#But if you want to see it please ask me because that will only make it more likely that I do | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

zara-renata · 20 hours ago

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So I had one holiday prompt that I couldn't include in the big holiday prompt fic I posted last week, and I also have been receiving some really sweet and cute ideas that weren't exactly requests, but the ideas were so nice that I wanted to write something for them. I've gathered them into one story that I hope isn't disappointing. I had intended to do separate, cute little drabbles, but I had a bad day the other day and somehow uh, really dark angst happened, and then I used the ideas people sent for the comfort half of the fic? So please forgive me for just... taking it as dark as you can go before including the sweet, cute ideas that people requested. I hope you like the result anyway, although please read the content warnings. Several of the people who sent requests/ideas apologized for doing so, as if sending the ideas was 'too much', but you don't have to apologize for sending asks. My requests are open, and I like seeing everyone's ideas even if I don't end up being able to write for them, or if I tweak them a little to make them work for the story that comes out of my brain despite my best laid plans to stick to an outline.

The river | ao3 | masterlist

It's Christmas Eve, you're at the end of your rope after an absolutely awful year, and you decide to end it all after pushing everyone in your life away. Sylus pulls you from the brink and convinces you to keep going.

Sylus x fem reader, Sylus x mc, hurt/comfort, angst, grief, banter, fluff. CW: attempted suicide, depressed thoughts, NSFW, Sylus penetrating reader (this is not sex ed, do not follow these idiots' example, no discussion of condom or birth control, this is fantasy and we're not going to worry about that in the fic)

Ask #1 You asked to keep sending silly little ideas for you to write so I thought I'd give my own request! After Caleb and Gran (supposedly) die it's pretty much canon that MC refuses help from their friends and isolates themself in certain ways. I always imagine MC sometimes sees Sylus as "the only one they have left" since he is the only one who goes out of his way to check up on MC. But MC kinda grows to resent this and has a moment when their drunk/really going through it and basically ask Sylus why he doesn't leave them be so they can just rot away in peace. Sorry if this is too lengthy or I'm overstepping! Brain worms are getting to me

Ask #2 Okay, so random thoughts here, but do you know that superstition that’s like, “the places where you have moles on your body show where your lover kissed you in a past life”? But like… can you imagine what it would be like if MC had a mole in the exact spot where Sylus bit her during Abyssal Mark (cus I have one there lol) and then that superstition randomly gets brought up, only for MC to show him that mole and Sylus is just s h o o k??? N e way that’s my random thoughts lol (sorry if this is a lot 💀)

Ask #3 I love the way you write the MC and I find myself relating to them at least 99% of the time. Sometimes I just imagine them giving Sylus one of those "Do you like me? Circle yes or no!" Love letters to Sylus because they are terrified of rejection -> i wrote the MC in this story really, really depressed, so if this didn't hit the spot for you in terms of fear of rejection, let me know, and I can include your prompt in another story idea I had before this one that's a lot lighter and sweeter before I got hit by the angst truck that this fic turned out to be. just let me know!

Ask #4 the last holiday prompt! -> idk if anyone sent it yet but from the xmas prompt list, i would love to see what you do with number 8 -> I'm so sorry that this is what I did with it, I hope you like it anyway😭

Thank you everyone who has sent me ideas! If you've sent me a request and I haven't answered it yet, it's because I'm still intending to do something with it.

Here you are. Again.

At the end of a long day. A long week. A long year.

A long rope.

It’s the dark, this time of year.

Maybe.

You’re restless. You’ve passed through the Deepspace Hunters Association doors for the last time this year. Empty days of leave stretch before you.

Normally, it would still be light out, leaving this early. But not now, this deep into the year—it’s already full night, as you leave work early.

The bright lights of the building pour over your upturned face as you look back, just once. You don’t know what for. You’ve successfully severed most of the ties you had built before.

Before everything.

Tara, Xavier. After Caleb, Josephine—they reached out, over and over, and you bit their outstretched hands with your sharp, sharp teeth.

You snapped enough times that they keep their distance, now.

They’re still kind.

Tara still comes, sits on your desk, shares tidbits of gossip during the workday. But she no longer invites you along to karaoke, to after-work drinks with other coworkers.

You and Xav work in sync, as you eliminate wanderers. He walks you to your door at the end of the day. But he no longer offers to lend you books. No longer invites you to the bookstore, or to try new restaurants.

You watch his broad back as he walks away from you, down your apartment building’s hallway. He feels as far away as a star in the velvet night sky.

It’s not their fault. You did this.

You wanted this.

You turn away from the warm light beaming from the Association as you leave early, the Christmas lights glittering in the windows, the holiday party you’re skipping still in full swing in the open, sleek company restaurant area on the ground floor. A division-wide shindig, to celebrate the end of the year, the holidays.

The night is cold. Fairy lights, nets of bright pinpricks in the dark night, cover the trees lining the sidewalk. Decorative light displays stretch across the busy road at periodic intervals, over the canals that parallel the streets, the gondolas and tour-boats festive under their own lights, red ribbons flapping in the cold winter wind.

You think about how they never recovered a body.

Only Josephine’s ashes fill an urn, sitting in a cold niche of a quiet columbarium. Caleb’s urn is empty.

You start walking, fast, along the busy sidewalk. People are out shopping, scurrying to tie up last minute errands before the city shuts down for the holiday tomorrow.

You want to unzip your coat. Unzip your uniform. Unzip your skin, your ribcage. Leave all these pieces of yourself behind, for others to puzzle over. To sweep up with the rest of the refuse left over from festive party goers on the street. You want to dissipate in the cold winter air like your breath with each cursed inhale, exhale.

You settle for beginning to jog to the metro station, your feet carrying you faster, faster, your boots heavy on the sidewalk. You see it lit in the distance, but you can’t stand the thought of being underground right now. Buried alive, with all the other people. You sprint past it.

You’re graceful enough to duck and weave, not disturb anyone else, until the crowds thin.

You’re running, running, the city is streaming past, like the tears from your eyes. Wet from the cold, because you haven’t cried since waking up, your ears deafening, Caleb’s silver chain glittering in the firelight on the walk up to your grandmother’s burning house.

Tears won’t bring a body back.

You don’t know how much longer you can stand this.

The days, one after another. Alarm, moving through the dark to get to work. Moving through the dark to get back to your apartment at the end of the day.

The pain—your only constant, now. The only thing you expect, have to look forward to, day after blurred day.

An echoing emptiness, like an urn without ashes. An emptiness that feels so full that your skin could burst with it.

You think about your apartment. The festive city outside its windows. The half-opened bottle of wine in the fridge, the only thing in it.

You veer from your neighborhood. Keep running. You’re sweating under your winter coat, your heavy Hunter uniform. It doesn’t matter.

You run, and run, and run, until you run out of streets, sidewalk.

Just the river, wide and black. There is a bridge, soaring over the water, in the distance. Its lights reflected in the water, along with the urban nightscape. Stars above, stars below.

You could drown in them.

You look at the bridge.

You could drown in it all.

There’s no one left, after all.

Who will miss you?

You slow. Stop.

Your breath is heavy in the quiet air. Fairy lights sparkle here, too. Pretty swooping light displays top each lamppost along the river path.

You would have gone to identify the body, as you did with Gran. She didn’t look like herself. Not even a sleeping version of herself. They did their best, reconstructing her face. But it wasn’t the stitches, the bruising. It was that she simply wasn’t there anymore. Like a stranger’s body on display. An empty house after the residents have been forced to flee in a night of unimaginable violence.

