t tell the difference.

“Fuck,” she moaned, watching you fall apart. “That’s it. That’s my girl. Take it.”

Your cries were muffled, desperate, ruined. And still, she didn’t stop. She fucked you through it, deep and filthy, until you went limp beneath her, completely wrecked, your leg falling from her shoulder as she finally slowed down, panting hard above you.

And when she finally removed her hand, your lips were glossy with spit, your cheeks stained with black streaks, your voice barely a whisper.

“Paige…”

“Shh,” she whispered, brushing sweaty hair from your face. “Just lay there. Let me take care of you.”

And with one last kiss to your temple, she finally pulled out, leaving you gasping, trembling, your entire body a soaked, overstimulated, satisfied mess.

You were still catching your breath, chest rising and falling as Paige finally stilled above you. The sweat on her skin shimmered under the dim bedside light, her golden hair clinging to her temples, and her lips were parted—soft, flushed, as if she’d just confessed something without meaning to.

You didn’t even realize you were crying again until she reached up and thumbed away the tears under your eyes. Her touch was gentle now, tender and careful, as if she was worried she’d break you after what she’d just done.

“Hey,” she whispered, brushing her thumb along your jaw. “You okay?”

You gave a dazed little nod, voice barely audible. “Mhm… Just… That was crazy, what the fuck.” You let out a long exhale.

Her chest lifted with a soft laugh, but there was something else behind it. A vulnerability. A truth trying to sneak through between the lines.

She helped you sit up slowly, her hands never leaving your skin. She unstrapped herself and tossed the harness aside, then climbed back onto the bed to cradle you in her lap, letting your legs rest over hers. You could still feel her heartbeat beneath your cheek as you curled into her, warm and safe.

You were quiet for a while—until you felt her lips near your ear.

“I’d do it,” she murmured, voice thick and quiet.

Your brow furrowed slightly, still dazed. “Do what?”

She pulled back just enough for her eyes to meet yours.

“Put a baby in you,” she said, dead serious. “If I could… I would’ve done it right there. Fucked it into you like I meant it.”

A breath caught in your throat, the ache between your legs flaring back up even though you were exhausted and sore. Your heart felt like it skipped a beat.

“Cute.” You grinned bashfully, eyes still glassy. “I’d let you.”

And you meant it—God, did you mean it. If biology didn’t care, if the world didn’t matter—you’d let Paige Bueckers ruin your body, mark your life, and carry her forever in you. You’d wear her love, her heat, her name, like it was carved into your bones.

She kissed you softly after that, nowhere near as greedy or hard as before. Just lips to lips. Reverent. Slow. Worshipful.

“C’mon,” she murmured eventually, slipping out from under you and reaching for a robe. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

You let her guide you into the hotel’s oversized bathtub, both of you sinking into the steaming bath she’d set up. She sat behind you, your back against her chest, arms looped gently around your waist.

She washed you with care—her fingers massaging your scalp, rinsing off the sweat, the stickiness, the smeared makeup. All the marks she’d left.

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” she asked quietly, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

You shook your head. “No, you didn’t… Did I?”

She chuckled, warm breath against your cheek.

“Nah,” she whispered. “You were perfect.”

You smiled, closing your eyes and sinking further into her hold.

And there, in the soft glow of the bathroom lights, skin clean, hearts raw, and bodies tangled up beneath the water—you stayed. Letting love settle in the places lust had already scorched. Letting her hold you like she never planned to let go.

Because she didn’t.

And neither did you.

[moonmaiden1996]

Can i get any like thrist for jinshi(apothecary diaries) jinshi content is very much needed for me to stay alive

I understand completely and I got you.

Been sitting on this one for ages. If you want anything specific please let me know!

You weren’t anything remarkable at first glance—at least, that’s what everyone assumed. A court lady, a scribe, a servant—your role was one that kept you in the background, far from the dazzling light that surrounded Jinshi. You were from a good family, but as the fourth daughter, you held little importance. Your future had already been decided: a life of quiet duty as a court secretary, unglamorous and devoid of prospects, unless some ambitious noble sought favor with your father or the Emperor by marrying you.

But Jinshi noticed you. He always noticed you.

It began with fleeting interactions—passing documents, delivering messages, stolen glances across the grand halls of the palace. He should not have given you a second thought. And yet, he did.

At first, he kept his interest in check, treating you as he did any other member of the court. But Jinshi was a man accustomed to admiration, fear, and envy. Women fawned over his beauty, nobles schemed for his favor, and men either resented or revered him. You, however, were different. You were polite, but never simpered. You did your duties without seeking attention. You met his gaze without faltering, and when you spoke, it was with a sharp wit that left him disarmed.

And that—that was what unraveled him.

Jinshi knew better than to act on his emotions. He had a duty, a place as a potential heir, and an entire court watching his every move. But the more he spoke with you, the harder it became to suppress his feelings. It was no longer mere admiration—it was something far more dangerous.

He longed for you.

He wanted to talk to you without pretense. To see you smile—only for him. To touch you without restraint. But he couldn't. Not yet.

There were moments when his resolve almost wavered—when his fingers would brush against yours as he took a document, when his voice softened just a little too much as he said your name. He saw the way others began to notice, the lingering glances from envious court ladies, the whispers in shadowed corridors. If he acted on his feelings now, he would condemn you to a life of scrutiny, of danger. He could not—would not—do that to you.

And so, he endured.

Then one night, under the cover of darkness, he found you in the quietest corner of the palace gardens. You noticed the distant look in his eyes, the tension in his jaw. When you asked what troubled him, Jinshi—for the first time—allowed himself to be selfish.

"I wish I could be just a man," he murmured. "Then I could stand by your side without hesitation."

His words left you confused, unsettled. And then—his hand, cool and delicate as always, brushed against your cheek. It was the gentlest touch, but it sent ripples through your heart. You stiffened, uncertain. The court ladies would kill—literally kill—for even a glance from him, let alone a touch. You thought him drunk. Or worse, playing a game.

But Jinshi was not a man who acted on impulse.

And so, he waited.

The day he was officially disinherited—cast aside from the imperial line—was the happiest day of his life. He was free. No longer a threat. No longer a pawn in the empire’s grand game. And for his loyalty, his brother granted him a single favour—the right to choose his own bride.

He wanted, no needed you.

Not as a calculated move, not as an obligation, but as the man who had loved you all along. Not as Jinshi, the former prince, the untouchable noble, but as Zuigetsu, a man no longer bound by the weight of the throne and could love you freely and completely.

The moment he was free, he sought you out. No more barriers. No more waiting. His hands trembled as they cupped your face, his eyes burning with years of suppressed devotion.

"I have waited long enough," he whispered, his voice raw with emotion. "I won’t wait anymore."

And with that, he kissed you—desperately, fiercely, like a man who had been starving for years.

[keferon]

Drift’s “Dead end” design is my Roman Empire…

Like. His Crystal City look is great. His mtmte look is also great. And the Lost Light one too. But when I look at this specific design eh idk there’s something very special about it. It’s the way he was created by Cybertron if I’m not wrong. I love this colour scheme. It’s so calm and simple.

[sailorsoons]

Dark Gospel (c.hs)

PAIRING: Vernon x afab reader

SUMMARY: After experiencing what you’re sure is a possession, you try to help Vernon get his old self back. Except - Vernon doesn’t want his old self back and you’re not sure you hate the new Vernon either. 

WC: 12,779

AU: Supernatural, Thriller, It’s Complicated to Lovers

GENRE: Smut, A Little Angst

RATING: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging in and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately.

WARNINGS: Light discussions of morality - Vernon has killed people and reader struggles with the fact that she doesn’t care more than she struggles with him having done that, a handful of silly rituals, lots of talk about spiritual possession, mentions of death, brief but nondescript mentions of violence, some philosophizing, me making a Protestant minister an asshole - sorry, this is not a read on Protestants, it just made sense for the plot, Vernon being a lil scary at times and pretty unsettling, Vernon is a little obsessive but specifically in a I Will Do Whatever You Want I’m A Scary Puppy way, explicit language, sexually explicit content including vaginal fingering, nipple play, a lot of spit and biting, oral (f. receiving), unprotected sex, cum eating, multiple orgasms, light breath play/choking. Tbh these two are just… kind of obsessed with one another probably in what would eventually be co-dependant but is not represented here. Also, parts of this are definitely blasphemous like - during the smut scene there’s a lot of religious terms used for description etc. etc so if that bothers you, that’s there. I would classify both of these characters as morally grey, in the grand scheme of things.

A/N: This is the second half of Hello, Darling, despite me swearing I would not write a part II. It is Vernon and the new SVT teaser’s fault. I highly recommend reading the first part of this - I wouldn’t say it can’t be read as a standalone, but it makes more sense with the context of the first fic. 

A/N 2: Thank you @daechwitatamic for beta-reading and calling Vernon Spooky Puppy approximately 15 times.

MASTERLIST | ASK | ▷NOW PLAYING: ASCENSIONISM BY SLEEP TOKEN | READ PREQUEL

WHO MADE YOU LIKE THIS?  WHO ENCRYPTED YOUR DARK GOSPEL IN BODY LANGUAGE? SYNAPSES SNAP BACK IN BLISSFUL ANGUISH TELL ME YOU MET ME IN PAST LIVES, PAST LIE PAST WHAT MIGHT BE EATING ME FROM THE INSIDE, DARLING

SALT BURNS YOUR NOSE. You grimace, realizing you’ve knocked over a candle, the grains of salt charring as the flame nearly goes out. You fix the candle, thankful that salt isn’t flammable. Had it been, the entire circle of salt would have gone up in flames, taking the dilapidated building and everyone inside.

Thankfully, there are only two people inside the building. The term people is a bit generous. You’re certainly human, all flesh and bone, mortal to the very soul. The man occupying the center of the circle, on the other hand, you’re not really sure about. 

You glance at Vernon. He’s staring at you the same way he always does, dark eyes like twin flames. He does that a lot now, watching you more intensely than you can ever recall in your years of friendship. You quickly avert your eyes, fighting the shiver that threatens to slither through you.

From the corner of your eye, you see his mouth twitch. Of course he notices the way he affects you. He notices everything about you - swears that he always has, but isn’t afraid to be more obvious now. You’re not sure the validity of that statement, but Vernon seems to enjoy the effect he has on you, and he’s not shy to tell you so.

For now, he keeps it to himself. You’re grateful, standing and walking the circle of salt to make sure it’s intact while you try not to think about all the other times you’ve salted around him. This is your fourth attempt this month, and though you know Vernon can’t cross the salt, it doesn’t seem to do anything else but serve as a messy - and expensive - sort of cage. 

Prior to that, your experience with salt and Vernon had been at his apartment that night a few weeks ago when the strange murders in your town had all started to make sense - it had been Vernon eliminating the town of its adulterers. Vernon has agreed to stop that for now, and though most people might not believe the recent college student turned serial killer, you do believe him.

The only thing Vernon seems unequivocally dedicated to these days is you and fulfilling your every demand. 

Which is how he ended up in a salt circle now for what must be the eighth ritual you have put him through in a matter of weeks.

Dusting your hands off, you observe your work. You’ve tried salt circles and candles a few times - it had been what you used the night of Vernon’s possession after all - but you’ve tweaked the ritual each time.

Each time is unsuccessful. 

Vernon watches you with hungry eyes, leaning back on his palms. His legs are crossed casually, entirely at ease. The only part of him that appears dialed in is his eyes, tracking your every movement, a predator tuned in to its prey. 

“Stop looking at me like that,” you mutter, turning to your backpack on the floor. 

“Like what?”

“You know like what.”

“Like I want to taste you again?” Your stomach flips and your grip tightens on the notebook you pull from your bag. “Fine, I will try not to look at you like that. Proceed with your little ritual.”

“You agreed to it, you know?”

“Like I said.” He sighs, rolling his head back so that he’s staring at the ceiling. “Your wish is my command. And it’s not going to work - I’m just me. Nothing to get rid of.”

“Well ‘just you’ can’t cross a line of salt, the lights flicker when you get mad, and you make dogs and cats go berzerk. So that can’t be true.”

“It’s my new salt allergy. Maybe it’s you the animals don’t like, hmm?” 

“Vernon.”

He’s grinning at you when you look at him, that ravenous gaze just as present on his face. “It’s a joke, Love. Feel free to laugh at your convenience.” 

Love. Not Lovecraft, like he used to call you, but something new and with weight to it, something intimate, said with a velvet purr that makes your hands sweat. Not darling like the spirit that had - and still might be - possessing him.

You think he is still possessing him, anway. Vernon insists that it’s just him with a new edge, forever changed by that night on Halloween. You cannot imagine it’s just Vernon and not the spirit of the murderer Thomas inside of him. Why else would Vernon have killed those people? Why else would he not be able to cross salt? Why else would strange things happen around him, like flickering lights and eerie feelings? 

The way he looks at you makes you want to implode. He watches you with a new sharpness now, desire written all over his face at all times. He’s looking at you like that now, gaze half-lidded and heady. You ignore him in favor of scanning your scrawled script on the paper, memorizing the words you’re supposed to chant. You nod and toss the journal back onto your bag, wiping your sweaty palms on your jeans before standing in front of the circle. 

Vernon cocks his head up to gaze at you. He looks beautiful like this, his long, silky lashes framing his dark eyes. His face is flickering in shadow from the candles, equal parts demon and angel. Again, you fight the urge to shiver. Instead, you begin walking clockwise, careful not to break the line of salt.

Voice wavering, you whisper, “By salt of earth and flame of will, I break your hold, I bind, I still.” 

A chill seeps into the room. You do shiver this time, not from Vernon watching you, but because of the drop in temperature. The kind that feels like breath on the back of your neck. Goosebumps break out on your arms as you go. Upon a complete rotation, you continue the chant but lean down to extinguish a candle each time you reach it, not daring to look at Vernon each time you bend down to blow on it gently. You swear the shadows stretch just a little longer every time the flame dies, curling like fingers at the edge of your vision.

When you reach the final candle, you risk a glance upward. You’re right in front of him, the orange light reflected in his glassy eyes. He gives you a small smirk, and looks at the candle, as though he’s daring you to blow it out. With a deep breath, you do, bathing the two of you in darkness. For a moment, it’s too quiet.

Moonlight filters through a dirty window on the other side of the room. It turns Vernon into an eerie shadow, nearly blue in the pale light. You hold your breath, watching him as he remains in the center of the salt, unmoving. His outline flickers faintly, like an old film reel catching on something sharp. You can sense he’s still watching you, unnaturally still but just as severe as always. Somewhere behind his eyes, something ancient stares back.

“Well?” You whisper, too afraid to raise your voice. “Are you feeling different?”

“I feel the same as I did early, which means I still want to eat you out. So not really.”

You deflate, sitting down abruptly on the ground. 

“Tough crowd. I thought that would excite you.” 

“Shut up, Vernon!” 

He obeys. As sharp-tongued and wicked of mind this new version of Vernon is, he listens to you. 

Usually.

Silence falls on you as you sit with your elbows propped on your knees, heels of your palms pressed into your eyes. The force of it makes colors explode behind squeezed shut lids. It feels like nothing is going to work, despite making your entire academic career into occult studies with the intention of applying it to understanding modern culture and shaping psychological theories and studies on human behavior. 

For the last few weeks, you’ve spent it going back through all your lessons thus far to take theory and make it applicable. To pilfer through all of your countless books, exams and papers on rituals, culture, and occult through the ages to find something that would work. To find something to explain why Vernon is both Vernon and Not Vernon - anything to convince you that you can reverse whatever this is. 

Do you want to? 

The voice comes to you unbidden, a tiny part of you doubting exactly what you’re doing here. 

Vernon’s voice is soft when he murmurs, “You’ll find something else to try.”

Your hands drop from your face and you stare at him. He looks like an ancient thing, sitting in the dark, but his face is so soft that you fight the urge to crawl over to him and into his lap. You know he would let you - would love if you gave in and did it. His every moment, every look, every word is borderline begging you to touch him, to close the distance between you, to have him again.

“Do you even want me to keep trying?” You ask, exasperated. 

He shrugs. “You want to keep trying.”

“What do you want, though?”

“You.”

Your fists close. Open. Close again. “Vernon.”

“You asked me what I wanted. The answer is the same, no matter how much it annoys you.” 

“Don’t you want me to solve this? Don’t you want me to find out what happened to you?”

His voice is low when he says, “I already told you, there’s nothing to solve. But if you want to keep trying, then I will. I don’t really care about the rest.” Silence falls between you once more. He sighs, shifting to stand. “Will you let me out of my cage?”

“I don’t know. Are you going to hurt anyone?”

“I told you I wouldn’t. Have I broken my promise?” 

He hasn’t. You know it, he knows it. The memory of his promise comes back to you as easily as if it were yesterday: you in his kitchen, chest heaving when you realized he couldn’t cross the salt line. Vernon, trying to lure you back toward him, voice soft. You, screaming that he had killed people, that he was a murderer and not your Vernon. 

Since then, he’s assured you if it bothers you that much, he won’t do it. That had, of course, been after he’d lectured you and vehemently assured you that they deserved it, the vitriol coming out of his mouth and the violence he used in his words enough to make you cower against his living room couch, knees tucked into your chest. 

That had made him shut up. He’d approached you carefully, hands out like you were going to run. And maybe you should have, but it was Vernon, and you love him, and you weren’t totally convinced any of it was real. So you let him coax you back to calm levels, his voice soft and sweet as he promised you he wouldn’t do anything without asking you. That he’d do whatever you wanted. 

He had promised, and he’s lived up to that so far, even if you can tell it chafes him to do so.

Standing, you kick the line of salt, breaking it. He gives you an appreciative hum, stepping through the gap and stretching his limbs. He’s dressed in his usual jeans and t-shirt, the hem riding up to reveal a small flash of smooth stomach. You avert your eyes, shifting from foot-to-foot. 

“Hungry?” He asks. 

“I guess.” 

“Sal’s?”

You nod and follow him out of the room. You’d picked an abandoned house to do this in, hoping that if anything went wrong or you unleashed something worse, that at least it was just you and no one else for miles. 

Gravel crunches beneath your boots. Crickets chirp while a pale moon rises in the sky. Removed from the main town where your college lies, you can see the thousands of stars. You crane your neck upward to look at them, slowing your steps as your eyes trace all the familiar constellations: Orion the Hunter, Canis Major, Draco, Scorpius. 

Looking back down, you notice Vernon leaning against his car, watching you over the roof. He’s got that same burning gaze but a hint of a smile, refusing to look away until you’re sliding in the passenger seat and shutting the door. When he gets in, he pauses to look at you again.

“What?” You ask into the silence, staring straight ahead.

“You’re beautiful when you’re not afraid of me.”

You frown. “I’m not afraid of you.”

He hums and starts the car. “I wish that were true, Love.”

-

Music pulses loud enough to vibrate your ribs. You hate coming to clubs - especially shitty ones in college towns that don’t really have a bottle section but sort of do, with bottle girls who are all in your English classes and who pretend not to know you when they bring another bottle of champagne to your section.

Chan does not need another bottle of champagne. No one does, really. Vernon’s fraternity brothers are falling over themselves, coaxing girls into their laps to secure one to go home with for the night or sinking heavily into the booth, becoming one with the leather. 

One of the boys you don’t know crashes down into the seat next to you. You flinch and he flashes you an apologetic smile, his pupils blown and his goofy grin all you need to know that he’s fucked up. You scoot away from him a little, offering a cautious smile that you hope says I’m awkward don’t talk to me.

Even if he could read, he can’t read body language. He leans over and yells, “You know Chan?”

“Yes. Sort of friends.”

“Nice! We go waaaaaaay back.”

“Cool.”

“So, Sort Of friend. Are you sort of single?”

Thankfully, you don’t have to answer. It feels like the temperature plummets. One second, it’s just you and the nameless friend of Chan’s. The next, Vernon is crouching down on his knees in front of the dude, his eyes fathomless as he levels a stare at him. 

“She’s not available.”

“Woah dude. Chill.”

The air shifts. Vernon needs to say nothing more. Lights flash behind Vernon, painting him in violent colors of red and blue and pink. The shadows under his eyes are darker than ever and you feel a tingle go up your spine, though you’re not sure it’s explicitly fear.

When Vernon smiles, you’re reminded of something uncanny, like you’re looking into a void you shouldn’t be. That does scare you, but it scares the guy next to you more, who jumps to his feet and tries to bolt from the booth. He trips as he does, toppling over and slamming into the table in the middle, sending buckets of ice and bottles exploding in several directions.

Everyone jumps up, trying to avoid the carnage, screaming at the guy as he flails in his own destruction. Vernon slides into the seat next to you, back to normal. Nothing in his face indicates the malice that was there seconds ago, easing back into his quiet demeanor within seconds.

“What was that?” You hiss, though you don’t exactly mind. 

“That,” he emphasizes, giving you a meaningful look, “was me showing restraint like you’ve asked.”

“What, you were going to murder him?”

Vernon blinks and without missing a beat says, “Wanted to and was going to are different. I told you I would do whatever you wanted me to.” His face hardens. “I meant what I said.”

You lean back, entirely unsure what kind of creature you had dedicated to your every whim. 

-

Vernon is pounding on the door. He’s screaming, earth-shattering, heart-stopping screaming. His fists slam against the door with such force that it groans against its frame, hinges shrieking. You scream his name back, bloody fingers scraping against the splintered wood of the door, clawing at it, trying to tear it open, trying to get him out. 

The door doesn’t budge. There’s no doorknob. No keyhole. Just a dead piece of wood, locked and unmoving like it was never made to be opened. 

Vernon has never screamed like this, never sounded so afraid never- 

The door opens with a soft, sickening creak.

Vernon stands there, framed in the dark, unmoving. The shadows cling to him like they’ve grown fond of his shape. You can’t see his face clearly, only the light of his eyes, too still, too glossy. Your chest tightens as you watch him and he watches you, something ancient staring back.

“Vernon?” Your voice shakes. 

When he smiles, it’s slow. Too wide. Too many teeth. Rows and rows of them, glistening sharp, stretching too far. 

When he leaps, you scream-

You wake up screaming, thrashing your arms as your sheets tangle in your limbs. You finally get them off, falling out of your bed to your hands and knees as you gulp down fresh air. You scramble away from your bed, eager to get away from the claws of your dream, shivering and sweaty and terrified. 

In the middle of your room, you sit. You try to catch your breath, staring at the bed where your sheets and pillows have been thrown around during your nightmare. The only source of light in the room is through your window. The moon paints your room silver, the glass open to let in the almost-winter breeze.

On your nightstand, your phone begins to buzz. You stare at it, watching it flash on. You can’t see who's calling, but you don’t move, still frozen in fear. The call goes to voicemail and the phone turns off, dark once more. It’s only a second before it lights up again, a new call coming through.

Gulping, you crawl toward your nightstand, hesitant to come near your bed. Getting up on your knees, you see that it’s Vernon’s name flashing across your screen. You hesitate for a moment, thinking of the rows and rows of teeth from your dream. 

He starts calling a third time and you answer it, hand shaking when you bring it up to your ear. “Hello?”

“What’s wrong?”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. I had a weird feeling.” 

“Weird how?”

“I don’t know. Are you okay?” You hesitate and you hear him moving on the other side of the phone. “Love?”

“I had a bad dream.” 

“I’ll come over.”

“No!” The words are out of your mouth before you can stop them. You feel his trepidation on the other side of the phone. Your hands squeeze your device, knuckles popping. “I mean - can I come there?”

His surprise is just as palpable as yours. “I mean, yeah. Can I come get you?”

“Okay.” 

“Do you want to stay on the phone while I drive?”

“No, it’s okay.” 

“I’ll be there in ten.”

The line goes dead and you stare at your empty bed. You don’t know why you asked to go there. Don’t know why it was the first thing you thought of. Don’t know why or how Vernon knew anything was wrong. What you do know is that you’ve been having nightmares almost every night in your bed, and trying to coax yourself back into the fluffy sheets feels insurmountable.

Instead, you slowly get up and grab a few things for Vernon’s. You don’t know what you need. You don’t know if you’re staying. All you know is that you don’t want to be in your bed, where the nightmares come, and that the last time you were in his bed, you felt safe. 

And then shortly discovered that he was harboring - or had harbored, if you ask him - an entity somewhere inside him.

Still, Vernon’s apartment is where he’d touched you for the first time, where he had pulled you apart and pried his name from your lips like no one ever had. Where he had pressed his mouth on every part of you, promising that you were his, that you were only his, that he would do anything you asked of him, that he was devoted to you. 

Light splashes across your face when he texts you that he’s downstairs. You grab your phone and keys, and a single charger as you do.

Downstairs, Vernon is out of the car and around the hood, hands reaching out to you. You slow your steps but you let him take you by the shoulders, ducking his head so his dark eyes can scan your face. You hold your breath as he does, eyes darting from his intense examination to his lips, where you imagine rows and rows of teeth.

“You look tired,” he murmurs. 

“I’ve been having a lot of nightmares.”

He hesitates. “Of me?” It sounds like he already knows the answer, but you nod anyway. He tongues the inside of his cheek and for a second, you think he’s annoyed. You start to bristle, but he softens and nods, dropping his hands to your wrist where he gives you a squeeze. “Come on.”

Despite everything, you follow him. You let him open the door to his car and put you inside, closing the door gently behind you. You let him put the car in gear, his hand reaching across the center console, hovering above your thigh. You stare at his hand for a few long moments, watching it waver. 

You want him to touch you. You don’t want to acknowledge what it means that you want him to touch you, despite everything. 

You give him a tiny, barely-there nod. His hand drops down softly on your thigh, giving you a gentle squeeze. Goosebumps break out across your skin and your eyelashes flutter, immediately at ease. He starts to drive, the sound of the tires against the road and the engine lulling you into a sense of calm. 

Settling against the headrest, you let your eyes close. You don’t want to think about anything but the heat of his fingers on your skin, his thumb brushing back and forth, featherlight and loving. Later, you can think about what it means that you’re here with him. Later you can regret what you’re doing. 

Vernon’s apartment appears against a black sky. It looks no different than the last time you were here. He stops in the parking lot and holds a hand out to you. His face is soft, but his eyes are sharp as always. Carefully, you slip your hand into his. It’s warm and firm, wrapping around yours and tugging you gently toward the stairs, keeping you moving even when your trepidation grows and your steps get heavier. 

His neighbor's doormat catches your eye. Come in, it says. You stare at it long enough that he notices, turning over his shoulder to glance at it and ask, “What? No joke about vampires this time?”

“Last time I didn’t think they were real.”

“And now?”

“I don’t know what’s real.” 

He hums noncommittal as he works the lock with his keys. 

Inside of Vernon’s apartment smells like him. You feel a sense of relief, breathing in the smell of bergamot and vetiver, unsure if you had expected sulfur and something rotting. It looks normal as ever inside. Vernon’s home looks lived in, tidy but with pairs of shoes by the door, a blanket thrown across the arm of the couch and a few video game controllers on the coffee table.

Vernon toes off his shoes before drifting toward his bedroom. The doorway is a gaping hole of darkness and you feel yourself hesitate before calming yourself and following him, too nervous to linger alone. 

He switches on a salt lamp and soft, orange light fills the room. It helps put you at ease. You drop your stuff on his dresser, phone, charger and keys. You don’t know what else to do, turning to look at Vernon as he pulls the blankets back and sits on the bed, swinging his feet in.

“Gonna stand there?” He asks, grabbing pillows and shoving them against the headboard. He leans back on them, draping his arm across the tops. “Come here.” 

“I didn’t come here to sleep with you.” He narrows his eyes. “I meant like sex. I didn’t come here to have sex with you.”

“I know. You came here for comfort.” 

Well, yes. You feel hot all over, flushed head to toe with embarrassment. For once, he doesn’t prod you about it, watching you patiently as you scramble over to the other side of the bed and climb in. His sheets are soft and warm as ever, mattress sinking as you slide over next to him. 

Before you can get too close, you freeze up. You don’t know where you stand, suddenly. A few weeks ago, he was just Vernon, your best friend. Sure you’d been in love with him and he hadn’t known, but now he does know. And circumstances have changed since the admission of feelings. You haven’t been this close in weeks and-

Vernon wraps an arm around your waist and tugs you to him. You make a small sound of surprise and he laughs, low and deep in his throat. The sound scratches something inside of you, making your toes curl as you stiffen for a split second while he melds you to his side.

Then you melt. He’s warm and smells like he always has, his arm tethering you to him. Tentatively, you rest your head on his shoulder. He shuffles a little so that your head fits perfectly in the crook of his neck, comfortable. You’re pressed close to his side, your hands pulling nervously at the strings of your hoodie. 

“Do you want to tell me about it?” His question rumbles through you where you’re leaning against him. His voice is deep and soft, a lullaby. Your eyes flutter and you shake your head. “I would never hurt you. Ever. I know you’re afraid of me but… you don’t have to be.”

“I’m not afraid of you.”

“Then what are you afraid of?”

You chew your bottom lip. “I’m afraid of me.”

“Explain.” 

Vernon is patient. Even this new version of him lets you find your words without pushing you to go faster. You think of how to explain, starting with halting sentences. “You’ve killed people.”

“Three, specifically.”

“Does that bother you?”

He doesn’t answer for a second. “They weren’t very good people.”

“Cheating is bad, but killing them?”

“Ah,” Vernon chuckles without humor. “I think I understand now. Would it make you feel better if I told you all of the bad things they did? Would it change anything to know they weren’t just guilty of adultery?” You don’t answer. “You don’t like that I killed people but what you’re having trouble with is the fact that you want to overlook it and you don’t like how that feels.”

As always, Vernon is on the nose with his guess. He’s always been able to pin down how you feel quickly, and it both relieves you and terrifies you to know that hasn’t changed. Killing people is wrong. You know that. But it’s how unbothered you are that sticks with you, this inability to figure out why there’s a desire to rationalize it, to let Vernon convince you his actions were justified. 

“You have an excuse,” you mumble. “You’re possessed by some sort of murderer.”

“I am not.

“I’m just… me.”

“People are complex. Wrestling with your own morality is natural. But I advise you not to let it drive you crazy.”

You snort. 

“What?”

“Getting advice from someone who is possessed-”

“-Again, it’s just me-”

“Is kind of silly.” 