But running your hands through her hair, one last time. It soothed something in you. Enough that you could breathe in the cold mortuary air. Could nod. Could watch as they covered her again. As they escorted you out into the bustling hospital hallways, to stand under cold fluorescent lights. To stare vacantly at the wall, until you felt a strange, familiar feeling. You looked up, saw Zayne watching you, at the end of the long hallway. You stared at him, memorizing his beautiful face. His dark hair. His severe, cold loveliness. You let yourself look one last time, and he let you. Through the people filling the hallway, each walking with purpose, they were a blur and he was across the world, across time, a part of your past that should never have reappeared in your present. It hurt too much, to look at his beautiful, distant face. He left you behind, once. He should have stayed gone. You can’t stand to experience the loss again, the loss you felt every time he listened to your heart, expressionless, a stranger with a beautiful, familiar face from your past, a past in which Caleb was still alive.

You looked at Zayne one last time, across a bustling hallway in a place full of life, of death, and he let you. You then turned, headed to the reception desk. You switched doctors, hospitals.

You blocked his number, so you’ll never know if he sent you a text, tried to call and ask why, after. He let you walk out. Which is as it should be.

You wanted this.

The water churns under the whipping wind, the fast current. It looks so cold. Cold enough to numb. Cold enough to finally put out the fire that’s been burning in you, ever since you woke up, your ears deafening, Caleb’s necklace shimmering in the flames.

You think of running your hands through his hair. Something the fire robbed you of—it would have been your first time, your last time. He would pat your head. Call you pipsqueak. Ignore your protests to not mess up your hair, to not treat you like a little kid. But he would always duck out of the way anytime you tried to return the favor, tease him, tousle his hair. His pretty brunette hair that always looked so soft. Now you’ll never know how soft it really was.

You look at the water. You look at the bridge. The car headlights meteors streaking along their guardrail-gated orbit.

You think about going home. Waking up tomorrow, Christmas Day. The silence. You think about going back to work. Killing wanderer after wanderer. Wondering which one will be the one to finally kill you.

The days blur. The constant emptiness echoing inside your apartment, inside your ribcage.

You look at the water. You look at the bridge. You imagine running your hands through Caleb’s hair for the first, the last time. A tender goodbye you’ll never have, because they never found his body.

There’s no one left to miss you.

Your phone vibrates in your pocket. You fish it out.

Rafayel no longer calls, or texts you words. He just sends photos, every once in a while. Mundane details of everyday life, rendered extraordinary through his artist’s eye. Paintings he’s working on. A foreign landscape. Leaves glistening with dew. The moon, waxing full.

You haven’t answered in months. You look at each one, tuck your phone back in your pocket.

You look back at the water. Think about taking a photo of the reflected stars, the thin crescent moon in the black waves, think of sending him one last response. But even you’re not that cruel. You don’t want him to realize later, that he was the last one to say anything to you.

You don’t open his text. You block his number. Tuck the phone back into your pocket.

You start to walk toward the bridge. As you walk, you keep your eyes on the path, its edges. Decorative, smooth stones line the walkway along the river embankment. You pick them up, here and there, as you walk. Slip them into your coat pockets.

Eventually you run out of room in your coat pockets, add more to your pants pockets.

You turn your eyes back to the bridge, looming now.

You think of your empty fridge. Josephine’s empty face. An empty urn.

You’re ready to scoop out what’s left of you, leave it behind on the sidewalk, smoldering as the cold night finally smothers the endless fire, the only thing left inside you. Maybe it will warm someone else, in passing. A last good deed, from you to someone in the world.

A metal staircase, leading up, up, into the black sky, mirroring the dark river, your heavy boots echoing. The cars are loud. If you close your eyes, they could be the rushing waves of an ocean, instead of a river of traffic, above a river of water.

You keep your eyes open. You’re not going to pretend that you’re not doing what you’re doing, now. You’re not at the ocean, its pure salt air drifting through your hair, now whipping around your face. You’re on a busy, exhaust- and oil-stained commuter bridge on the night before Christmas, having cut your ties with everyone you have always known never wanted or needed you in the first place. What’s the difference if a wanderer kills you tomorrow, or if something kills you today? Just empty time, blurry days, photo frames without pictures.

The guardrail isn’t so high as one would guess. It’s an easy step up. An easy step over. You stand, looking back over the city where you were raised. The city that contains all the past versions of yourself, from the moment you were pulled screaming into life from a mother whose face you’ll never know, through to now, an empty shell of a person. If your fellow hunters could see inside you, they’d mistake you for a wanderer and put you down, like the scientists who experimented on you, your own grandmother, did years ago.

Since learning that Gran was one of the people who fucked with your heart, you have often resented that she and her colleagues weren’t successful in finishing the job years ago, when they had the chance.

But now you wonder, standing over a dark, freezing river that reflects what’s inside you now, maybe they did finish it. You just didn’t realize it. Not till tonight, as you look down in the mirror of the rushing water, far below.

Even now, the tears won’t come.

What use are tears, when they can’t bring a body back. When they can’t wash it clean. When they can’t lovingly touch it, one last time, soft strands of hair under your fingers.

Your tears, your heart, your suffering, your existence—useless, for the entirety of a life you can only half remember.

You wonder if it’s the dark, tonight. Why tonight, and not yesterday? Why not six months ago?

Because it took that long to sever the ties binding you here?

Now you are assured, no one will miss you. It will take days before anyone even notices your absence because of your holiday leave.

You hope that they’ll assume it was a wanderer. Bad luck. Wrong time, wrong place. A modest little plaque on the wall of heroes, even though you know you’re no hero.

In the end, it doesn’t matter why it’s tonight, and not any other night.

No need to be dramatic, pretending there’s meaning in the meaningless.

You put your hands on the guardrail, the metal colder than your freezing hands. You lift a heavy booted foot. Take a deep breath.

It’s so cold. It will be over before you know it. You’ve read that from this height, it’s the impact, and not the drowning.

You’ve always had dreams of flying.

You lift your other foot, arms thrown wide for balance, just for a moment. The world feels so big, here at the end. The stars above, the stars below, the doubled crescent moon. You’re ready to drown in it all.

You only have one hope.

I don’t want to be reborn.

You breathe, empty your mind of Tara’s earnest smile, Xavier’s soft laughter, Zayne’s steady hands, Rafayel’s flashing violet eyes. Josephine’s empty face. Caleb’s soft, untouchable hair.

You let yourself fall.

You’re flying. Your heart is soaring. Your heart is seizing. The relief, the terror, mingle. You can’t scream, even if you wanted to.

You’re flying and it’s everything you ever dreamt, until it’s not.

Your body jerks, abruptly. Your hair whips down, lashes your face. You grunt with the impact against… nothing. You’re suspended over the water, drifting in the air. The wind tugs at your stone-weighted coat.

You twist away from the water, craning your neck to look up, up, back at the bridge.

You have withstood the uselessness of tears for almost a year now. But now, you want to cry so badly the pain of the need steals your breath.

You knew he was cruel. You knew he was merciless. You knew that he hated you. You just didn’t realize how much, until now.

You hang suspended over a dark, rushing river, wrapped in scarlet and ink tendrils, looking up into the sneering face of the one person you refused to think about as you made your final decision tonight, at the end of your desolate, half-remembered life.

His evol begins to lift you, away from the merciful impact, the numbing water. You, your past, your heart, the memories and despair and stones filling your pockets seem weightless, wrapped in his power.

His usual mask of bored indifference is gone. He is finally showing you his true face, what he must always feel when he looks at you—fury and disgust.

He says nothing, as he pulls you from the depths, back into the world. As he sets you gently back on your heavy feet on the sidewalk in front of him. His evol evaporates, winter breath in the wind.