“Then stop listening to my advice and go to bed, Love.” 

It’s the final piece you let him give you for the night, nodding and letting your eyes fall closed. The steady rhythm of Vernon’s heart lulls you into a trance until you’re drifting to sleep with the smell of bergamot and vetiver and no nightmares to plague you.

-

“Why don’t you add salt to your fries, hmmm?”

Veron looks up at you, deadpan. You give him a plasticky grin, grabbing the red pepper to shake over your pizza slices. As he has for the last few weeks, Vernon avoids the salt on his fries. Still likes them just as much as before, but can’t seem to tolerate more than the standard level of seasoned they come. 

Cool breeze slithers down your back when someone walks in behind you. Your booth is right by the door, giving you an icy blast everytime a new patron comes in. Vernon already made you give him the side closest to the door, but you’d managed to keep him from demanding the hostess move you somewhere else. 

A group of men sit down behind you in the booth. They sit down hard, making the back of your seat lurch forward.  You swear, turning to look at them over the shoulder as they spread out like they’re lounging at home all over the table and seat. 

Above you, the lights flicker. A low hum rides the air, barely audible, like static through bone. You whip your head around to look at Vernon. His gaze has turned to steel, unblinking and far too still. His fist tightens around his fork until the metal groans, knuckles leached of color. The air feels charged, like the moment before a lightning strike. You whisper his name but the flickering lights continue, drawing the attention of several patrons, all of them craning their neck upwards. 

A bulb pops at the table behind you. The men yell in surprise, causing the booth to rock. Your hand shoots out across the table, grabbing Vernon’s hand and squeezing. Immediately, the electrical anomaly stops and his gaze shifts to you, going soft at the edges. 

“Are you okay?” You ask, soft.

“Are you?”

“Yes, Vernon. You can’t go all Paranormal Activity every time someone annoys me.”

He frowns at that. “Says who?”

“Says me. Please.”

He sighs and lets his head thunk against the back of the booth. “Fine. I will add it to the list of don’ts, right alongside murder.”

“Ugh.” You let go of his hand and steal a fry. “Enough complaining about the murder rule, Vernon.”

-

Cracking your neck, you look down at the notes scribbled in front of you. Your writing is scrawled and going off the lines in your notebook, getting messier the further down the page you get. You drop the pen, flexing your fingers to try and get some feeling back into them. You’ve been taking notes for hours, your note-taking starting off neat and with organization before devolving into a messy script you can barely read. 

Stacks of books sit in front of you. Most are from your own collection, but there are a handful that come from the basement level of the library in plastic covers to protect the integrity of the book, yellowed at the edges and a little more than grimey. 

Leaning back in your seat, your spine cracks. You sigh in relief, stiff from spending hours leaned over the table. You’d commandeered a table bigger than you need, spreading yourself out - much to the annoyance and heavy side-eye of everyone else in the library - taking up as much room as possible so no one else would sit next to you.

Several of the boys behind you have already tried to smooth talk their way into the seat. Normally you might let them, but the last thing you need is for them to look over your shoulder and see you’re researching the history of possession and demonology. 

Also, you don’t want to give them your phone number, no matter how many times they ask. 

A backpack lands on the table in front of you, making you flinch. You tear off your headphones, ready to bitch out whoever it is when you realize it’s Vernon. You stare at him in surprise, watching him pullout the chair and throw himself into the seat. 

“Oh my God,” you gasp. “You cut off your hair.”

“Mhmm.” He runs a hand over his hair. It’s barely longer than a buzz cut, dark and fuzzy and soft. “Like it?”

At first, you don’t say anything. You drag your eyes over him, assessing. Today he’s in a leather jacket over a worn baseball t-shirt, ripped jeans and a beat up pair of converse. It’s a quintessential Vernon outfit, but it looks different now - better, even, with the short hair. 

“I do.” 

“Good.” He winks at you, making your stomach flip. His eyes drift over your shoulder, spotting something in the library that’s caught his interest. “What did you want to meet about?” 

“So, I’ve been doing some research.”

His eyes briefly scan the table, a single brow arching. “You don’t say?”

“Shut up.” You throw a pen at him but there’s no real heat to your words. “I’m wondering if I’m coming at this from the wrong angle.”

His dark eyes are looking over you again, but he says, “Yes. You’re looking at it from the point of view of someone who thinks I’m still possessed. I’m not.”

“No. I’m looking at it like you were possessed by a spirit, but I’m wondering if maybe it was a demon.” He snorts and says nothing. “There are some essays and source materials that believe disgruntled spirits eventually become demonic entities. I’ve been looking up rituals on spiritual banishment and purification, but not demonic - are you listening?”

Vernon’s gaze is burning on something behind you. He doesn’t answer, his eyes narrowed and flickering. You lean forward, throwing the cap of your pen at him. It bounces on the table and joins its body, rolling uselessly to the side. 

“Vernon.” His eyes snap back to you. “What is so interesting behind me?”

“Have they been bothering you?” He nods to something behind you. 

You twist in your seat, turning to look at the table of boys who had sent over one at a time to try and join you. Only one of them looks in your direction, lifting his head and grinning when he sees you’re looking. Rolling your eyes, you turn back to tell Vernon it’s nothing, but he’s already out of his seat and walking around the table.

Eyes like daggers, he gives them a single annoyed glance before he pulls out the seat next to you and drops into it. He kicks out his foot and hooks the toe of his Converse around the leg, pulling you toward him until your seats clack together and you’re thigh to thigh.

Vetiver and bergamot flood your senses, heavenly and heady. 

“What are you-”

“Demonic possession?” He purrs, voice turning to smoke. He leans toward you, laying his arm across the back of your chair. “You were telling me I’m a demon.”

“That’s not - why are you sitting so close?” 

“We’ve been closer.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I just like sitting next to you.” He taps the page with his free hand, mouth twitching. “Focus, baby. Tell me what you learned.” 

You turn molten at the name of endearment. Baby is new. Catches you off guard. You sputter as you try to reach for  your notes, suddenly not remembering what books are where, all of the things you just absorbed from them flowing right out of your head.

Vernon makes it even worse. His fingers start to play with the edge of your t-shirt sleeve, fingers occasionally brushing your arm and sending a pool of warmth blooming across your skin. His nearness is intoxicating, thoughts a little foggy. 

“Problem?” 

“You’re being a little shit,” you shoot back, huffing. He laughs - loudly - making other people flinch. “Stop flustering me. I know you’re doing it on purpose.”

“But you are flustered?” 

“Yes, Vernon. Do you want me to tell you what I found or not?” 

His voice is warm when he teases, “I’d rather keep making you squirm.” 

“Ugh. I am out of pens to throw at you.”

“Sorry. Proceed. You have my undivided attention, I promise.” 

Somehow, you manage to get through your messily written notes and your research. It was hard to compile the research, but you feel like maybe you’re on track with your new theory that Thomas, the spirit who had - in Vernon’s opinion briefly possessed him and in your opinion is still there - hadn’t been a spirit at the time of possession, but rather perhaps a demon.

It’s a working theory that because Thomas was bound to his place of death through violent and unresolved emotion, he not only became a disturbed entity, but was warped by his anger and grief, shifting into something darker. Most research on demons was clear cut that they were creatures from another dimension, but spirits aren’t of this dimension either.

Because everything you’ve tried so far for a spiritual dispelling hasn’t worked, you think perhaps Thomas’s spirit had morphed into something more proto-demonic in nature. There isn’t much to go off of, but the structure for your theory is there, even if made from toothpick-weak data and suppositions. 

Vernon listens the entire time. His fingers still trace your arm absently, tracing aimless patterns. When you finish and look at him, he seems thoughtful, dark eyes unfocused. When he looks up at you, his smile is small.

“So what do you want to try this time?”

“Maybe a priest-” 

He groans and drops his head back. 

You quickly continue, “Just to start, okay? I want to test my theory.” 

“I’m not a demon.”

“Well, we don’t really know, do we?”

“We already went to a church.” 

You pout and he sighs. “When do you want to go?” 

-

White paint peels off the church. It’s an old building with crooked, dry rotted steps outside. It’s a small church with a single steeple. You can see the bells just beyond the window, currently silent as the crickets take up chorus around you. 

The sign out front is worn and sunbleached. Trinity Cross Chapel is carved across the front, whatever phrase from the Bible written under it long faded. You’d chosen an old Protestant church to test your hypothesis, partially because it was far on the edge of town where the risk was lower if Vernon turned into a demon, and partially because according to the town registry, it was the oldest church in town.

And well - because Protestants were pretty serious about absolving themselves from sin and that salvation alone could only be reached through Jesus Christ himself. Perhaps if anyone could tell you what was wrong with Vernon, it was Jesus. 

“This place is a shithole,” Vernon observes, hands in his pockets.

Alright, perhaps Jesus wouldn’t want to help Vernon. You shoot him a glare and plunge ahead, rocks and dirt crackling beneath your shoes. Vernon follows you at a leisurely place, giving the building a critical eye.

“It’s worse for wear,” you admit, heading to the steps. “But it’s old and largely underfunded because when the college was built, the town moved to be centered around the college and not the church.” 

When your foot lands on the first step, it cracks and your foot falls through. You yelp but Vernon’s hands are on your waist immediately, his chest pressed against your back as he steadies you. He’s so close that your heart goes from hammering at the fear of falling to thundering over his proximity.

“Are you okay?” His breath fans your ear where he asks, almost a whisper. You nod, a little out of breath. “Be careful. Let me help.” 

Gently, Vernon guides you up the rest of the steps. None of the other ones cave in, though they do creak ominously. You scurry inside of the building, eager to get on more even ground before you plunge through the entryway. 

Inside smells like mold and wet carpets. You scrunch up your nose, looking at the faded and stained red shag beneath your shoes. Rows and rows of wooden pews line the church, book-ended with walls of stained glass windows. You peer at the imagery as you walk down the aisle, hands hovering above the pews as you go.

The stained glass is lovely. You imagine during the day it’s stunning, the sun hitting each piece to refract into thousands of colors. You recognize each piece of artwork from your study on Christian religions: The Baptism of Jesus, The Lamb of God, Saint Paul with his sword and book, The Resurrection. Each one is meticulously crafted, dark without the sun to bring them to life. 

Each piece makes you think of Vernon. There is a haunted beauty about them that has you looking at him sideways as you walk. He seems unaware, craning his head to look up at the old, cracked rafters of the ceiling. 

At the front of the church is the chancel with a lectern front and center. Behind the lectern is a communion table, banners with scriptures fastened to the wall, and some seasonal decor. Vernon walks closely behind you, uncharacteristically silent as you head for a man sitting in the front row, head bowed. 

“Minister?” 

Your voice brings the man out of his reverie. He’s somewhere in his late forties, hair greying at the edges. He has sharp blue eyes and heavy frown lines, his eyes looking you up and down before drifting to Vernon. His mouth turns down as he stands, adjusting the simple robes he has on.

“This him?” 

“Him has a name,” Vernon mutters at the same time you say yes. 

“Come with me.” 

The minister turns on his heel and marches toward one of the side doors behind the pulpit. You hurry after him, Vernon hot on your heels muttering, “You called ahead?” 

“Well yeah… what else was I going to do? Walk in and be like ‘yo is this guy possessed?’” 

“Might be possessed.”

“So you admit you might-”

Vernon swears. “Love, that is not what I meant. I can’t give you an inch, huh?” 

The back offices of the church are stuffy, full of tepid air and dust. You sneeze and Vernon mutters bless you, his tone sharp. You give him a look and he grins, wicked and sharp. “See?” He whispers. “Bless you.”

“Well don’t stand in the hall,” the minister quips. 

“Sorry.”

You rush after him where he holds the door to his office open, Vernon still muttering obscenities under his breath - you’re pretty sure he has called the minister five types of cunt by now. The minister leans away from him when Vernon walks by, partially to be safe and partially because Vernon leers at him. You whisper at him to cut it out, hand shooting out to grab his hand and pull him to sit in the seat next to you. 

Rounding the heavy desk, the minister sits down. His desk is full of ledges and books, religious imagery covering the walls. It smells damp and stale, making you scrunch your nose. It distinctly reminds you of your grandma's closet with moth-eaten coats and water stains on the carpet. 

“Tell me his ailments.” The minister folds his hands under this chin, watching you with sharp eyes. “Be thorough.” 

“I have a name,” Vernon growls.

The look the minister gives him tells you he’s taking mental notes. You clear your throat, leaning forward. You reach your hand over to Vernon, resting it on his knee and squeezing comfortingly. The minister’s eyes don’t miss the motion, narrowing when you leave your hand on Vernon’s leg. 

“It started on Halloween,” you explain, recounting the ritual and some of the side effects Vernon has experienced since then. Vernon sits in steely silence, his eyes boring into the minister’s head as you talk. You skip over the murders but imply that Vernon has more violent urges. “I was researching and-”

“Leave the research to the professionals, girl.”

That pulls you up short. “I am a professional, sir. Or - well - I will be. I’m an occult studies major, so this is sort of my expertise but-”

“Occult studies major,” he scoffs. “Nonsense. The only study you need is the word of God. Perhaps you wouldn’t be in this mess in the first place and reeking of sin.” When he says the word sin, he looks at where you’re touching Vernon. “The ritual is nothing. You could not have summoned anything that wasn’t already there. You are possessed by the sin that poisons-”

“I’m sorry,” you interrupt, shaking your head. “The ritual wasn’t exactly formal, but it had all the right materials to summon an entity.” 

“You know nothing. You come into a house of God with this nonsense talking about rituals and bells because you read them in a book, as though they’re on par with the Word?”

You open and close your mouth, confused at the turn of events. The minister presses on, “Your paganism is just as much as a sin as drinking in an abandoned house and giving into lust and gluttonous pride and other salacious acts. If you are looking for demons, it is the ones you already carry inside of you and must purge through confession and devotion to Jesus Christ.”

“Wow.” You lean back in the chair. Vernon’s muscles have gone taught in his thigh, his shoulders ridgid and his nails digging into the wooden arms of the chair. “This is not at all what we’re here for. By the way - there is nothing wrong with paganism. I would argue that historically most religions, including branches of Christianity, are full of paganism. You have rituals and-”

The minster sits up straight, slamming a hand on his desk. “The truth of God stands apart from the lies of paganism. What I see here is not a victim of a pagan ritual, but two young adults brimming with sin who should confess their sins to Jesus Christ to absolve-”

“Lies of paganism? You can’t erase where things come from, you know? Religions all borrow from one another- symbols, holidays, whatever. One is not less valid than-”

“Only the Word is valid.” 

You bring up a hand, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Look, minister, I came here to help if you could identify demonic energies or symptoms in Vernon. This has turned into a religious lecture, and I’m not arguing with you on the semantics of scripture.” 

“I sense deep darkness in both of you. You can’t even speak to me without touching him, full of gluttonous-”

Vernon gets up, interrupting the minister. “We’re going.” 

“You should beg for guidance and confess-”

“Shut the fuck up,” Vernon growls, leveling the minister with a stare. He bends down to pull you to your feet, his glare softening slightly when he looks at you. “He’s an idiot. You’re having an academic argument, he’s pissed off because he’s popped a boner under his robe and can’t do anything about it because I’m here.”