He looks at your face with his wine-dark eyes. Looks at the water. Flicks his gaze back to your face.

You will not cry in front of this man. This man who hates you so much he won’t even let you seek the peace of death. Death, which has always been too good for you, but not for the people you loved the most.

You clench your jaw as the fire re-ignites in your chest. The flames you had tried so hard to scoop out, to leave behind.

You don’t want to feel this much anymore.

If you speak, you know you’ll cry. You can’t stand it.

Maybe, with enough repetition, he’ll get bored. He gets bored so easily, after all.

You turn, try to launch yourself over the guardrail again.

This time, it’s not his evol, but his arms that wrap around you, pull you back from the fall.

You struggle, throwing your elbows, kicking, throwing your head back, hoping to catch his perfect nose, break it under the hardness of your stupid, useless skull.

He says nothing, just holds you tighter, wraps one arm around your waist, the other over your chest, his big hand cradling the side of your face, pressing your head back into his own chest, as he hunches over you, an immovable wall of warmth. As you fight to break free of his hold, you are wrapped in his scent—cloves, gun oil.

Sylus.

Eventually, you tire yourself out—despite all of your strength, it is no match for his. He holds you against himself easily, as you pant, lungs burning with the effort, the sweat warm once again under your Hunter’s uniform. You become aware of a whimpering, the keening of a wounded animal.

It’s coming from your throat. Your eyes burn. You go limp in his arms.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. A voice like warm liquor in your veins. You think he’ll let you go. You prepare, hoping you can get to the guardrail again. Maybe this time he won't be so fast. But instead of releasing you, getting away from you as fast as he can, the arm around your waist moves up, cradling your upper back. He scoops his other arm under your legs, holds you against himself like you’re a delicate princess, if you were anyone else. But because it’s you, he’s probably just holding you like a useless sack of shit that would be too annoying to drop. He begins to walk, his stride steady, brisk.

He looks down into your face. “I bought a dress for you. Silk. A design like stars over a flowing river. That’s the only river you’re allowed in tonight, kitten.”

You stare at him. His breath puffs white in the cold air. The face of disgusted fury is replaced by his usual bored mask.

Why is he doing this to you? He wanted to kill you, just a few months ago. Why not let you do the job for him?

He is the only person in your life who didn’t take the hint. Who kept showing up, after you made it clear that you didn’t want their presence anymore. That you couldn’t handle the ties, because ties become nooses, snapping your neck when the other person leaves you behind.

When he showed up where you were, in a ‘coincidental’ meeting on the street, on a jog, you would turn, move in the other direction. He would match your stride, doggedly pestering you with questions, asking you about your evening or weekend plans, telling you silly stories from the N109 Zone, Luke and Kieran’s latest antics. Sometimes he’d just walk in contemplative silence, thumbs hooked through his belt loops, or jog quietly next to you, never losing his breath, never complaining about the pace.

When you would routinely see him at various restaurants you were headed to in order to pick up takeout, you’d leave your food, immediately turning and hurrying away. When the same food was delivered to your door half an hour later, you’d refuse to answer, letting the confused and irritated delivery man leave. A half hour after that, the same man would be back, yell through the door that he had instructions to leave the food even if no one answered, and then he’d make good on his promise. You were faced with the choice of either letting the food go to waste, or eating it guiltily at your kitchen island.

No matter how many times you told the delivery person of the almost daily packages you received with no return address that you didn’t want to accept delivery, they would always insist that their instructions were to deliver regardless of recipient response. You were welcome to bin the items after receipt, but if you didn’t accept, the packages would just pile so high outside of your door that you couldn’t reach your apartment anymore.

You would accept, and then donate whatever exquisite item was inside to women’s shelters, children’s homes, university museums, soup kitchens, fundraiser auctions. No matter how clear it was that you wouldn’t accept anything from him, Sylus never stopped sending you gifts.

When you were sick, he’d show up personally, barge into your apartment when you were too tired to look at the doorbell camera before answering, a duffel bag gripped in his big hand filled with fever reducing medicine, homemade soup from his home chef, painkillers, hot water bottles, cooling pads, muscle pads, vitamins. He’d lounge on your couch, manspreading, insisting that he wouldn’t leave until he saw you swallow the pills and drink a gigantic glass of water.

He’d wait until you lay back down on your messy bed, until you fell asleep. He’d be gone when you woke again, but your apartment would be clean and your fridge and freezer would be stuffed full of healthy pre-prepared food.

You were half-convinced he was just buttering, fattening his prey before getting bored and mercifully ending its life.

Tonight, you are now fully convinced.

“Did your tongue freeze in your mouth?” he asks, descending the stairs you had just walked up, thinking it was your last time ascending them. “Do you need mouth-to-mouth to warm it up again?”

You scowl at him, at how appealing the idea of Sylus’s tongue in your mouth is, even now. You hate yourself, your traitorous body for being drawn to him, even now. “What’s the point of talking, when you never listen?” you grind out, your throat sore. You hadn’t realized how much your animal wailing had wrecked your throat. At least the tears are no longer so close to the surface that they’re threatening to spill.

“I listen to every word out of your beautiful mouth,” he counters serenely, with that same inexplicable kindness that makes your heart hurt. So at odds with how you know he must really feel about you. “I just listen to more than your mouth in order to hear what you’re really saying.”

“What?” You stare at his beautiful face, the way the lamplight illuminates its sharp features for a brief moment, before the night swallows it again as he moves between lampposts on his way… somewhere. Back the way you just came from.

He spares you a glance. “Your mouth says one thing, while the rest of you is screaming something else.”

You feel the blood draining from your face. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

One corner of his beautiful mouth lifts. “Don’t play dumb, kitten. You’re too smart for it to be convincing.”

You were just falling into the river. You were just about to be free. How did you get here again? In this man’s arms, his smug, roguish smile filling you with the unease of being seen.

“I mean, it wouldn’t kill you to be a little more honest about the fact that you want people to fight for you, right?”

You begin to struggle again, shame lancing through you, making your body unbearable to be in. You know it’s weak, to have wanted so desperately that the people you were carving from your life would see what you were doing and stop you, place their hands over yours holding the cleaver, gently push it down, down, until it dropped from your grasp—how desperately you wanted them to step into your space, hold you tightly, just like this man who sees right through you is holding you now. You wanted Tara to keep inviting you out with your ridiculous colleagues, to sing your heart out at shitty karaoke clubs, to forcibly drag you to sleepovers and arcade nights. You wanted Xavier to push himself into your apartment, try to bake something horrible in your oven, sheepishly offer to go to the bakery with you instead when the fire alarm inevitably went off. You wanted Zayne to walk through the crowd to reach you at the other end of the hallway after you identified Josephine’s body, to ask to take your hand, to ask how you were doing, even though you knew you wouldn’t have been able to answer. You wanted Rafayel to keep inventing excuses for you to visit his studio, to keep insisting that he needed you to accompany him to expositions and fancy lunches as his bodyguard.

But none of them did in the end, and that’s okay. You kept pushing them away, because your terror of their leaving was apparently bigger than your need for their presence in your life, and at least if they were already gone, as they inevitably would be, you’d finally be free.

But the last person you would want to see this utterly humiliating need inside you, exposing you like this, is the one looking down at you right now with deceptively soft, all-seeing eyes.

You know the feeling, this need, of pulling away and pulling away and then being heartbroken when people finally let you is weak, and pathetic.