“I beg your pardon!” 

Vernon crowds you against the side of the chair. He presses in close, ducking his head to press his forehead against yours, nose nudging against you. When he speaks, his voice is velvet-soft and barely a whisper. “And he probably hates that he could never fuck you the way that I do and I know all the little sounds you make.” 

It feels like the air has evaporated from the room. Vernon’s eyes are only for you, his pupils dilated, completely trained on your eyes. His breath fans your face, his hands pressing against the small of your back as though he can press you any closer to him. 

Dizzy, you try to say his name, acutely aware of the minister yelling at the two of you to get out. Vernon gives you a chaste kiss on the lips before turning to look at the minster, a sneer on his face. He looks more terrifying than you’ve ever seen him, but his grip on you is firm. Warm. Strangely enough, safe. 

“She’s ten times the brain that you are. Cunt.” 

Vernon’s lip twitches like he’s going to snarl. Instead, he turns and heads toward the door, hand shooting down to yours to tug you along. You stumble after him, unable to find words but wanting to stay close. Your heart hammers, mind spinning from how quickly the situation had spiralled out of control. You’d just wanted the minister to do some sort of demon test and-

“Don’t beat yourself up over it,” Vernon admonishes, escorting you out of the church. He’s careful with you down the steps, lifting  you by the waist to let you skip the last step entirely. He plants you firmly on the ground. “He was a fanatical dick. Maybe next time we do a new wave church or something.”

“You’re going to let me do a next time?”

His mouth kicks up at the side. “I know you’re not done, Love.” 

-

Vernon swings his legs back and forth, watching you rub cleanser into your face. You’ve given up on asking him why he likes to sit in the bathroom while you do your skincare. ‘Cause I like you was always the response, or some similar variation. You don’t mind. It’s endearing, and you’ve wanted to have Vernon like this… well, since forever. 

Usually, you use this time to talk your way through things you want to try to help free him from possession - lack thereof, he asserts - but tonight you’re quiet. The water is warm as you splash it onto your face, melting the cleanser away and leaving nothing but blotchy, irritated skin. 

You pat dry your face, avoiding looking in the mirror. 

“What’s wrong?” Vernon’s question is soft. You look up at him, eyes round. “You’re extra quiet tonight.” 

“Oh. Thinking, I guess.”

“About what?” 

About everything. Somehow, this has become your new normal. You’re not entirely sure what to make of it, or the fact that it’s been weeks and Vernon genuinely shows no other signs of having an entity inside him. It’s more like he is the entity now.  

Before, Vernon had always been a little on the sardonic side. But it had been quiet, his sharp words muttered, not spoken, his irritation silent, not voiced. In a way, it was the same way with his feelings for you. He’d revealed that he’d liked you as more than a friend for years, angry at how much of a coward he’d been and how it had taken motivation to make him say anything.

The Vernon who chose hiding and restraint was now replaced with a Vernon who asserted himself and could barely hold back. It was different. Not bad, different, just different. You liked the old Vernon but… you don’t dislike this Vernon, either. He still has the makings of his normal self, still interested in all the same books and video games, content to lose to Mingyu in Fortnite over and over, the same Vernon who likes movies and music and Sal’s Pizzeria. 

Vernon gently taps a knuckle underneath your chin, getting your attention. “Tell me.” 

“I was sort of wondering if the minister was right.”

He scoffs. “What?”

“Okay maybe not about the sin and everything but more like… I don’t know.”

Vernon senses your train of thought. “You still don’t like that you don’t care I killed people.” 

You wince at his words. They are sharp and real and more honest than you can voice. Unable to find the courage to agree out loud, you nod your head. 

Gently, Vernon reaches for you. You let him grab you by the biceps and navigate you so that you’re standing between his knees. He squeezes his legs shut, pining you to the spot, albeit gently. His gaze is soft when he looks down at you, his hands playing with your fingers. 

“I can’t tell you how to feel,” he starts. “I can tell you… look, let me tell you what those first three nights were like. And why I don’t think I’m possessed, alright? This is just… me. A little different, but me, okay?” 

Chewing your lip, you nod. His gaze falls down to where he plays with your fingers. “I definitely was possessed, that first night on Halloween. I have no idea how Soonyoung managed a ritual that was done right.” You pinch him and he laughs. “Yeah, right. You were sort of the linchpin. In that closet, I… felt taken over, like I was suddenly shoved in a box and flooded with emotions and rage and hate but more than that? Fear.” 

“I’m sorry.”

He shakes his head. “Don’t be. Then it got sort of quiet and I felt really disconnected. You left so fast and I didn’t even go after you because it felt like I was grappling with myself and I felt a little lost. When I went home is when the real mess started. I had all these thoughts and memories that weren’t mine, all these feelings and images and knowledge. It was overwhelming.”

“Is that why you avoided me?”

“Yes, but I was also just full of anger. Not just at things that didn’t belong to me, but things that did. A lot of it was at myself for wandering through life never voicing what I wanted or never taking action or just sort of… riding in the backseat, I guess.” 

“Really?”

“Yeah. And having the presence of someone else there was like - fuck it was like being in the backseat again. It made me pissed and I just sort of grappled with the spirit for what felt like days until I woke up and I was just… me. But there are random pieces that belong to him, I think. Like sort of an impression?”

“Is the… murder, one?”

“I don’t really know, Love.”

You bite the inside of your cheek. “I remember seeing him kill that woman he loved and then himself and my first thought was that I could never do that. I could never kill you. Regardless of what you ever did to me, I vowed that I would do anything for you. But on the other hand, it made me so angry to think anyone could do that to someone they cherished. I would set the world on fucking fire for you - how could others not feel that way when they love someone?” 

Love someone. Vernon has never explicitly said that he loved you or was in love with you. He’s implied it - talked about you like he loves you or alluded to it. But now it’s out in the open as he speaks, a full admission that you are someone he loves that he would do anything for you. 

“And then I saw those people who weren’t only cheating on people who loved them,” he murmurs. “But they were also terrible people. Like full of such shitty things they’ve done and I just… What if those people ever came across your path? Would they fuck you over? Would they cheat on you?” 

Panic grips you. Vernon feels you go rigid in his grip and he looks up at you, realizing what he’s said. He shakes his head quickly, tightening his hands on  you. “No - sorry. I didn’t do it because of you, that came out wrong. Please don’t - that isn’t what I meant. It isn’t your fault. I just couldn’t stop thinking about how the world would be better without them so I just… did it.” 

“Vernon…”

“I swear to you, it wasn’t for you. It was… for everyone? I don’t know. I cannot stand the thought of fucking scum walking the earth like that, so I did something about it.”

“And then you stopped.”

He looks up at you, a bit sulky. “What you want is more important to me. But my point is… I don’t really know what to do with the fact that I don’t care about what I did either. And even if you don’t care, it doesn’t mean you’re a monster or anything. It just makes you the person I want most in the world, still.” 

It’s terrifying, this profession from him. To realize that you have this much power over him, this much sway is overwhelming. Pinned between his knees, your thoughts race with no direction, pulled in so many different ways. This kind of love is everything - and  yet it scares you. But if you step away from him now, if you pull away in the slightest, you know it’ll do irreparable damage. That it’ll hurt. 

“Can we go to bed?” You whisper, daring a glance at him. 

Vernon nods, sliding off the counter. As he does, you shuffle backward, but not far enough to be out of reach. He lifts his hands to your face, cradling it gently and angling you to look at him. “I’m me. A little weirder. A little less refined. But I’m me.” 

He’s right. You hear the truth in his words and you realize perhaps that’s why you don’t care about the blood on his hands. Because it is Vernon, and he’s yours. You don’t care because you love him, and you’d do anything for him too. Which is why you’ve spent weeks researching a way to free him - from nothing, you’re starting to suspect - and why you’ve not taken a single opportunity to turn him in. 

“You’re you,” you agree softly. He smiles and you stand on the tips of your toes, pressing your mouth to his. He makes a surprised sound but you feel his grin grow wider for a split second before he kisses you back in earnest, soft and slow. “Remember what you said to the minister?”

The question catches him off guard, his lips ghost against yours when you break the kiss. “What?”

“That he can’t fuck me like you do.”

Vernon’s grip on your face turns firm. He presses his forehead to yours, eyes flashing. “I meant it.”

“Do it.” 

“Yeah?”

You nod, leaning into him. “Show me.” 

“Fucking say less,” Vernon growls, pulling your lips to his again.

This kiss is all-consuming, needy. Vernon’s fingers slide to the sides of your neck, angling you to deepen the kiss. Your pulse hammers against his fingers, mouth sliding along his. His tongue presses against yours, hungry. You meet him with equal fervor, weeks of holding yourself breaking though.

Somehow, Vernon manages to walk you backward. You cling to his arms, careful not to trip over your own feet until you’re falling backward onto his mattress. It smells like him - safe. He reaches behind his head, gripping the collar of his shirt and yanking it up and over. Propped on your elbow, you watch him. He throws the shirt and then he’s on you again, pushing you back gently so he can climb on top of you, a knee on either side of your waist.

Vernon’s skin is burning hot. Your fingers trace his lines, making him moan into your mouth as he kisses you furiously again. Your heart hammers so hard in your chest you can feel it, a racing rhythm that backtracks the sound of your heavy breathing when he breaks the kiss to pepper your jaw and neck in warm, wet kisses. 

Your lids flutter, stomach flipping when he bites down on your neck harshly, soothing the sting with a rough swipe of his tongue. It feels so good, a slow but steady ache spreading between your thighs as he busies himself with sucking fervently at your collarbone. 

Slipping your hands around his tapered waist, you scratch your nails up his back, not hard enough to leave marks but firm enough to make him groan and shiver. You grin, arching up into him as your hands explore the muscled planes of his back.

Your hips squirm, canting up against him seeking friction. He laughs, dragging his mouth from your neck to your lips, mumbling, “Need help?”

“Don’t laugh at me.”

“I’m not, baby. It’s cute.” 

Baby. You whine, hips thrashing and he grins before silencing you with a sweet kiss before reaching down to slide a leg open, replacing the open space between your knees with his thigh. A thrill shoots through you when he brings it up to your core, one of his hands dropping to your ass to help grind you against him. 

“Come on,” he urges, licking your jawline. “You know you want to.”

You do. You roll your hips, dragging your clothed cunt along his sweats. It’s not nearly enough friction to do anything significant but it still feels good, turning your body static.

Vernon slides his hands under your shirt, bunching up the material as he slides upward to rid you of it. The room is cool, your skin pebbling and nipples tightening at the temperature. Vernon immediately sends a lick of heat through your, dropping down to capture a nipple in his greedy mouth.

“Shit,” you whisper, eyes closing. It feels so good, his tongue swirling lazily around the bud as you grind against his thigh. “Feels good.” 

Teeth scrape against your sensitive skin. You let out a breathy sound, eyes rolling back. You give Vernon control easily, letting him work you up. It’s sweltering between your bodies, his skin warm against yours, the air charged. You can barely breathe, head falling to the side as he lavishes attention to your chest, your little rolls against his thigh desperate. 

One of Vernon’s hands slips to your waist, firm and sure. He lifts himself off you and you protest but he hushes you with a quick, hungry kiss. His breath is warm against your cheek when he pulls back, shifting to kneel between your legs on the bed. 

His fingers find the waistband of your sleep shorts, slow and deliberate. The fabric scrapes against your skin soft-slow, like Vernon is unwrapping something sacred. The cool air hits your skin with equal intensity as his stare, dark and focused. There’s no teasing smirk anymore, replaced with a desire so powerful you start to squirm. 

Then he’s on you again, mouth crashing against yours, deep and messy, all tongue and teeth and spit. He kisses you like he’s trying to become one with you, like he needs to taste every sound and whimper and noise you make. You can hardly keep up before his hand presses between your legs, fingers sliding over the front of your panties, pressing into the heat and slick of your cunt through the fabric. 

And fuck it feels good. 

One of his hands stays there, circling your clit with firm, steady pressure, rubbing the soaked fabric against you. The other creeps upward, fingertips brushing your chest, your collarbone, until it finds home at your neck. His palm settles there, warm and weighty, and you feel him shift his grip just enough to pin you gently to the mattress. It’s not tight, not rough, just present. Possessive. Perfect.

You thrum beneath him, the room tilting on its axis, slow and dreamline. You feel lightheaded, not just from the stimulation building in your core, but from the soft restraint of his hand around your neck. He’s not squeezing just yet, but the pressure is enough to remind you that it’s Venron in control, a promise of more that sends a thrill through you. If you want it. 

You do want it. Your hand stretches up without thinking, shaking fingers curling around his where he grips your throat. You give him a gentle squeeze, a plea. His glaze flicks down to yours, searching. He seems mystified by what he sees there for a moment, swearing before he nods once, barely perceptible, before tightening his grip just enough to send a tingle down your spine. Not too much. Not too tight. Just enough to make your body sing. 

Vernon presses his forehead against yours, mouth barely brushing your lips. Your breathing is coming harder now, trying to keep up with the way your body is vibrating at his touch. 

“You’re so perfect,” he murmurs, voice gravelly and reverent. He slips a hand under the waistband of your underwear, fingers hooking the edge to pull the damp fabric aside, revealing the slick warmth underneath. He groans softly at the feel of you against his fingers, sticky. You moan and he curses again. “There it is. You sound so pretty, baby.” 

That spurs you on. You make more sounds for him, gasping when his fingers circle your clit properly. Your thighs twitch in response, nearly closing around his hand. He tuts, pressing his mouth against your jaw. “Feel good?”

“Yes,” you whine. His grip tightens a bit more. “Yeah. Yeah like that.”

He pecks your cheek and does as you ask, squeezing the barest hint more. 

You start to fray at the edges. You feel yourself coming apart, incapable of doing anything but shaking under his ministrations. Having him touch you like this again is good. You don’t want anything else, happy that you’re here again. You don’t care about the cost, don’t care what it means anymore. It’s just you and Vernon and his hand between your legs, pulling a long, drawn out orgasm that has you trembling quietly in his hold.

When you let out your breath, orgasm subsiding, Vernon moves. He lets go of your throat, the sudden loss bringing the blood back, rushing. The room turns on its axis, your eyes fluttering as he shuffles down the bed, his hands pressing your thighs open. 

“Vernon.” His name leaves your mouth, hand shooting to grab him by his short locks when he presses his tongue to you. You can barely breathe, shaking when he slowly licks up your cum, not wasting a drop. “Fuuuuck.”

“Taste so fucking good,” he mumbles against your cunt, tongue lazily licking you in circles. “Missed this so fucking much.”

Vernon’s tongue is addicting. He’s messy with it, closing his lips around your clit to give greedy sucks before dragging his mouth down to prod at your entrance. You shake under the attention of his mouth, barely able to do a thing. 

His tongue drags slowly, warm and wet as he licks you at his own lazy pace. You realize this is for him. He savors the way you melt in his mouth, the little sounds you make when his tongue flicks back and forth on your clit, the way you cry when he fucks his tongue into your entrance, nose bumping your clit. 

It’s maddening. His tongue traces along your entrance, collecting arousal before curling back up to lap at your clit. It feels like your blood has turned into electricity, your veins the conductors, Vernon’s mouth the source. He hums against you, enjoying this as he gives your cunt sloppy, open-mouthed kisses. 