You may experience weak and pathetic feelings, but you’re not weak or pathetic. Not at your core. You were prepared to do what was necessary, to save yourself from the pain of your emptiness, the fire raging inside your chest. You weren’t asking anything of anyone. You were doing it all on your own.

Not a burden.

Never a fucking burden.

You clench your teeth, buck in Sylus’s arms.

He just holds you tightly, a straightjacket for the insanity that you’re feeling, the insanity of this man, out of all the people in your life, stripping you of your masks, flaying you so that all of your most tender, shameful parts are exposed to both him and yourself.

“Stop that. You’re just going to tire yourself further, when I need you tonight.”

Of course. The quid pro quo. He helped you with the auction, the Aether Core. Now you owe him. He doesn’t give a fuck if you live or die—he just can’t let one of his assets destroy itself before it fulfills his purpose.

You go limp in his arms. Turn your head away from him.

He continues his train of thought. “No, it wouldn’t kill you to tell the truth to your friends, so you decided to take matters into your own hands, huh? Telling the people in your life that you actually need them wouldn’t kill you, so why bother, right, when you can just jump off of a fucking bridge?” His voice sounds like the night you met him. Controlled anger. Disgust. Accusation.

Then there’s something wrong with her.

You thought you had killed everything inside of you already. The yearning for human connection. The kindness of a friend. Family holding you in their arms. You thought you had scooped out most of it, even as some of it rekindled when he pulled you back from the fall.

But the way you’re hurting now, at the memory of his hate, the reminder that the people you love won’t fight for you even if it would be fighting against you, and that this man, for all of his false generosity, never cared for you from the beginning, that his gifts and his visits were all what you knew them to be, all along—a bored predator toying with its prey before using it and consuming it.

You let your thoughts drift back to the bridge, push your pain away. Feed it to the fire. When he’s done with you, maybe you won’t even have to jump.

“Just shut up, Sylus. I’ll help you with your problem tonight. Just promise me you’ll toss me over yourself, when you’re done with me,” you tell the night, because you still can’t bring yourself to look at him.

He stops walking. The wind is so cold against your face. You wish he’d snap your neck, right now. You’re so fucking tired.

“Look at me.” His voice is low. Menacing.

You watch the water. Wonder how long it would take if you just walked out into it, without jumping. Just walk in with your stone-weighted coat and let the cold paralyze you, the current pull you under.

“Look at me, my heart,” he whispers. The change in his tone, his bizarre endearment, has you turning your head, looking up into his face. “That is one promise I can never make you.” He looks like he’s in pain. You don’t know why. He leans down, rests his forehead against yours, hunching his big shoulders, lifting your body in his arms so he can meet you. His breath is warm against your lips. “Please don’t talk to me like that.”

You want to snort. It’s rich, coming from him—the same man who is telling you not to tell him to shut up, after all the things he said to you as he starved you, strangled you.

“Please don’t tell me to kill you. To hurt you. That hurts me.”

You stare up into his face. See the sincerity in his eyes. The wind whips your hair. He wasn’t upset that you told him to shut up, but that you asked him to kill you? “What does it matter? Aren’t you going to, in the end?”

“Why would I stop you tonight, if I wanted you to die?”

Of course he won’t answer outright. When has Sylus Qin ever answered a direct question?

“Yeah, that’s what I’m saying. Why bother stopping me, unless you just need to use me and then be done with me? I can’t be that irreplaceable. Just get someone else to put on the dress, and let me get on with my fucking life. Someone who you can train to say just the right things, at just the right time, who’ll look good in whatever fancy shit you want to put her in. There’s gotta be easier idiots than me to serve your purpose.”

He closes his eyes, breathes in the cold night air. When he opens them, you have to look away. You can’t handle whatever is in them. “I know I hurt you, when we first met. That I said cruel things to you. I’m sorry.”

You laugh, even as your heart wrenches at this strange apology. Of course he doesn’t explain what offended him so much about your existence at the beginning. Why he treated you exactly how you deserved. Probably just whatever he saw when he used his Aether Core on you. He saw the echoing chambers of your empty, fucked up heart and was enraged that it was you, and not someone worthy, who would absorb the Aether Core. “There’s never been any need to varnish the truth, Sylus. You almost choked me to death the day we met. You should have fucking finished what you started,” you sneer. “Why does no one ever finish what they start?” You think of Josephine, her researcher cronies. Think of Caleb, his promise to return, the last text he ever sent you. Your fucking parents, who you will never know.

You don’t expect an answer.

And yet, you’re surprised when Sylus wordlessly releases his hold on you. Lets you slip from his arms, sets you back on your feet. You settle in your heavy boots, the weight of your coat, the stones in your pockets, grounding you to the earth.

The lamplight shines in his silver-sheened, wind-tousled hair. His cheeks are red from the cold.

Of course. Of course.

No tool is irreplaceable.

You’re not irreplaceable.

You finally said the right thing, to push him away.

This is it. This is it. This is it.

Your mind returns to the bridge. Your hand is holding the cleaver, dripping with the blood from the last unwelcome tether to your life.

You try to memorize his face, just as you did Zayne’s, but for some reason looking at Sylus’s face hurts you so much more despite having known him for so little time. Just a sigh, in the timeline of your life. The warm glow of his irises. The softness of his lower lip. The pride in his shoulders, his nose.

Maybe you didn’t want to think of him before jumping because you had fallen in love with him, despite the fact that any affection he offered was counterfeit—the steady way he breathed next to you on a jog, the way he spread out on your couch, his dry humor, his intelligence, his piercing gaze, his kindness that was actually more cruel than if he had just tossed you out and never bothered to look for you again after the auction.

You knew it was fake. You knew it was calculated. You knew that the reality was, because he had told you from the very beginning—

Don’t tell me that you like me. Is this all so you can get my attention?

Clearly you’ve read too many fairytales.

And yet you had believed, in the bright moments of receiving his kind attention, in the fairytale. Just for a heartbeat. A raindrop, splattering on the ground.

You thought that you couldn’t bear to see what it looks like when Sylus finally tires of you pushing him away, and stops reaching out, as everyone else has.

But with just a few words, you’ve finally managed to do it. He set the burden of you down, and now he’ll walk away, replace you with some other beautiful, breathing tool.

You learn in this moment that you actually can bear it. You can bear anything, as long as you know that very soon, you won’t have to bear anything at all.

“You wanted the truth?” you say, suddenly, the relief flooding through you that the worst has happened, that you’re now actually free. You think of the fabric of the dress, liquid stars over a night river, and wonder whose body it will caress, with Sylus’s big hand on her waist, his gentle fingers drifting across her collarbone, his forehead pressed against hers, for whatever ruse he needs to run tonight, on Christmas Eve.

He grows still. Watches you carefully, as if searching your face for a trick. You look back at him steadily, scooping everything inside you out, letting it splatter onto the sidewalk, here along this dark riverbank.

“Will you give it to me?” he finally asks.

“As a parting thank you gift, for cutting me loose.” You nod. Take a shuddering breath of the frigid air. “Here is me telling you the truth: you should treat the woman who ends up wearing the dress you got with more gentleness than you did me at the beginning. You could have the world eating out of the palm of your hand, if you skip the cruelty at the beginning and just treat people the way you treated me in the last few months. She’ll do anything for you, I think, if you do. Because somehow you made me love you, despite our beginning. I could bear to cut everyone else loose but you.” You laugh, and the sound is like icicles snapping, shattering on the ground. “Thank you for doing it for me, instead. It’s probably the kindest thing anyone has ever done for me.”

You smile at him.

You don’t know why you’re surprised that he just frowns deeply, brow furrowing.

Well. That’s okay. You never expected him to be pleased to see your face, smiling or not.

“Good luck, Sylus.”

You turn, begin to walk back the way you came, for the second time tonight. Your thoughts are already at the bridge. You’ve been falling for months now. Soon you’ll finally hit the crystal water and shatter.

You hope you won’t be reborn.

“You said you love me.” His deep, low voice is carried by the wind.

You stop, turn your head. “Stupid, huh?” you ask, wondering if he wants to pour salt into the wound you just willingly exposed to him.

“Why would you love someone who treated you the way I did?”

You turn fully, face him across the night, one last time. “You’re so fucking funny. I’ve always appreciated men who can make me laugh.” You shrug. “And I’m a pathetic fool. You pretended to be kind, and I lapped it up like the thirsty dog I am.”

He tilts his head, takes a step towards you. “That’s all?”

You take a step back. You don’t need him and his pretty face, his delicious scent any closer to torment you.

You offer him more truth. “Of course not.”

“What else?”

You sigh. “What does it matter? We’ll never see each other again.”

He shakes his head. “Indulge me.”

So salt, it is. You press your fingers into the most tender part of yourself, peel yourself wide open. “Your cleverness. How sweet you can be when you want something—strangely pliant, for such a big, powerful man. The self confidence you have. I could say, do anything and you did so well pretending to never be embarrassed of me. You made me believe, very briefly, that you really wanted to be with me, do anything, go anywhere, just because I was there. It’s quite impressive, really. I can see why you’re so good at business. You’re competent. You’re beautiful to look at.” You pause, shake your head in turn. “But you already know all that. You know why you’re loveable. You made me feel cherished in a way that no one ever has, even as I was pushing you away. But honestly, those are just parts of you. They don’t fully cover what it is about you that makes my heart ache when I look at you. I love you because you’re you. Even hearing your name makes my heart race. Seeing your shoes in my foyer, because they were on your feet. The curve of your wrist, because it belongs to you. I know it’s pathetic, and stupid.” You shrug again. “Can’t help it, though.”

He stares at you.

You prod him. “Is that enough?”

“How can you ask if that’s enough, when it’s everything?”

You look at him in confusion. “Huh?”

He takes a step towards you, frowning. “Are you only telling me all this because you think I’ve finally given up and allowed you to push me away, because I set you back on your feet?”

You take a step back, as he takes another step forward.“What do you mean ‘I think’ you’ve given up?” You squint at him.

“Did you only tell me all this because you’re going straight back to the bridge to try again?”

You take another step back at the intensity of his face, his question. “What does it matter? You don’t have to worry about what happens to me after this.”

He takes two steps. “You tell me you love everything about me, and then you plan to fuck off and leave me alone again?”

Okay, this was a mistake. You don’t know why he’s mad, but he’s mad again. “I’m sorry.”

You don’t know what else to say. You’ve been sorry your whole life. This is yet another miscalculation. You should have just left. What did you think would happen if you told him how you feel? That he’d be happy about your pathetic heart bleeding pitifully for him?

He strides over to you, his long legs outpacing your own. “If you’re sorry, don’t fucking do it.”

“What?”

He looks down into your face, so close you can smell him again, you can see the fine lines around his eyes as he frowns. “If you’re really sorry for loving me, for ever meeting me—which are the only things you have to be sorry for, then make it up to me by staying. Don’t leave me. Don’t push me away anymore. Just stay, and love me.”

You huff. “Are you really that desperate for help tonight?”

He lifts his hands, places his palms on your cheeks, his long fingers dipping into your hair. “No, I’m desperate for you tonight. It’s Christmas—I don’t give a shit about the holidays, but I know you do. I want to spend it with you. You made me watch you jump off of a goddamned bridge. What would have happened if I hadn’t already been on my way to you?” He sounds so upset. You’ve never seen him like this. The fear is naked on his lovely face.

“What the fuck are you talking about? What does it matter? You said you could get someone else for the dress, for tonight.” You’re so confused. Why is he acting like this?

“I didn’t say any of that. You suggested that I replace you with someone else, I set you on the ground to make sure you were looking at my face, that you were listening to my words when I told you that you’re irreplaceable. That no one else will do. That after watching you almost die, I can’t continue being cautious and trying not to frighten you away anymore.”

“You… what?”

“You love me. Right? You weren’t lying?” he looks uncertain, like he can’t quite believe it.

You can’t bring yourself to lie. The truth is out. You’re witnessing the fallout. There’s no point in backpedaling. “Yeah.”

He nods, once, decisively. “Okay. That’s enough.”

You sigh in relief. Maybe he’ll let you go, finally, finally.

He checks his chunky watch, the platinum flashing in the lamplight. “There’s still time.”

“Time for what?”

“For my plans tonight. Come.” He closes the distance, sweeps you into his arms again, cradles your body against him like something fragile.

“What plans? Listen—” you start to argue.

“No. Now it’s my turn to speak, and for you to listen.” he squeezes you tightly. “Today was the last day you spend alone. If you can’t live for yourself, then you can live for me, until you remember why you want to live for yourself again. No matter what you say, or what you do to get rid of me, it’s not going to work.”

You can’t even process what is happening. “What are you—?” you begin, but he cuts you off again.

His voice is strained, rough. “You love me. So you have to take responsibility. You have to stay.”

You don’t know what to say.

I’m desperate for you tonight.

You can’t believe this. He hates you. He has hated you from the beginning. He was so kind to you because he wanted to use you for something he never bothered explaining to you. He needs you for your resonance, your amplification of his powers.

You’re irreplaceable. No one else will do.

Because of your resonance?

I don’t give a shit about the holidays, but I know you do.

He carries you along the wind-swept riverbank, through the frigid night. Stars above, stars below.

You made me watch you jump off a goddamned bridge.

You didn’t think anyone was left to care.

You were so careful, severing ties like arteries, so that you wouldn’t leave the world with more pain than you found it. It was already bleeding so much.

You just were so tired of bleeding with it.

As if sensing the turn of your thoughts, Sylus carries you to the edge of the river’ embankment, where the concrete falls away, drops into the water.

He sets you down again, but doesn’t let you go. His big hands slide down the outside of your coat, dip into your pockets.

He pulls out a smooth stone. Turns it in his hands.

“I’ll never understand how someone so light can weigh so heavily in me,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “But you’re a weight I’ll carry for as long as you let me.”

His ember eyes flick back to yours. He hands you the stone.

“This is your conviction that the world won’t miss you, if you’re gone. You will hold it in your hand, one last time. And then you will throw it in the water.” He wraps your cold fingers around the stone. Somehow, his fingers are still warm.

You grasp it, look up into his face. You see yourself in them. It hurts, to be seen so clearly. You’re so ashamed. “How did you know?”

He closes his eyes, shakes his head a little. Opens them. “I looked into your soul, the day we met. I know you’re too soft-hearted in this life to kill yourself if you thought it would hurt someone else. You don’t carry that spite, anymore.”

In this life.

Anymore.

You can’t bring yourself to ask him what he means. You only know that once again, Sylus Qin has seen inside you, has seen you, in a way no one else ever has.

“But I don’t think anyone would miss me. I made sure of it.”

He huffs. “You’re a fool, if you actually believe that. The people you’ve pushed away still love you. But if you can’t believe that yet, then you can’t pretend to yourself that you’re disposable anymore, if for no other reason than I’m standing here now, telling you that I would miss you.”

You think of Tara, sitting on your desk, nudging a steaming latte she got for you on her way to work toward you, asking if you’ve heard the latest about Simone and Andrew.

You think of Xavier, walking you to your door at the end of a nasty wanderer encounter, reaching out, brushing a bit of mud off your cheek, then smearing it across his own cheek. See, we match now.