“Shit,” you hiss. He’s going to make you come again. You’re not even sure that’s his goal. He seems more focused on tasting you, on drinking you in, on running his tongue around and around on your sensitive flesh. 

He hums, looking up at you with a mouth full of pussy. You see the gleam in his eye, see how much he wants this, watch as he grins and puts on a show for you, opening up his mouth and holding his tongue flat to your pussy, letting you roll your hips to fuck his tongue. 

Vernon nods, little mumbles of mhmmm as you near your high. He lets you take control, riding his tongue until you’re spasming, thighs squeezing his head. He doesn’t care, tongue moving back and forth, keeping you shaking as long as he can until you’re twitching, pushing at his head. 

He comes away, mouth and chin slick, lips swollen. You don’t care, grabbing him and dragging him up to you, surging forward to lick across his lips, tasting yourself. He grins and pins you down to the mattress by your shoulders, content to let you taste as much as you want. 

“Please,” you gasp against his mouth. “Want you.”

He curses. “Say it again.” He leans down to your ear, lips pressed against it when he says, “Say you want me.”

“Want you. Only you.”

“Mhmm.” He licks down your neck, biting down when he reaches the juncture of your shoulder.

Leaning up, Vernon kicks out of his sweats. His hands are reverant when he pulls your underwear down your thighs, fabric scraping against your hypersensitive skin. He dives back in, kissing you as he presses his waist against yours, cock heavy and leaking against your thigh.

You reach down, palming him in your hand. He moans, desperate and breathy, breaking the kiss to drop his head against your shoulder. He’s warm and smooth in your hand. He lets you swipe your thumb across the sensitive head of his cock, hips jerking. You spread his precum down his shaft, hand firm. He fists the sheets, hips twitching forward as you stroke him leisurely. 

“Please,” he murmurs, breath fanning your neck. “Please.”

Hearing him ask for it nearly makes you pass out. You drag the crown of his cock through your messy folds, slicking him up. He growls when you do it, pressing his cock down down down until the tip catches your entrance. You moan in tandem, you at the pressure of him pushing in slightly, him at how bad he wants it.

Vernon sinks in slowly. You suck in a sharp breath, overwhelmed from the feeling of his cock pressing you open until there’s nowhere left to go. It feels good as he stills, hip-to-hip with you as you adjust. Your mouths tangle again and you slide your fingers through the short hair at the back of his neck, tugging what you can.

He gives an appreciative sound and pulls back slightly just to give a sharp fuck forward. You jostle and break the kiss, gasping, spit linking your mouth. His grin is wicked and he licks into your mouth again, starting to fuck into you slowly. 

You start to synapse. You feel on firel, burning up from the inside out as Vernon sets a slow but deep pace, pulling all the way out before he drives all the way back in. He grabs one of your thighs, nails scraping as he pulls it up and fastens it around his waist. It changes the angle, makes everything feel deeper.

Everywhere Vernon touches you leaves a mark. He stains your soul, every press of his mouth a promise of ruination, every brush of his hands speaking prophecy into your skin. You feel him write himself into your scripture with each thrust, every pass of his tongue against yours a prayer. 

The minister was wrong. You and Vernon have something holier than he could ever understand, a dark gospel unfolding between your moving bodies that only the two of you know the hymns to. How could it be anything but when you feel closer to God as Vernon grips your leg tight, pulling you down to meet each thrust. What is religion, if not the feeling of his moans buzzing through your lips, bringing you closer to revelation? 

“Mine,” Vernon promises against your lips. “Mine.”

“Yours.” Your hand slides from the back of his neck around to his chest, pressing your palm flat against his chest. His heart is hammering, lungs heaving. “Mine.” 

“Only yours.” 

“You love me?” 

You nod frantically against him. 

“I need to hear you say it.” 

“I love you.”

And you do. You realize that nothing else matters. You don’t care how fucked up the last few weeks have been. You don’t care that Vernon is something a little more than human, maybe something a little less. You don’t care about anything other than the fact that now he’s here, vulnerable with you - only for you. 

He picks up his pace. You feel another orgasm coming, all of your nerves pulsing, near overloaded. “I would rip heaven from the sky if you asked.”

“I know.” 

And you do know. You see it - feel it in the desperate way he grabs you, the way he fucks into you, frenzied. You feel yourself light up, an imploding star as you come around him, squeezing. He growls out your name, coming undone with you, thrusts messy and wet as you soak his cock. 

Vernon’s mouth finds yours, uncoordinated and messy but greedy, gluttonous, needy. You kiss him with equal fervor, uncaring that your mouth feels bruised and swollen, willing to let him tear you apart just to have some fraction of him with you. 

He starts to slow, spent and shaking until he’s hovering over you, trembling. Your hands rub up and down his sides gently, calming him down. He breathes heavily, the only sound trapped between you. You tilt your head to the side, pressing soft kisses against his inner forearm. 

Eventually, he pulls out, leaving a wet mess and dull ache between your legs. He doesn’t go far, content to tangle himself up in you, pressed as close as he can. His mouth goes to your shoulder, pressing butterfly-light kisses there. 

“If I’m a demon,” Vernon mumbles, voice scratchy from use, “you must be my angel.” 

“Yeah?” You roll toward him, lifting your hand to cradle his face. His eyes are soft as ever, watching you. Your thumb brushes back and forth over his cheekbone until his eyes flutter shut and he nods. “So are you saying you’re a demon now?”

His mouth twitches but he shakes your head. “Don’t know what I am. I’m just yours.”

“Yes,” you agree softly, gazing at him with stars in your eyes. “Mine.” 

-

All the candles are nearly burned to the wick when Vernon enters the church. The flamelight stutters, reacting to him like prey sensing a predator. His boots fall heavy against the threadbare carpet, each step a low, deliberate thud that echoes too long in the still air. His hands are buried in his pockets, but there’s a lazy, cruel confidence in his gait now, a swagger that would have been foreign on the boy who used to flinch at raised voices.

He thinks of that version of himself as dead now. 

Old Vernon. Soft-spoken, uncertain, dying under the weight of all the words left unspoken.

This Vernon doesn’t tremble. This Vernon doesn’t hesitate to say what he wants - which is only ever you. This Vernon isn’t afraid to make the world bow at your feet, to crush anyone who would stand in your way. 

He’s not possessed. He knows that. He hasn’t been possessed for a while. It doesn’t feel like Thomas left so much as Vernon devoured him. Bit by bit, until there was nothing left of Thomas’s spirit. Now, Vernon is more than he was. Maybe a little less human, he isn’t sure. Something with blood under his nails and your name forever on his tongue. 

All his rage, all his violence, all his power? It's yours. It's what makes the constant simmering need to do damage bearable. 

Vernon doesn’t knock when he reaches the minister’s office. The door opens with a warning creak, and the man looks up in confusion, wondering who would dare enter his office this late at night without knocking. He realizes who it is and his face twists into a tapestry of anger.

It dies just as fast. 

Vernon doesn’t give him a moment to speak. He drives his boot into the desk, splintering the wood with a sickening crunch, sending it skidding into the minister’s chest. The man crumples with a wheeze and a painful shout, papers floating down around him like ash.

Circling the wreckage with deliberate calm, Vernon grins as he watches the man flail, trying to get up, a beetle stuck on its back. 

“My girlfriend told me not to kill anyone,” Vernon explains. His voice is casual. Conversational.  “Didn’t say I couldn’t ruin you for opening your fucking mouth, though.”

The minister gapes, trying to push away from Vernon. “What are you doing?” 

Vernon’s fingers unlace from his pockets. He flexes them, tendons twitching like coiled wire. “Paying you back,” he growls, leaning down, breath hot and too close. “For every time you insulted her while we were here the other night. For calling her study a delusion and making her question herself and her work.”

He seizes the minister by the collar of his robe and hauls him upright like a limp doll. “This time,” Vernon murmurs, voice suddenly soft. Sensual. “I won’t stop at words.” 

This time, Vernon’s hands draw blood. 

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[bamsara]

If given the motivation I would ramble more about Trod, specifically Tyren and how he's my little dude but also a character who's behavior I've based on being a victim of obsession and idolization myself and how it's very cathartic to write a character exhibiting all the traits, both good and bad I've experienced in the Lamb's position and then knowing exactly how his story ends

That and some Narinder rambles and how Lamb is more comfortable with him than a sweet dog that surely shows more respect for them (idolization that does not see them as a person)

edit: nevermind I did end up rambling. Some TROD spoilers

It's great, I love this stupid dog and his scheming ways and writing just *why* he's doing what he's doing with genuine belief it's to better protect what and who he loves without actually taking into account the subject of his affection's feelings on the whole matter. He would never hurt the lamb physically but clearly that three eyed cat is nothing but stress for them (and is he wrong? is Narinder not a source of stress? We are not light in the 'enemies' part of the friends to enemies to friends to lovers part of the trope)

Though the difference between Narinder and Tyren, the rehabilitation and the corruption, although all entitlement, is agency.

Narinder often touts himself as uncaring and hostile to the Lamb and is still angry from the betrayal, as they are, but their agency is still considered even in anger.

In the Fox chapter where Narinder wishes to sacrifice Grekimar and Tyren, Lamb refuses. They argue about it and Lamb stands their ground, Narinder is unhappy about it but does not go behind their back and sacrifice cultists anyway when he very well could.

After reuniting after the fight when Leshy is revived, Narinder and Lamb argues heavily over the subject of whether or not Narinder is allowed to kill Leshy, someone who harmed both him AND the Lamb severely, and even though he's bitter about it, Narinder acknowledges the Lamb was not given a choice prior and will sacrifice his own revenge and comfort so the Lamb can have their agency returned, at least a little bit.

^^^ This one is a complicated one because between both characters, neither killing the bishops nor keeping them alive would result in both characters getting what they want, with reasonable desires for it (wanting to have choice again, wanting revenge on their tormentors, ect)

so Narinder essentially sacrifices his comfort for the Lamb, someone who is constantly sacrificing pieces of themselves and sanity to keep everything in peace

It works the otherway around as well: Narinder demanding talismans and God Tears and Relics from the Lamb and they agree, not because they're required to do what he says but because that's their friend, and they trust him enough to help him with whatever he's doing

(and back to the argument where the refusal to sacrifice two followers was in exchange for some of their heart, Narinder refuses and breaks the deal off immediatly even though the Lamb was willing. The Lamb is obviously more important than whatever goal he had in mind, essentially scrapping his partnership with the Fox and method to gain power because he didn't want his usurper to be weakened. and other things.)

I won't talk about EVERY instance of this because this is already a long post, but overtime the two are forming communication, compromise, and even in anger, there is a respect there that puts them on the same level as equals.

Tyren does not really fall into that.

Tyren would never, and I mean NEVER hurt the Lamb physically. He would never yell at them, never be angry with them, never be upset with them, because he does not see them enough as a person to feel those things around them.

And if the Lamb does disagree with him or make him upset, he will simply....disregard their current feelings on the situation and do what he thinks is best for him and them, even if it goes directly against their wishes.

And unlike Narinder, he would do it behind their back to stay in their good graces.

Tyren does care for the Lamb. Genuinely. He did long before that necklace was around his neck. He was already a little obsessed before the loyalty necklace was on him, it just gave him a slight edge.

He respects them but also doesn't. He takes their rejection at the party in stride and is completely unphased by it, completely understanding, but also plots to kill someone the Lamb called a 'friend' because the three-eyed hermit is clearly stressing them out and it makes no sense as to why they're crusading with him, or spending time with him when he's been nothing but a murderer and a blight.

I think a good summary of all this ramble is that when the Lamb tells Narinder to leave Tyren alone, Narinder goes 'whatever i fucking hate you and this stupid cult anyways. die forever' but does what they ask, while Lamb tells Tyren to please leave Narinder alone, and Tyren goes 'sure! :) anything for you my lamb' and digs up a corpse and drops it's mashed remains outside of the cat's hut with a fake letter from the Lamb saying it's 'breakfast'.

Narinder and Tyren are both very selfish, but in different ways

None of this probably makes sense

It is also 6AM

[neferaskingdom]

♡ Not So Bad After All | CL16

NEFERASKINGDOM

Summary: Valentine’s Day sucks, the bathroom line is too long, and Charles just wants to go home. Until a ridiculous scheme, a fake proposal, and the best tiramisu of his life change everything.

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Charles Leclerc did not want to be here.

Valentine’s Day was already insufferable, but being dragged to a bar by his well-meaning (and currently very drunk) friends was making it so much worse. His brothers were off on their respective romantic dates, and instead of sulking in peace at home, he was here—stuck in a crowded bar, dodging heart-shaped balloons and being subjected to overly loud love songs blaring from the speakers.

And now, to top it all off, he was standing in an absurdly long line for the bathroom.

“Ridiculous,” he muttered under his breath, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as the line refused to move.

“Tell me about it,” a voice said beside him.

Charles turned his head to find a woman standing next to him, arms crossed, scowling at the line ahead. She looked equally unimpressed with the night’s events.

He raised an eyebrow. “Bad night?”

She huffed, tilting her head towards the couple making out aggressively in the corner. “I’ve seen horror movies less disturbing than that.”

Charles snorted, a genuine smile tugging at his lips. “Agreed.”

They lapsed into silence, both staring ahead at the unmoving line. A few seconds passed before she spoke again. “You don’t look like you’re having fun.”

He exhaled, rubbing his face. “That’s because I’m not.”

She smirked. “Then why are you here?”

Charles sighed, hands in his pockets. “My friends thought I needed ‘cheering up’ because my brothers are both in relationships, and I am not.”

She nodded sympathetically. “Same. Except my best friend didn’t even try to lie about it. She just said, ‘You’re too single, and it’s embarrassing.’” She gestured toward the girl still making out in the corner. “That would be her.”

Charles winced. “Brutal.”

“Right? I told her I’d rather stay home and watch a move or something.”

Charles let out a laugh, genuinely amused. “I think I’d prefer that too.”

As the line inched forward at a snail’s pace, their conversation flowed effortlessly.

"Okay, explain this to me," she said, turning to face him fully. "Why do people think giving someone overpriced flowers that will die in three days is romantic?"

Charles chuckled. "Right? And the price! it's like they double it just because it’s February 14th."

She scoffed. "Exactly! And don't even get me started on the chocolates. You know they just put the same candy in a heart-shaped box and charge extra."

"The worst part is the expectation," Charles added, shaking his head. "Like, if you don’t do something extravagant, suddenly you don’t love your partner enough?"

She snapped her fingers. "Yes! If you need a specific day to prove your love, maybe your relationship isn’t as strong as you think."

Charles smirked. "So, not a fan of grand gestures, then?"

"Oh, I love grand gestures," she admitted, tilting her head. "Just not ones dictated by capitalism."

“So let me get this straight,” she said after a particularly heated rant about heart-shaped balloons. “You got dragged here against your will, your friends abandoned you, and now you’re standing in line for the bathroom ranting at a stranger?”

Charles groaned. “I am beginning to think I have been tricked.”

She shook her head in mock pity. “Tragic.”

He opened his mouth to respond when, to his horror, his stomach let out a loud growl.

She turned to him, grinning. “Oh my god.”

“…I’m hungry,” he admitted, rubbing his neck sheepishly.