You think of Zayne, waiting across a busy hallway, patient, letting you choose to approach him, and respecting you by letting you walk away.

You think of Raf, the beauty he shares with you with every photo, the funny strings of emoji that don’t demand an answer.

“How do you know, that they would miss me?” you ask Sylus quietly.

“I’ve been watching you for a long time, sweetie. Do you think I haven’t seen your friends’ faces when you walk away from them?”

You clutch the stone in your hand. “I don’t think I can change my thoughts, my conviction, just like that.”

“You love me, so you have to try. Throw it. Every time you try to drag it back up, I’ll remind you that you threw it away, and you can let it stay at the bottom of the river.” He reaches up, caresses your cheek with his fingertips.

You want to cry. You want to cry, because you’re so afraid. If you let yourself believe that people love you, you have to stay, for them. You have to feel, every day, the weight of grief, of existence, the pain of being alive, of being inside yourself, your body. The hollowness will return, even with your friends, even with Sylus filling most of it.

It’s like he can read your thoughts as his eyes devour your face, as his fingers tuck a lock of hair behind your ear. “I won’t let you pretend, anymore. You love me, and I will not survive if you aren’t here with me. So you have to stay. We don’t have to accept that life is a curse. We can fight back. Make it something better.”

“I’m scared,” you say.

His eyes are so tender, as he watches your mouth form your biggest truth, set it free in the night. “I will protect you, until you can protect yourself again. There’s nothing to be afraid of, if we’re together.”

You want to believe him. Your heart beats painfully behind your ribs. The moon is a sharp crescent in the sky.

But you’re a weight I’ll carry for as long as you let me.

“You’ll really stay?”

He finally smiles, a faint Sylus smile that feels like a grin. “I told you. Today was the last day you’ll ever be alone. You can’t get rid of me now, no matter what you do, or say.”

You turn, holding the stone in your cold hands. You think of all the lies you’ve been telling yourself, about your friends, your place in their lives, because you were so tired of living with an unnameable grief, one you carried inside you long before Caleb and Josephine died, but whose loss compounded, made unbearable the original sorrow.

And I will not survive if you aren��t here with me.

You don’t know why he feels this way. Does he love you too? He hasn’t said so. Can he even love you, in the way you love him?

Does it matter?

It’s enough, that he says he’ll stay. That he wants you to stay alive. That he’ll help remind you, when the whispers drift back in your mind, telling you that you’re just a burden, that no one actually loves you, would miss you when you’re gone. When the hollowness echoes so loudly it’s all you can hear.

You lean back, lift the stone, throw it as hard as you can, as far as you can, into the rushing river.

You don’t hear its splash over the wind.

You turn back to Sylus.

He dips into your pocket again. Pulls out another stone. “Your guilt, for having lived. For having been born.”

You take it from him. Let your mind drift. Feel along the contours of your memories, the jagged, missing pieces, all the way back to when it fades to black. You throw the stone.

You don’t see it sink to the riverbed.

He dips into your pocket again. “Your shame, for needing others. For being human, and imperfect. For not being able to do it all alone. For wanting to be loved.”

You take the stone. “Is it really okay?” you ask, helplessly. There’s no point pretending everything he is saying isn’t true. “To want these things, when I haven’t earned them?”

He steps closer to you. Places his hands on your shoulders, draws you in. “There is no okay, or not okay. There is no crime and punishment, no transgression, no sin. How can it be shameful, to want what you were born to want? Why does love have to be earned, instead of just given?”

You lean into him, press your face into his chest, his thick wool coat soft against your skin.

“I don’t know.”

He reaches into your pocket, places a stone in your other hand. “One for your shame, one for the idea that love must be earned. Throw them.”

You lean back again, and it’s already too far away from him. But you throw each stone, and they disappear under the cold water.

“That’s enough, for now. We’ll take the rest home.” He draws you back into his arms. Lifts you without effort, stone-filled pockets and all. The weight of all of you. “When you have thoughts of shame, of guilt, of not being loved, we’ll come back. You’ll throw them again. Until they’re all gone. We’ll gather other stones, when other feelings make life unbearable. I’ll come with you, as many times as you need.”

Sylus carries you along the path back to the road that snakes along the river. His motorcycle gleams under a bright lamppost.

He settles a helmet on your head, checks to make sure it’s secure. Puts his own on. You sit behind him, cling to him. Rest your head against his broad back, close your eyes. The motorcycle is loud, and he drives it carefully through the busy, holiday bustling streets, until he reaches your apartment building. He holds your hand as he leads you through the front doors, as he stands quietly beside you in the elevator, his red, warm eyes never leaving your face in the elevator mirrors. He leads you to your front door, waits patiently while you unlock it with your cold finger.

In the hallway, he kneels at your feet, unlaces your tall boots while you look down at him, the soft fall of his silver hair, his big, nimble fingers working the laces.

He then removes his own boots. His coat. He’s wearing a garishly bright Christmas sweater, with prancing reindeer. He hangs his coat on a peg in the wall. He turns, slowly unzips yours. Eyes flicking between the zipper and your face. He gently lifts it from your body, again like it’s weightless, even though it’s still filled with stones. He pulls it from your arms, hangs it next to his.

He pulls you further into your place.

The first thing you notice is the warmth. It’s so warm, like someone came in while you were gone and turned on the heating.

The next thing you notice is the Christmas tree. The one you didn’t get this year, because the thought of the holidays without Caleb and your grandmother was unbearable.

Beautifully, tastefully decorated. Silver and gold, twinkling lights. Its pine scent fills your place.

Sylus moves to a record player on one of the cabinets along your living room wall. A record player that wasn’t here before you went to work today. He fiddles with the arm, and suddenly Joni Mitchell’s River fills your house.

It’s coming on Christmas

They’re cutting down trees

They're putting up reindeer

And singing songs of joy and peace

Oh I wish I had a river I could skate away on

He walks back to you. “Is this okay?”

I wish I had a river so long

I would teach my feet to fly

Whoa I wish I had a river I could skate away on

The music flows around you, paralyzing you. You stare into his face, into the warm glow of his eyes. How could you have missed this? The way he’s looking at you now? Through all the long months since the auction?

He tried hard to help me

You know, he put me at ease

And he loved me so naughty

Made me weak in the knees

Oh, I wish I had a river I could skate away on

The words wash over you, through you. The scent of pine warms you, memories without form filling you with the sense of home, safety, love.

I made my baby cry

I'm so hard to handle

I'm selfish and I'm sad

Now I've gone and lost the best baby

That I ever had

Oh I wish I had a river I could skate away on

He takes your hands in his, thumbs across your skin. “Is it too much?”

You think of how cold it was, standing on the guardrail of the bridge.

You were running toward the bridge, while Sylus was filling your home with warmth.

What would have happened if I hadn’t already been on my way to you?

You think of him spreading out on your couch, as a fever raged through your body. You think of your freezer, filled with food. You think of the takeout boxes, still steaming, sitting in front of your closed door.

You think of him hanging delicate ornaments on a fragrant tree.

I made my baby cry

You shake your head, the enormity of what almost happened filling you. The enormity of the choice you made, that you enacted, until Sylus pulled you back from the rushing dark.

You start to shake.

“Kitten?”

“It’s not too much,” you say, teeth chattering. “It’s wonderful. Thank you.”

He stares down at you, seems to make a decision. “Shower. Now.”

You nod, moving away from him, but he follows.

Inside your small bathroom, he takes up the entire space. He peels off your hunter’s uniform, tosses it beyond the open bathroom door. His gaze flicks from your undershirt, your underwear, to your face. “Do you want me to leave?”

You think of the dark water, an impact that never came. Sylus plugging in the record player, choosing a record with one of your favorite Christmas songs on it. Placing it delicately on the turntable.

“No. You promised you’d never leave me alone again.”

He smiles a little. “I mean, leave the bathroom.”

“No. You promised you’d never leave me alone again,” you repeat.

He stares into your eyes. Nods. Lifts your undershirt. He reaches behind you, unhooks your bra with the same agility that he unlaced your boots. He lifts it from your body, watches you as he lifts it to his nose, inhales.

You shiver.

He tosses the bra behind him. Kneels. Pulls your underwear from your hips, down your legs. You step out of them. He stands again.

He leans over, his ridiculous, festive sweater soft against your cheek, as he reaches past you to turn on the shower faucet. As he messes with the knobs until steam begins to fill the small space. He nudges you forward, past the sliding glass door and into the small shower cabin, letting the hot water pour over you. You turn, watch him through the clear glass. He picks up your underwear, watches you as he lifts it to his nose, inhales as he did with your bra. His eyes close for a moment, and then open. He tucks the little slip of fabric into his pants pocket, sits on the closed toilet, rests his elbows on his knees, and continues to watch you.

You let the hot water flow over your tired, cold body. You stare at Sylus’s face, let it fill your vision, blot out the rushing river, the impact that never came, the idea of everything you would have missed, if he hadn’t pulled you out. Everything you would have missed, in such a short amount of time. What else would you miss, if he hadn’t caught you? If he could give you so much within an hour, how much would you have missed in a day? In a week?

What have you been fighting, this whole time?

Just yourself.

You think of the stones at the bottom of the riverbed, instead of your body. Your conviction that you’re not loved, your guilt, your shame, instead of you.

You stare at the man who handed you each one, and told you to get rid of them, instead of yourself. The man sitting in your tiny bathroom, filling it with his big body, his even bigger presence, staring at you, staring at him.

You stop shaking.

Reach for the body wash, lather your hands. Run your hands along your body, under your armpits. He frowns, eyes on your hands. You palm your breasts, dip between your legs.

He lowers his head, eyes still on your hands, rests his full lips on his long steepled fingers.

You finish lathering your body, let the water wash it away. He’s too far away, even this close, on the other side of the glass.

As you turn off the water, he stands, lifts one of your towels from the rack. Holds it out for you. You step into it, him, let him wrap it around you. He turns you both, so that you’re looking in the bathroom mirror, which is mostly fogged.

“Better?” he asks.

You nod, soaking in his warmth at your back, the steam of the bathroom.

You have a question, a question you can’t bring yourself to say out loud yet.

You reach out with one hand. Trace a finger through the fogged mirror.

Sylus watches you, resting his chin on your shoulder.

Letters, a question.

Do you like me? Circle yes or no

Sylus smiles again, lifts an eyebrow. He reaches out, takes your hand in his. He circles no with your finger.

You frown, heart sinking, but Sylus just whispers, “Patience, kitten,” and flattens your palm across like. Guides your finger again, just above the erased like, drags it through the moisture in an elegant script.

love

He then gently sets your hand down. Lifts his own, circles with one long finger, yes.

He watches your reaction in the mirror.

You had no idea.

This whole time, you had no idea, even though he was showing you, with every ‘chance’ encounter, his pestering you with questions about work, life, his silly stories about the N109 Zone. His packages at your door. Fever medication, a big glass of water shoved into your hands.

You think of the rushing water, what almost happened. What you almost missed.

“Why didn’t you tell me? Why did you let me believe you still hated me?”

He looks down at you now, away from your reflection in the mirror. His eyes trail your face, down your curved neck. He palms the back of your neck, his thumb drifting along the side, over a mole there.

“Have you heard of the myth that where we have moles is where someone kissed us in a past life?”

Even if so much has changed between you in just the last few hours, you’re reassured that Sylus Qin still can’t answer a straightforward question with a straightforward answer.

You shake your head. “No, I had never heard of that.”

Sylus smiles, and it looks a little sad. He leans down, presses the softest of kisses against your skin, the mole there. “Like most human legends, it’s a pretty lie. Not quite true.”

You laugh. “I could have guessed as much.” You tilt your neck, enjoying the press of his warm lips on your skin for the first time.

He opens his mouth, runs his teeth over where he just kissed you. Bites, gently.

You shiver again. Press your neck into, instead of away from his teeth.

He bites harder.

You gasp.

“I was afraid I’d frighten you with the enormity of my feelings for you, when in your mind, we’d only just met,” he murmurs against your neck, his saliva, the indentation of his teeth hot on your skin.

He bites again, presses himself into your ass through the towel. You realize he’s hard.

You forget about the last part of his sentence. Had you not only just met?

You lift your hands, let the towel unfurl from around your body, let it drop to the floor.

You almost died tonight.

What have you been fighting this whole time?

Just yourself.

He tried hard to help me

You know, he put me at ease

You turn in his arms. He’s breathing hard, cheeks pink.

“You love me?”

He closes his eyes. Opens them. Shakes his head. “Love isn’t intense enough.”

“Adore me?” You lift your arms, wrap them around his neck. Pull his face closer to your own.

He shakes his head again. “Still not enough.”

“You won’t survive without me?” You lift on your toes, his soft sweater almost unbearable against your sensitive nipples.

He nods. “You’re getting closer. Can’t breathe without you. When I saw you jump…” He swallows, thickly. “You might as well have pulled me down with you, beloved. If it ever gets to be too much again, take me with you. I’ll never leave you alone again. Promise me the same,” he demands, big, calloused hands running up your naked sides, the fabric of his dark jeans rough against your body, where your thighs meet, as he helplessly nudges against you again with his hips, his hard dick behind his zipper.

I'm so hard to handle

I'm selfish and I'm sad

“I wouldn’t have known, unless you told me,” you breathe against his lips. “Promise that you’ll tell me how you’re feeling from now on, and I’ll promise to take you with me if I can’t leave the stones in the riverbed, even with you here.”

His voice is deep, rough like the fabric of his pants against your sensitive skin. “Deal.” He closes the distance, presses his soft lips to yours. Licks into your mouth.

And he loved me so naughty

Made me weak in the knees

His hands drift down your sides as his tongue dips into your throat, as he swallows your noises of pleasure, just from kissing him, his hands on you. He grips your ass, urges your legs around his waist. He carries you out of the tiny, steaming bathroom, manages not to knock you against the doorway, or into any furniture on the way to your bedroom, even as he continues to kiss you, as your hands in his soft hair probably block his peripheral view. He lays you down on your bed, the puff of your duvet. It’s so warm in your place that you’re not even shivering. You watch as he pulls his cheerful sweater and undershirt over his head, tosses them to the floor. As he unzips himself, hastily yanks down his pants and boxers, his socks. He blankets you with his big body.

You wrap your arms around him, pull him tightly to you, arch your breasts into his chest. He leans down, runs his nose along your cheek, inhales the scent of your hair at your temple. You just feel each other, for a long stretch of time. His soft chest hair against your skin, the silken skin of his dick between your thighs where he just leisurely rubs himself against you, as your palms run down the muscles of his back, the line of his spine. You’ve refused to think of him like this, ever since he wrapped his hand around your throat. You couldn’t bear his beauty, through all the long months that followed. You fled, every time your heart raced at the flash of silver as he approached you, met you where you were, over and over and over.

But now he says he has loved you, through it all. That he’ll never leave you alone again.