She laughed. “You know what? Let’s get out of here. I know a place.”

The place she led him to was a semi-formal restaurant with dim lighting, cozy booths, and the most incredible menu Charles had ever seen. By the time their food arrived, they were already deep into conversation, swapping stories about their worst dates, cringiest romantic gestures, and Valentine’s Day traumas.

Charles took a bite of the cheesecake and immediately let out a sound that could only be described as obscene. “Mon dieu. This is the best thing I have ever eaten.”

His companion grinned. “Oh, you think that’s good? There’s something even better.”

He looked up, intrigued. “Impossible.”

She leaned forward conspiratorially. “They used to sell the most heavenly tiramisu. It was legendary. But they discontinued it.”

Charles frowned. “Then how do you know it’s better?”

She smirked. "Because I’ve had it before and fun fact it’s on the secret menu now. But it’s a whole ordeal." She leaned in slightly, lowering her voice like she was letting him in on a great secret. "The thing is, their tiramisu is legendary—like, hours of prep, delicate layers, the kind of dessert that requires actual effort. It got discontinued because the chef didn’t want to deal with the hassle anymore. But, through my very reliable sources—" she wiggled her eyebrows "—I found out they still serve it. But… only for very, very special occasions."

He raised an eyebrow. “I’m listening.”

She pulled a simple ring off her finger and slid it across the table. "They only serve it on very special occasions Charles. The chef is a real romantic."

Charles stared at her, unblinking. “You’re joking.”

She shook her head, trying to look serious despite the mischief in her eyes. “Not at all. I’ve tried everything to get a taste again, but my friends refuse to participate in my schemes.”

Charles hesitated, glancing between her and the ring. “You’re telling me I have to propose to you… for tiramisu?”

She nodded solemnly. “For the greatest tiramisu known to man.”

He exhaled, rubbing his temples. “I cannot believe I am considering this.”

She gasped. “Charles. Think of the dessert.”

He groaned dramatically before picking up the ring. “Fine. But if we’re doing this, we’re doing it right.”

Before she could react, he got down on one knee.

The restaurant quieted.

Charles took her hand, his thumb brushing over her knuckles as he looked up at her with nothing but warmth in his eyes. "Mon amour," he murmured, voice steady, heartfelt. "We've known each other since we were kids. You were always there—my partner in crime, my best friend. I can't imagine my life without you."

A few people around them sighed dreamily.

She felt a laugh bubble up, but Charles was fully committed, his gaze unwavering. "We've had our ups and downs, but through it all, it's always been you. And it always will be." He lifted the ring, giving her a small, knowing smile. "So what do you say, mon coeur? Marry me, and let’s spend the rest of our lives together."

The restaurant erupted in applause as she let out a shaky laugh, nodding. "Yes," she breathed, eyes locked onto his. "Yes, Charles, of course."

His grin was immediate, radiant, as he slipped the ring onto her finger. She let out a soft laugh, shaking her head. "You know... I think I always knew it was you. Ever since the day you carried me home after I sprained my ankle as a kid."

Charles chuckled, squeezing her hand. "You remember that?"

"Always," she said, voice warm. "And now, I guess I get to spend forever remembering this too."

The applause grew louder, a few cheers echoing through the restaurant as the chef himself emerged, grinning from ear to ear, ready to present them with their well-earned tiramisu.

As soon as they sat back down, she burst into laughter. “I cannot believe you just did that.”

He smirked. “Well, I had to commit.”

The tiramisu arrived, and the moment Charles took his first bite, he slumped back in his seat. “Merde.”

She watched, delighted. “I told you.”

Charles stretched his arms above his head as they stepped out into the cool night air, letting out a dramatic sigh. "I hate you."

She snorted, stuffing her hands into her coat pockets. "Wow. Romance is alive and thriving, I see."

"No, seriously," Charles continued, shaking his head. "That tiramisu was too good. Now every other tiramisu I eat will be a disappointment. You’ve ruined me."

She smirked. "That’s the price you pay."

Charles groaned. "I despise you."

She hummed, clearly enjoying his suffering. "Well, if it helps, they have different staff on Mondays."

He glanced at her. "And?"

She grinned. "So, if you want another piece, we could just… go again."

Charles narrowed his eyes. "How do you even know this?"

She took a deep breath, like she was trying very hard to act normal before saying something completely unhinged. "Because I have tried everything to get that tiramisu again. I have studied their staff schedules, noted which days the chef isn’t working, and even considered staging a fake engagement like 15 times, but my friends—" she threw her hands up in frustration "—are all cowards who refuse to propose to me for the sake of dessert."

Charles was already laughing before she even finished. "I cannot believe you have gone to these lengths for tiramisu."

"It’s not just tiramisu, Charles. It’s a masterpiece. A once-in-a-lifetime experience. A divine creation that mere mortals like us barely deserve. And yet, my so-called friends refuse to put their morals aside for the cause." She sighed. "Until tonight. You, sir, are a true ally."

He smirked. "Clearly. And what do allies get?"

She shrugged. "Eternal gratitude? The satisfaction of knowing you’ve done something noble?"

Charles held out his phone. "Your number."

She blinked. "What?"

He wiggled the phone slightly. "So we can go on Monday, obviously."

Her lips parted, eyes scanning his face like she was trying to find the joke. "You actually want to go again?"

Charles shrugged. "I mean… yeah. That tiramisu was worth it. And, you know… you’re fun."

She studied him for a second before snorting. "Unbelievable."

"Believe it, mon amour." He winked.

Still smiling, she took his phone and added her number before handing it back. "Fine. Monday it is."

Charles grinned. "Perfect."

As they walked side by side, their conversation spiraled into absurdity.

"Okay," she said, "how many ways do you think we could disguise ourselves to get another piece?"

"Fake mustaches?" Charles suggested. "Though that might be too suspicious."

"Agreed. What about wigs? I could totally pull off blonde."

"Mmm… questionable. We’d need a full transformation."

She snapped her fingers. "Fake accents! If we pretend to be tourists, they might not recognize us."

Charles gasped. "Genius. We’ll go in, act completely clueless—where should we be from?"

"Not Australia. You could never pull off an Aussie accent."

"Fine. Italian tourists. Very authentic."

She laughed. "You realize this is insane, right?"

Charles smirked, nudging her playfully. "And yet, you’re still planning it with me."

She groaned. "I hate that you have a point."

As their ridiculous tiramisu heist plans continued, Charles found himself thinking that maybe—just maybe—Valentine’s Day wasn’t so bad after all.

[grey-spark]

COLOR THEORY in WIND BREAKER

So there are FIVE COLORS that stand out in Wind Breaker. And while the show displays a full use of colors, there are five colors that transcend any individual person or gang. And in this quick analysis I'm going to go over all of them. (Mild Spoilers ahead)

GREEN is the color of GROWTH

Green is the main color of Bofurin and clearly represents plants. It all ties into Umemiya's garden metaphor about personal growth.

Green = Good, basically.

The plant imagery is not very subtle but some of the color uses are. Take for example how Togame, Nagato and Endo all have green eyes, hinting that these are actually good characters underneath despite doing bad deeds. They may be on different teams but they're "Bofurin on the inside". (Although, in Endo's case his eyes have a blueish hue, which means his goodness is very hidden.)

If plants represent the goodness of the world then we must extend this metaphor to the source of the plant's energy...

YELLOW is the color of WARMTH

Yellow represents the warm light piercing into a cold world, and the sun more generally. It's righteousness and love.

Nirei is the most yellow indicating he's the moral compass of the gang, but Oldman Ito outright points out that all three main characters wear yellow: Suo's earing. Nirei's hair. Sakura's eye. (saying it reminds him of the sun directly). But its interesting how the applications of this color reflect their story arcs:

Suo was given righteousness. Nirei adopted righteousness. Sakura was born with it.

Sakura can't take the yellow off even if he wanted to. But beyond that we have Sakura's favorite food Omurice. In a show where food is everything, the omelet rice almost serves as his first taste of love. Notice how it also has red ketchup on it, and Suo's earrings also have a red bead. In this show, red and yellow almost always go together. When put together they makes orange, the color of strong Shishitoren. It's a subtle way of saying love creates...

RED is the color of POWER

Red is the fruit of power. Or let's put it this way:

Sun -> Plants -> Fruit Love -> Growth -> Power

Red is a color with many different meanings, but in this show, its the color of power. We see it in Ume's tomatoes. We see it in Tsubaki's lipstick, which he outright says is the source of his strength.

But not just creative power. In Takiishi's case, red also represents the destructive power of fire. Red represents all power, and it makes sense why its the main color of Suo, a character who hasn't even taken a single hit. But plants and fruit are not the only thing sunlight effects, it also melts ice...

WHITE is the color of TRAUMA

More specifically, traumatized innocence.

White = the harsh snow of winter.

In the very first chapter, Nirei's suggests Sakura's hair turned white from stress. It's played off as a joke at first, but later on it's suggested that Umemiya's hair also went white from stress. This feature connects them deeply, both wear white shirts too, symbolizing Sakura and Ume wear their trauma for all to see.

White is also the main color of Gravel, a team with the most tragic backstory, comprised of children starving to death. (KEEL also wears white, but in their case it feels like they're deliverers of trauma.) In the anime, we also see that Gravel's school uniforms are...

BLUE is the color of COLDNESS

Blue is the color of icy callousness and hardened hearts. Unlike sunlight that melts trauma, blue is the cold that generates it.

Blue = Evil, kinda.

But it's a little more complicated than that. Sure, all the evilest characters wear blue, like KEEL (the evilest gang) and Endo (who has a blue fire theme). But then we have Sugishita, who isn't an evil person at all, but its also not a coincidence that the hero's main rival has a blue color scheme. His heart is guarded, and is in need of the most character growth out of all of them. Concerningly, we also saw that Suo turned icy blue when he reverted to his old ways. So blue is not just limited to the bad guys. It's a systemic problem.

CONCLUSION

This show has MANY colors in it: pink, orange, black, grey, magenta and so many others that might also have meanings as well. But I feel like these five pervade the show everywhere and build a greater allegory of Winter Vs Spring, which goes as follows:

The freezing cold (blue/callousness) has created snow (white/trauma) and can only be banished by sunlight (yellow/love) which grows vegetation (green/growth) and eventually bears fruit. (red/power)

That's how I see it anyway. Thanks for reading!

[hansoeii]

Hullo! I’ve been watching a bunch of your Timelapses and I was wondering how do you always come up with the colours for your pieces? They’re always so cohesive and pleasing to look at (I almost exclusively work in greyscale so if I’m using colour it’s always a lucky guess and it never looks quite right)

Hey there!

I have to be honest that most of the time I don't actually know what I'm doing and that I have no idea how most of my pieces are gonna turn out. My work process is usually based on "Fuck around and find out", haha. I'm happy to know that it apparently doesn't come across that way, though.

A lot of it comes very naturally to me simply because I've been drawing non-stop for so long, but I can give you some small tips that really help me:

1. Have as many references as possible!

Here's what my reference sheet looked like for the Jayvik piece:

It helped me a lot to understand the overall color scheme I wanted to convey. Lots of very cold tones, pinks and very light blues and greens. These colours sorround Jayce and Viktor throughout all of season 2 and I wanted to keep them, especially since in my piece they are lying in the glowing hexcore.

Don't shy away from using references, get as many as you possibly can! Look at other poeple's art too and try to understand how they work with colours.

2. Work with complementary colours!

Since I paint a lot of romantic illustrations I want them to look pleasing and comforting, which I can accomplish by using complementary colours! You see this a lot with couples that are blue and red coded, for example. And I wanted to do the same thing in the Jayvik piece! For that I used the highlights in their hair!

Viktor's highlights are a soft pink hue.

While Jayce's are a soft blue hue.

The colour wheel works perfect for figuring out if two colors compliment each other because they are literally right across from one another!

3. It doesn't have to be true to life.

Pretty self-explanatory, but I thought I'd add it in here anyways. It's important to understand how colour and light works, but you don't always have to follow the rules. Does the rim light look cool but it makes zero sense? Who cares! Keep the cool rim light! Just have fun and fuck around.

4. A little trick to make your life easier!

I'm not excatly the best at colour theory, I still struggle with it quite a bit, but here's a little trick I like to use from time to time:

If you want all your colours to look coherent, take one specific color as your flat colour. Choose a hue that you would like your piece to have. Like this:

Now you choose whatever colours your characters have and paint them in. For example, here are the skin colours I chose for Jayce and Viktor:

Looks off, right? These colours don't fit the overall piece at all. So what do we do?

Turn down the opacity! It's that easy, wahoo!

I went from 100 Opacity to 72 for this specific illustration. And look at that!

It's so much nicer already! Now you know what colours to use as your actual flats! Just repeat this with every other part of your illustration and you'll have a great starting point. :)

I really hope this was helpful! I'm not an actual teacher and I don't have a proper illustration degree, so some things might not be completely accurate, but I thought I'd try my hand at this anyways!

[yanderes-galore]

Yan!Heian!Sukuna and with Y/N?

Lately, whenever Darling got pregnant she ended up having countless miscarriages, the longest lasting at least 3 months, Sukuna began to suspect these countless coincidences.

He doesn't care about these losses since he didn't want to share Y/N with some brat, but he found it very strange that every time she got pregnant resulted in a miscarriage, so he started investigating and finally found out why this was happening.

He discovered that Y/N was causing her own miscarriages, as she knew that the last thing the world needed was Sukuna's descendants, so he finally confronts her but with that damn psychological terror that he loves to do to her.

I wasn't sure if you were just putting an idea out there or not... But I can see if I can write something small for this, sure!

Infertile Falsehoods

Yandere! Heian Era! Sukuna Short

Pairing: Romantic

Possible Trigger Warnings: Female Darling, Obsession, Pregnancy/Miscarriages, Mentions of abortion/Forced miscarriage, Possessive behavior, Dark themes, Blood, Manipulation, Mature themes, Spicy scenes, Threats, Implied threat of forced pregnancy, Forced relationship.

The lie you originally told your husband was that you were simply unable to carry.

You are one of the wives of Lord Ryomen Sukuna, The King of Curses. Despite him having many, you always seemed to be the favored one. You were always the one to warm his bed the most, the one he clung to even after such an act.

Naturally, pregnancy often comes up in your life. Sukuna always seemed dismissive of it, not seeming to care much about descendants. Yet he also never tried to remove such an issue.

Part of you wonders if it gives him pride to see you in such a position... To show to others he's the one to claim you.

You were never on board with carrying the demon's descendants. You hate Sukuna, you've hated him since he pressured you into a marriage you didn't want. No one deserved to be burdened with his spawn.

Which led to your frequent miscarriages.

Whenever you notice signs of being pregnant, you'd order specific herbs to be brought to you in private. While Sukuna wasn't with you, no doubt fighting or playing with some other human toy, you use the herbs to make tea or syrup. Then, quickly and out of sight, you take it.

Hours later you're a bloody mess... but heir free.

You have servants clean you, often telling them you simply can't carry. You spread the lie that you're infertile. That you aren't capable of carrying his heirs.

Sukuna, again, didn't seem to mind such losses. If anything he seemed pleased to not have a child. However... It happened so often that it was almost suspicious.

Your miscarriages were often reported to him. Something just didn't seem right. But for a long time he accepted it.

Until he caught wind of the herb issue.

Eventually some Sukuna loyalists would uncover your lie. Soon it would come to light that your miscarriages were... self-inflicted. It was bound to happen eventually...

You already knew you were done for the moment Sukuna stalked into the room he made you two share.

At first, it's just like any night with Sukuna. You're sitting on his bed while he stands in front of you. You expect him to do the usual ritual you do... especially when he leans you down.

Your lord and husband leans over you as you lay on the bed. You're used to this, watching him as one set of hands lays by your head... while the second set wraps around your waist.

Until...

"It's on purpose, isn't it?" Sukuna muses, the purr of his voice nearly making your heart stop.

"What is, my husband?" You try to play dumb, but Sukuna's grin is taunting you.

"Your miscarriages? The servants talk, wife. I know your little schemes." Sukuna accuses, once of his hands stroking your stomach gently. "You aren't infertile. We both know that."

It's suddenly hard to breathe under your husband as he teases you. He doesn't seem... mad. But it only proves you can't hide anything from him....

"You've been asking servants to bring you herbs to miscarry. I'm not stupid, girl." Sukuna clicks his tongue. "I don't care for heirs... The thought of your attention being focused on a brat is annoying... but my irritation isn't about that..."

A clawed hand wraps around your throat while another holds your hands above your head. He's always been stronger... always been larger....

He's always scared you when he cages you in.

"My issue is your disobedience." Sukuna scolds. "As my favorite wife, you are meant to be loyal and transparent... not sneak around."

"I'm sorry, my lord—!" You try to plead, yet Sukuna's grip tightens.

"You're scared of carrying my heirs, aren't you?" Sukuna growls, holding you tightly as he straddles you. "Maybe a proper punishment would be making you carry one... How's that sound?"

You shake your head, making Sukuna laugh.

"So cute when you're scared... You're lucky I don't like to share with you..." Sukuna murmurs, breath ghosting over your face. "I don't like the idea of all your attention going to a brat of my blood for legacy or what not... but I hate disobedience even more...."

Sukuna chuckles when he sees the fear on your face, loosening his grip to caress your cheek.

"Tell you what... Beg me for forgiveness tonight... Show me you're sorry." Sukuna taunts as he nibbles your neck, his many eyes glancing at you.

"Show me you mean your apology... and maybe I won't make you carry an heir... think you can do that?" Sukuna grins with sadism dripping from his tone.

Fearfully, you brace yourself for what's to come... You tell yourself you're lucky Sukuna's being merciful with you...

Yet as the night goes on with him ... you begin to wonder if he means his words... or if he'll truly use tonight as punishment for his favorite wife.

[senseandaccountability]

"I'm me again"

Yes well this is me getting a little sappy - again - about the spirits/demon thing as a metaphor for the human experience, must be Friday. 

(Yes, this is about Solas.)

Last night my Ingellvar was tending to the graves with Emmrich and she said “demons” and immediately corrected herself, because of course she meant spirits but people outside Nevarra so easily call them demons and Emmrich, one of the kindest and most insightful people in the entire DA verse, would of course never do that. Because he sees them all as spirits. Some of them may be twisted, embittered, furious and cruel but to him they are still, at heart, the same being as their more positive virtues. You are always you, as Solas tells Cole. 

Which is also what Solas argues for all of DAI.

Which is also what Solas personal quest actively shows us in DAI.

His friend, broken and twisted by the mages' bindings, dies a spirit of Wisdom, thanking him and telling him not to be sad. “I’m me again.”

Which is also a very strong theme in Solas entire arc. 

But it’s really not just Solas, or the elves. The eternal struggle of spirits is a reflection of the human soul and what it means to be human. What parts of you does the world let you cultivate, what parts are hidden and twisted in the dark, what virtues would you be remembered for if you died tomorrow? What sort of person have you become? What person could you be? DA is crammed with these themes.

Since the spirit reveal/confirmation, I’ve seen a lot of very detailed and very cool discussions about the specifics of spirit virtues and demon characteristics and that’s some good shit right there, but you can also be lazy like me and very much just read it as various aspects of human nature interacting with each other. We’re all so many things over our lifetime, to different people, in different contexts. We all carry such endless capacity for goodness and gentleness and we’re all so very capable of hurting each other.

In the codex entries we see Solas try over and over and over again to appeal to the better nature of the Evanuris. He is described as brilliant and wise, he is pulled out of the Fade specifically for his wisdom and he tries to get them to reflect that, to listen to his concerns, to use their powers differently. Why don’t you make creatures that can protect the People, he asks Ghilan’nain. Why do you need to push your power further, he asks Elgar’nan, the people are already submitting to your rule, why must you shackle them? War may have twisted him up already but there’s nothing he says that isn’t extremely valid and wise about the Evanuris’ approach to ruling.

But as we learn from the Spirit of Command in Crestwood in DAI, wisdom is considered a soft virtue in a world of war and hierarchy and his reasoning falls flat or gets interpreted as fear or insubordination. Unheard and undervalued, his wisdom grows sour and prideful. He isn’t wrong, he knows he isn't, and he will show them. You are not gods, I will make you see that you are not gods. I will humble you until you understand that I am right. 

This is a profoundly human experience.

The ancient elven empire ultimately falls to its own greed and hierarchies and lack of boundaries - all of which Solas pointed out, all of which he and his rebels opposed. But the Evanuris didn’t listen, they were caught in a power scheme where only individual power matters and everyone else becomes pawns. How ironic then that their empire falls to its own foolish pride and boundless cruelty against the Titans, the first children of the earth. They hurt themselves by hurting them. They wound the fabric that binds them all together. 

Solas as a character is an open, ongoing conflict between "spirit" and "demon" aspects, between light and dark, between identifying as a solitary creature or part of the whole. It’s never more visible than during the final act of DAV where he is at once Solas, standing with the Shadow Dragons against the blight. And also Fen’Harel, scheming to get there in the first place, treating people in his way like dehumanized pawns to reach his final destination, a goal that can be argued to be entirely tainted with pride at this point, a way to soothe his conscience and need to be right more than it’s a way to save the world. And he’s the Dread Wolf, physically embodying the struggle against the corrupt powers since he, unlike the Evanuris, doesn’t believe in binding creatures to fight his battles. It’s significant that while he fights alone, he cannot do it without help from Rook. Elgar’nan directs all of the blight at the Dread Wolf and it takes a sacrifice from the team to free him from its grasp. It’s a battle orchestrated by a god. 

And Solas, powerful as he may be, is not a god. 

That is why it’s so lovely to me that the ending isn’t just a matter between Solas and his conscience or between Solas and Rook or Solas and Lavellan. Because we are not single entities. We are not islands. That’s why we need each other, because we respond to each other, we affect each other, we abuse and love each other and we cannot really understand in which ways until we connect. We use each other to remind us of who we are, or who we could be. Every Benevolence needs a Wisdom, every Command needs a Compassion, every one of us needs someone else in some way, shape or form. We are not meant to be solitary. We all share Solas' deepest fear of dying alone. We all share Solas’ ongoing conflict with the better and worse parts of our nature. We all reflect each other. The ending brings in the past, the present and the person that knows Solas not as a god but as a person.

We are shattered fragments of a greater whole and it was, as Morrigan points out, Solas’s love for and loyalty to his people that set him on this course long ago. And he broke the world. He broke his people. He couldn’t save them, all the horrible things that he has done and he still couldn’t save them. Ultimately and emotionally to him, this isn’t about wisdom or pride or good or evil or any such dichotomy, this is about grief and regret and broken humanity.

That is why it’s so powerful to me that a romanced or friendly Lavellan is so kind to him in DAV. They approach him carefully, they kneel down beside him to make a connection, they are understanding and compassionate and it may not be what he deserves on some grand justice scale of things, but it is without question what he needs. Pride and regret and grief need compassion, hope and benevolence much more than it needs to be proven wrong or challenged, kindness breaks the cycle.

They reach out to him not the way one would reach out to a god, but to a person. Because that’s what Solas needs to be reminded of - his humanity. That’s what their love and friendship has always reminded him of, that's what the Inquisition taught him - that the world is worth caring about because broken as it may be, it is also full of people. 

And people matter. They might not matter to the Dread Wolf, but they have always mattered to Solas.

That's what the good ending represents.

"I'm me again." 

[sun-shine-lolli-pops]

Gabias and Lighting Design

I graduate with my BA in theatre in a few weeks and this is apparently how I'm using my new degree. But I am so so normal about how the lighting in Tobias' dances reflects his relationship with creation

In Piece 1, the main color scheme is just dark, blue and moody. You can barely make out any individual dancer and they all blend into one larger, moving body. All of the dancers are stuck in isolated spotlights and lit only by profile lights - the lights on the sides of the stage. This casts dramatic shadows over everyone's faces, so despite them dancing together, they can barely see each other. Tobias is lacking personal connection to the people around him, and his inspiration isn't clear yet.

The opposite happens in Off Rhythm, where the dancers are overexposed in a cool wash lights on a white set, making everything just brutally intense. Tobias is trying to make sense of too many things at once, in this sudden shift of his career and relationships. While the people around him understand his vision, to anyone on the outside (e.g., the critics), it looks disjointed and chaotic.

Piece 2 starts like Piece 1, still very blue but with a bit more clarity this time.

But in Whatever This Is, everything is much more complimentary and clear. Specifically, it revolves around Gabin, both his presence on stage and the development of their relationship. We get the most variety in this piece, especially in color lighting the cyclorama (the white sheet hanging at the back of the stage). Pink for budding feelings, purple for uncertainty, blue for sorrow, and yellow/orange for love. At the beginning of the number, when Gabin begins, the lights are pink, edging out a dreary gray, before rotating through purple and blue, as Tobias and Gabin struggled to maintain a healthy relationship in their first few weeks together. When Gabin leaves briefly, the lights transition to purple, then a deep blue. Over the men specifically, like in Piece 1, deep blue wash lights completely envelope the male dancers, making them virtually indistinguishable from each other. Tobias is still struggling over the reviews of his last piece and losing his étoile. Nothing is working, and he’s more depressed than we’ve ever seen him. But when Gabin returns (both to the stage and to Tobias’ life), the overhead wash lights gradually shift back into more flattering, joyful colors. The wash lights are brighter and warmer, bringing out the life in the dancers, not just the dance. Pink and purple start to push the blue out of the cyc lights, reflecting Gabin and Tobias' healing relationship. When Gabin is finally alone for the end of the song, the lights are peachy yellow, as they move past the ways they've hurt each other into a stronger connection. As if to put the nail in the coffin, right before Tobias takes the stage to kiss Gabin, there's a final pop of fiery orange, overtaking the last moment of doubtful blue. Tobias was always a great choreographer, but Gabin is what truly inspired him and reignited his love for creating.

Honestly, the real hero of Whatever This Is is the stage manager and/or lighting designer who managed to busk through the entire new number.

[moonveiltarot]

What in the FUCK is their PROBLEM with you?! PT 2. quickie reading

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As usual this is for entertainment purposes only, not everything will resonate with everyone, I am not a professional, this is not advice.

Four piles to choose from again.

What is that person's actual problem with you pt 2?! This can be the same person you asked about in the previous reading or a different one.

These types of readings can make us feel seen / heard when we're dealing with a literal c**t bag. ):

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1.) songs: deserve each other - bludnymph. the cost of giving up - poppy. astrology: leo, aquarius, sagittarius, pisces

They showed their bare a$$. Or basically they showed their true colors. They liked being sneaky; scheming, plotting and executing their evil plans. This brought them joy and false sense of power.

You knowing the truth of what they did or how they move ripped that pleasure right out of their soul. You snatched that mask right off of that person's face.

You saw their behaviors and maybe even warned others of them. Regardless of whether other people knew / did anything about it or not, you distanced yourself and you cut them off (or you will, because you're smart).

Some of you drawn to this reading, you might even have evidence to drop or already have posted, shared or spread the information.

They hate that their true colors are out for all to see. You exposed or soon will expose their insecurities and make them feel put in the spotlight, but in a bad way. Like they're having everything they did wrong illuminated.

If they had help or helped someone destroy your life, relationship, friendship or anything that you cared about, out of sheer meanness, they are stuck with that group. They hate each other and are at each others' throats. They all are afraid of someone going rogue.

They may have done something so evil it had your mental health in a chokehold. You have seen some serious darkness in them. They are so deeply disturbed over the fact that you know exactly what is up.

2.) songs: zombified - falling in reverse. my demons - starset. astrology: gemini, aquarius, taurus (may specifically?), virgo

They get a front row seat to seeing you win. You're coming into a season of abundance ad blessings.

Or you just won something and it garnered attention. This could be a game, triatholon, a scratchcard, a baby shower game… anything where you won.

They have to watch you eat a feast that they wish they deserved. They could have tried to knock you off your throne. Seeing you in an abundant position makes them feel incredibly "lacking" in a particular area. Which area? It depends on your person and their insecurities. Like they might have a lack mindset or insecurities about how their percieved by the public… Hm. Pile 3 has messages about people wantingto be perceived a certain way in the public, so check it out if you're drawn to.

This is a greedy, jealous and almost delusional person. Their sense of entitlement is not right. This person may seem to have everything handed to them, but you may have noticed not very many people are around them. Like they have one simp and a cousin that is overly attached to them for some reason. Oddly specific example … anyway, this person is not adored in the same way you are. They feel like you're being given something and they think "why not MEEEE?! who does pile 2 think they are?!" I specifically heard "who does she think she is??" but place your own pronouns if this resonates.

This individual is vengeful. You ARE protected. They are about to show everyone how greedy they really are with an act of enraged entitlement. Others will not be scared or impressed, only disgusted. They will avoid this person and stop viewing them as a human. They will block this person out for good. The person you inquired about, pile 2, is sadly mentally incapable of having empathy.

Your light doesn't touch them, they cannot understand it. They only understand it is something valuable to be held and adored, to be looked upon with love and appreciation. But you know it was Hell and High water to get the privilege you have. This person is jealous and doesn't even have the capacity, mentally, to understand. Note: This person is out of touch partly because of social media. Maybe they have an addiction to it or only live online? They think real-world consequences do not exist / adhere to them. They are truly out of touch. Touching grass is not enough to fix them. They need a 5150. Stat

3.) songs: the devil is a gentleman - merci raines. fairly local - twenty one pilots. paint the town red - doja cat. astrology: cancer, libra, leo year of the dog, valentine's day?, capricorn, january 1st … so that was random and not just astrology, but i'mma leave it here.

This person sees you being percieved by the public in the same way they want to be. They like how the public responds to you and want it for themself. They want to be like you and they might even want to have your partner too. Or they want to be your partner and take your current partner's place. They see you enjoying something beautiful. A truly happy marriage or relationship. They are going to try to turn you against someone who is actually good for you.

They will try to disguise themself as a true friend. They will lie and deceive as often as they have to in order to maintain their public image. They are fake as fuuuuuuccckkkkk, pile 3. You might have even fallen for it.

They want others to think it's you or your partner / friend that is the deceptive one, but it's them. Their a liar… they plan to gossip and scheme while you aren't around.

Ugh, if they invited you into a friend group, the others are afraid to talk to you. They are afraid to talk to you because of something this person has done or said. They are afraid of hurting this person's feelings. Or afraid of this person's reaction. They are probably confused, but since it's the "clique-ish" thing to do, they decided to turn their backs on you too. They might be kind to you, but just barely acknowledge you, looking back to the person you asked about. And then back to you. Then back to the person. Just awkward vibes. Because they aren't mean by design. They just fear the social consequences of upsetting or doing wrong by your person.

This could be someone who is relatively popular who sees that you have some kind of talent of any sort. If you don't already, you possibly could. If you got a platform, this scares this person.

You know what they are really like behind closed doors too. They know you know who they are.

They are evil as Hell and they act all goody-two-shoes on the surface. They are vindictive, jealous and mean. This slips out in passive aggressive ways. They give "spoiled bitch princess who acts like they never do anything wrong and have main character syndrome and act like their bratty bullshit is actually adorable to anyone on the planet." Long winded, but true. The thing is, it's forced. You won't let them impose themselves on you or what you have going on. You won't gossip with them. You shut that shit down. You aren't evil like them, you're genuine and that's why they perceive you as a threat.

You probably noticed some passive aggressive behavior from them. Relative, co-worker, colleague, peer of some sort, ex friend, ex partner… whatever they are to you, they are jealous of you period. They know that you could dethrone them in front of god and every body, so they're doing dirty work and fast to make it look like you're way more evil than you are. They are setting up scenarios too. But people are catching on. They're in such a hurry to do this stupid shit others are able to see it. Like they won't talk? If they gossiped with your person, they will gossip with each other about your person.

Anyway, don't worry about this. Their insecurities and immaturity is so sad and pathetic. It's obvious to everyone they run to. They're destroying their own image. Their jealousy is destroying them. Because they are too motivated by it.

You're also in your own stratosphere and they can't infiltrate. Here's an example: You cosplay or are in a band or something. They are cookie cutter prep. You post a hot cosplay that gets lots of attention, maybe a week or two before Halloween. Come Halloween, this person has a shabby costume and it looks like a direct rip off of your own cosplay or it's from the same cartoon or series. Just one obvious example. It's annoying, but not dangerous. Your strength of character and actions speak for you. Your buddies or friends, or even just yourself, in this situation are like ... "bro is this person okay? Like??? Dafuq?" They think they are competing and eating you up, but they don't even understand the culture. They aren't some new person trying to gain inspo or be like you, they are trying to out do you and simply lack what it takes. They probably don't even notice this about themselves.

The icing on this shit cake is that you. do. not. even. give. a. damn. You don't even care about / aren't even affected by their bullying tactics. It's giving toddler trying to bullying a grown ass adult, but physically everyone in the situation is grown up.

4.) song: It's 3am, come ride with me.. by Ksunemoto (this is a midnight rides on a motorcycle kind of reading). astrology: gemini, pisces, sagittarius, aquarius

This person wants to skin walk you. They are scary … I mean, I can see that their mind is twisted up. This is a person who could become truly empty and unempathetic. I don't want you to be scared or think you're gonna be a true crime victim. I'm seeing it not going that far. You probably already know this person is being weird around you. They are stalking you to be like you. If you EVER feel like you're in danger from someone tell the proper authorities. This will be a guidance counselor or police. The police aren't saviors, but having this on record is a good idea. Anyway, only if they truly scare you.

I don't like to give scary messages. So, know that you are protected from this person. They are going to end up making themselves look embarrassing. The potential of them doing something crazy is there, I can see that. But I know they won't go that far. You are so protected from this. This person is a social pariah, really. They try to emulate humans and just keep failing to do so. It's kind of sad… but they are bothering you because they keep showing up. They might just stare from afar.

I see that this person has had a hard time integrating with peers and society in general. Instead of owning that, they are trying to become someone others like and admire. They think this about you. The truth, that they may not even see, is that they are the one pedestalizing you. They think you are cool and beloved and everything they think they have to be in order to be loved, adored, like, accepted etc.

They may have been shamed out of being their natural self and so they have resentment and admiration both. This makes me sad, but you cannot be their friend.

Keep your distance. They are too sick right now to understand friendship, how to hold onto it and how to appreciate it. They are vengeful and angry, not with you per se, but with society. They resent you for having what they believe they never could.

They are in this loop because they keep trying to fit into society's mold of "perfect" or "ideal." They haven't yet learned that there is so much pwoer in their authenticity. This person may have even killed that part of themself. Their inner child may be… gone. Permanently.

There is no need to try and help, just go your own way and avoid run ins with them if possible. Keep your distance and they will find someone else to latch onto. For some readers: This person could be ND (neurodivergent) and if that's the case, they are just observing you, but do not have an actual problem with you. Have compassion for them, be kind and move about your life.

Disclaimer: Hey, so … I know tarot is not a tool for diagnosing, treating or advising anyone about mental health or disorders of any sort. I'm not trying to do that. My readings are colored by the experiences I've had. I'm using the examples spirit is bringing to my mind. That's all. As always, tarot is just a tool to see where you are on your journey. Always use your best judgement, this is not advice and I am *not* a professional of any sort. You can always manifest a different circumstance and a different outcome for any situation. Simply demand your desire and proclaim it as already done. Be safe, well wishes, toodle-oo~ 💖

[bougiebutchbitch]

never gonna actually do it because it would be a MASSIVE project but

if I were to write a Shen Jiu redemption arc

it would be with the knowledge that his original character would die like he did in the book - aka, being a prideful, toxic, Binghe-hating, abusive&abused little shit to the end

...then, in classic fanfic fashion, he'd be reincarnated in his shizun-self with young disciple Luo Binghe locked in the woodshed after a beating. Aka, where Shen Yuan came in

of course once he gets over the panic

(and the confused morass of emotions upon seeing Yue Qingyuan alive)

his first thought is. I have to kill that fucking monster.

and he goes to do just that - but Binghe is the protagonist and the protagonist can't die/the System stops him/etc. etc. etc.

eventually, despite a... couple more attempts, Shen Jiu realises the only way he's going to change his fate is the long and hard way (aka, repairing every single relationship he's spent his whole life RUINING)

he starts acting in subtly ooc ways, specifically as a ploy to convince people to like him. He is constantly thinking about how he can manipulate their opinion of him to show himself in a good light, and he is not above undercutting other people to paint himself as a Sweet Innocent Shizun who only puts on a cold mask because he's easily flustered. He does his damned best to convince everyone that he's not really a villain. He's just misunderstood. He's still harsh to his disciples, but it's interspersed with far more (reluctant) praise, and always for a genuine teaching purpose, so he can pretend he cares for them really, deep down.

Oh - it makes him sick. His loathing of Binghe festers as the child slooowly begins to creep out of his shell and become more attached to him. He seeks to maintain as much distance from him as possible while still maintaining his 'kind shizun' demeanour, but of course, Binghe being Binghe (and barely needing an excuse to develop a terrible crush on his teacher) makes that very difficult.

Basically: I want Shen Jiu scheming on how he can trick the whole world into thinking he's not a villain, while he himself still considers himself a despicable and irredeemable monster who is cunningly cheating death. I want his intentions to be genuinely rotten. I want him to loathe everyone and everything, and internally gnash his teeth and roll his eyes and inspect any kindness he's shown, working it into that massive web of paranoia that hovers above his head and tells him all the ways in which his so-called 'friends' and disciples may still turn on him in future

I want him to not realise that actions matter far more than intentions, and genuinely endear himself to a lot of people, his shit personality and all. They're like - yeah, that's Shen Qingqiu! He's a backstabbing two faced son of a bitch, but he keeps pulling through for us at the last moment, and he obviously cares deeply about his disciples! We all love him! He might be a dick, but he's our dick!

All while Shen Jiu is very much stuck in a Paranoid Torment Nexus of his own creation

he becomes the peaks' horrid little cat, is what I'm saying

[violenteconomics]

FRESHMEN 101 FOR ASPIRING UPPERCLASSMEN

today’s lesson: proper communication and translation 🗣️

azul: greetings! i am your professor, azul ashengrotto! welcome to "freshmen 101 for aspiring upperclassmen" at night raven college! the only class that will you teach how to effectively handle those little brats— I MEAN loveable new faces you see around your dorm!

riddle: today, we will focus on how to properly communicate with your first-years. some of the things they say may be confusing and/or contradictory, so it's important to know how to translate their sentences into coherent language you understand.

vil: we have set up a variety of examples with our fellow co-professors and fellow seniors to guide you along this journey.

^

epel: vil, do you think i’d look better with a tattoo?

vil: translation: i am entering my rebellious phase and also want to ruin my delicate skin with a glorified paint job that i will most definitely regret in the future and will make me wish i had listened to my housewarden more. also, i have no hope of a happy future and will live out my days as a gangster on the streets.

epel: …what?

^

ortho: big brother, can you help me with a cosmetics alteration to my gear?

idia: big brother, i want to be the sparkliest, prettiest, most drop-dead gorgeous, most attractive, most charming, 5-star-reviewed, no notes, darling, glamorous, talented, brilliant, incredible, show-stopping, spectacular, never the same, totally unique, stunning, bewitching, adorbs, graceful, beguiling, smashing, knock-out, irresistible person in the classroom tomorrow.

ortho: yay~! 😀

^

deuce: sorry i was out past curfew, trey… i’m a little tired, so is it okay if i skip brushing my teeth tonight?

trey: translation: i have a secret boyfriend that i don’t want you to know about because he coerces me to engage in illegal underground boxing rings and convinces me that brushing my teeth is for losers. please get involved and maybe call the police and also never let me out of the dorm again until i’ve properly relearned the benefits of proper dental hygiene!

deuce: …huh?

^

sebek: silver, i think… i would like to make some friends with the people in our dorm. could you… mayhaps give me some advice?

silver: translation: i am a strikingly realistic imposter of your actual friend. i do not love nor care for you, and in fact, am very frightened by your presence, so i will gather allies from other places in an elaborate scheme to destroy you, the liege you’ve sworn your life to, your father, and your friend, whom i’ve already killed and whose body i have hidden in the basement. please end me.

sebek: pardon? what— what are you��� why are you carrying around a camera— NO! NO NO NO NONONONO SILVER IF I’VE OFFENDED YOU I DEEPLY APOLOGIZE— SILVER PUT THE SWORD DOWN—

^

yuu: everyday, i’m scared that everything i’ve worked so hard to build in this world, all the friends i’ve made… all of it will just— slip through my fingers like sand… kalim? azul? what are your biggest fears?

kalim: translation: wow, things sure have been getting a little upsetti spaghetti around here! let’s throw a huge party in the mostro lounge with food and games and bright lights and elephants and and invite all of our friends to lighten up the atmosphere! the more, the merrier!

azul: translation: and while we’re at it, please don’t forget the mostro lounge’s limited time “part of your world” event, which offers authentic drinks, food, and even little trinkets from all around the world, for 20% off its original price!

yuu: guys pls

^

ace: hey, riddle? i, uh… i need help with smth.

riddle: translation: i have gotten into some very serious trouble and am about to lure you into a death trap that will get us both severely injured in all likelihood, and i am coming to you, specifically, about this, because i know you care deeply for me and couldn’t say no if you honestly thought my life was in danger, and i am going to exploit it for my own ends. what is it, ace?

ace: …ok, u lil bitch i see how it is

^

jack: hey, leona? ruggie? do you… do you love me?

leona: 

ruggie: 

leona: 

ruggie: 

ruggie: translation: give me food!

jack: …would it help if i said it first?

leona: 

ruggie: 

leona: 

ruggie: 

leona: …no, wait— i think maybe he said “give me sliced pears on a plate”... not sure, tho.

ruggie: that does sound right...

jack: oh my seven.

[darqx]

Well i talk about it talk about it talk about it

The beginning of FUNKY TOWN is still stuck in my head.

❗️For commonly asked qs please see my BTD FAQ

Thanks, I'm glad my art improvement is noticeable :D I have actually KIND OF redrawn scenes before such as

and a bunch of frames from

so who knows i might do some more at some point lol!

YOU GUYS STILL SEND THEM TO ME :d

I don't actually get that many, i just tend to answer months worth all at once so it looks like a lot haha. I also don't answer a bunch of them if I've already answered something similar before or the answer is in my FAQ. Though I'm going to be honest some of the asks that get sent to me I don't think anyone expects me to actually answer, because they're just weird enough that if i turned off anon i'm pretty sure no one would be asking them.

My free time (...when I'm not procrastinating |D ) is trying to be spent on BP so I currently dont have any plans beyond the fun little doodles and animatics and stuff that I usually do. Gato is working on YKMET so if you guys like Strade then you have that to look forward to :)

(Why thank you!)

The armour follows his usual colour scheme which is gold on black.

You can tell this ask is from January lol.

Thanks haha my colouring style layers colour over colour so colour over grayscale always just looks oddly muddy in my POV |D ESPECIALLY LIGHT COLOURS LIKE YELLOW.

Demons can traditionally reproduce within the same species or with a compatible species.

Psychology, Law or Politics. I think these are the top normal majors you could take where the info you learn from them could be really useful in not getting fucked over and/or fucking someone else over.

I haven't been asked to make chibis for Gato this time around so you'll probably be getting something different for your finished runs!

Demon Commons.

All demons have some sort of specific mark that they are born with (anywhere on their body). The exact reason why has been lost to time, but it often gets used for identification. Here are some of the rest of my demon characs:

Hm, if I have to consider real life anatomy (nooooooo XD) the yellow is probably his iris.

Man i've answered so many asks i sometimes only remember saying something when another asks sounds familiar lmao 🤔 Ok; Rire, as a demon of station, has been captured in the background of some historical paintings and photographs, sometimes without his knowledge but always to his amusement later when he finds out. Like just imagine you are intensely studying art history and in those paintings of events with lots of people in it, suddenly your eye happens to catch upon a tall dark haired figure wearing sunglasses from that time period somehow blending in amongst everyone else there.

He has no particular preference in this regard.

Rire doesn't have like 🤔...a set criteria as it depends entirely on certain whims; like whether he is looking for business or pleasure, what he's feeling like at the time etc. If it's purely business then there are types of people he would approach that he wouldn't otherwise if it was for mainly entertainment.

They probably average out at about room temperature - they tend to reflect environment temp a bit and the main part that's closest to his back will always be a bit warmer than the rest of the ichor.

Probably not

They are evenly matched

Thanks very much! :D

Rire has been around for a while so yes he would have witnessed a bunch of things in human history. Who he met and who he made deals with is up for debate.

He is "polite" so he would thank you, at the very least. And yes they are his signature flower lol. It wouldnt be any special..er than receiving any other flowers though to him - we are the ones ascribing the meaning to it.

Two for the price of one 🤌🏻 Also this is an insanely old ask but yes you have permission to do fancomics or whatever with him |D

Anon, considering most people know him from a weird "dating sim", I dont think this is as startling an ask as you might think haha.

if it makes you happy.

Pick a nice smell that you particularly jive with and it would be that. This is individual specific so if a whole bunch of people are around Rire they may each perceive something different.

I get asked this question a lot |D I'm gonna be real with you guys - i haven't actively thought about a canon design for his parents because i'm kind of lazy to (since right now i dont need to know what they look like). Until that happens you guys will just have to go off the vague text descriptions i've given before :p