You let yourself feel him, under your hands, under your tongue, as you lick into his ear, feel him shiver. As you squeeze your thighs together, offering him a tight, snug space for him to keep pleasuring himself, as you feel your own wetness begin to coat your inner thighs, his cock, the longer you feel him on top of you, inhale the scent of his skin, the ever-present gun oil, the cloves, his clean sweat underneath it all.

After a lifetime, or only a few minutes, he leans down, says softly into your ear. “I want you. Tell me you want me too.”

“Can’t you tell?” you ask, bucking a little, squeezing him with your legs again.

He makes a low, pleasured sound in his throat. “I want to hear you say it. You’ve gone through a lot tonight. I need to know you actually want this. That you’re not just—” his breath hitches, as you move your hips again, as his dick slips between your wet, soft places. “That you’re not too tired to say otherwise, not thinking straight.”

“Use your Aether Core on me. Then you’ll know that my body is telling you what my mouth would, if I said the words.” You smile at him, teasing.

I wish I had a river so long

I would teach my feet to fly

You had wanted to fly. You had settled for flying for a brief moment, before shattering.

But Sylus is offering you constant flight, under, over, along his crow’s wings.

You think of the rushing water. The tide of cars behind you, the wind whipping your hair. You almost missed this. You don’t want to waste any more time.

He lowers his forehead to yours, breathes, speaks against your saliva-slick lips with his own. “I don’t want to use my Aether Core on you. I want the words in your mouth, in your heart. I want your free will, your freely given consent. I almost lost you because I tried to force you, at the beginning. You believed I hated you, this whole time. Don’t ask me to force you again, my heart.”

You understand. You accept his request, his demand. “I want you, Sylus.”

He exhales, shifts above you, slips his wet cock between your legs, slides into your body with gentle, firm, graceful waves of his hips.

You whine, the feeling of fullness layering into the pleasure of the warmth of his skin, the taste of his tongue. For once, the feelings inside you threatening to burst out of your skin are so good, instead of painful, so pleasurable, that you can barely stand it.

He kisses you, his velvet tongue big, heavy in your mouth. You suck, whine again as he lifts a hand, palms your breast, begins to thrust into you.

You are filled with him. His warmth. The size of him.

You widen your legs, wrap them around his thick ass. Urge him with your own body to move faster, to fuck you harder. He gives you everything you want. Just the pressure of his body against yours has you coming, the release bright, sudden—you shake with it.

Your pleasure seems to trigger his. He grunts, roots into you, buries his teeth in your neck, bites where he bit you before, over the mole on your neck. The sting makes you clench, and he whimpers, groans, comes with a jerk of his hips.

He slows, still filling you, still pleasuring you, as he lifts his head to look into your eyes.

You stare at each other, breath mingling, warm between you.

You smile at him.

He smiles at you. Nudges your nose with his.

“Can we do that again?” you ask.

He laughs, low and surprised. “Yeah,” he says, kissing you softly. “Just tell me, and I’m yours, anytime, anyplace.”

“I’m telling you.” You move your hips, feel his cum drip drown your ass. Feel him gasp at your movement.

“Now?” He’s surprised again.

“Problem?” you grin at him.

“Fuck no.” He kisses you, hard. Slips out of you. Flips you over, lifts your hips with one big hand, pressing his other between your shoulder blades.

He presses his cock back between your legs, the slide easy and wet, and fucks you until you come again, until he blankets your back with his sweat-slicked, matted-hair chest.

“Was that enough, your highness?” he teases.

“I’m telling you,” you pant, wondering what he’ll do.

“As you wish,” he murmurs, before flipping you again. Before watching your face as he slowly, leisurely works himself, his cum into you, makes you come again.

In the morning, the sky through your windows is heavy, dark, gray. You wake slowly. Turn your head, find Sylus’s sleeping face next to yours on the pillow. He’s lying on his stomach. You take in the dark sweep of his lashes, his generous mouth, slightly parted.

You slip out of the bed, use the bathroom. You wander into the living room, gaze at the Christmas tree, its twinkling lights.

It’s Christmas.

Caleb and your grandmother are dead.

But you’re still alive.

Your body aches from Sylus’s efforts, but it feels good. For once, it feels good to be inside your body. To breathe deeply.

You think of riverstones, sinking deep in the riverbed.

You know that the feelings tied to them will try to rise, clawing to the surface again.

We’ll gather other stones, when your feelings make life unbearable. I’ll come with you, as many times as you need.

Your eyes drift to the top of the Christmas tree. It’s empty.

“I thought we should finish it together.” Sylus’s warm arms wrap around you from behind. He leans over your shoulder, kisses your cheek softly. “Do you want to do the honors?”

You smile, wrapping your hands over his forearms around your waist. “You’re taller.”

“Use me as much as you like, kitten.” He turns, grabs a pretty golden glass tree-topper from your kitchen table, hands it to you. He lifts you up onto one shoulder, easily, and you fit it gently over the highest point of the tree. He holds you against him, as he lowers you. You slide along his body, until he sets you gently on your feet again.

You both stand, admiring it for a moment. It’s beautiful, like the rest of the decorations.

You hug him, look up into his face.

“Merry Christmas, Sylus.”

He smiles down at you, ruby eyes twinkling with reflected light from the tree.

You would have missed this moment, and all the moments like it, if Sylus hadn’t stopped you last night. You shudder, hug him more tightly.

You know your feelings will return. That no one person can solve a lifetime of wounds. But you promised him that you’d try. That you’d stay. You can only do your best.

You hear your phone vibrating, reluctantly pull away from him, head to your coat in the hallway where you thought you left it last night, but Sylus stops you. He points at your kitchen island. Your phone is lying on the counter. You look at him in confusion, but go to check it.

You’re shocked at how many missed texts you have.

From Tara.

Xavier.

Your eyes widen.

Zayne, who you thought you had blocked, months ago.

Rafayel, who you’re sure you blocked last night.

Each one is a response from a text you never sent. Telling them Merry Christmas. Telling them you love them. Telling them you hope to spend time with them soon.

None of them shame you, call you out on your behavior of the last year. Even Zayne simply suggests that you try a new bakery, that you’ve been in his thoughts, that he’s relieved you felt comfortable enough to reach out. Rafayel sends a bunch of firework emojis, suggests blowing shit up on the beach for New Year’s.

You turn to Sylus.

He looks steadily back at you, silver hair sleep-tousled, wine-bright eyes glowing.

Your eyes feel hot, and you realize you’re crying, the tears fat on your cheeks, dripping down your neck.

This is the first time you’ve cried since you woke up, your ears deafening, Caleb’s necklace bright in the reflected fire.

Sylus walks over to you. Leans down, licks the tears from your cheeks with his warm tongue, one after the other. He kisses you, ignoring your suddenly snotty nose, your morning breath.

“If it’s too much, we can take it slow. We can throw more stones in the river. But please answer your friends. You need them. And you’re a fool, if you can’t see that they need you too, if that makes you feel better about your own need.”

You continue to cry as you wrap your arms around Sylus’s neck. As he gently sways with you, to music that isn’t playing. He hums, and you think it’s Joni Mitchell’s The River, but you can’t be sure. You smile against his chest.

A thought occurs to you.

“Last night, you said there was still time. That you had plans for us, a pretty dress for me. What did we miss?”

Sylus sighs, holds you closer against himself. “Don’t worry about it.”

You stop, look up into his face. “What did you have planned, Sylus? Are you sorry we missed it?”

He smiles at you. “Oh yes, so sorry I got to spend all night fucking you instead of going to a holiday concert featuring the organ.” His voice drips sarcasm. “But we can go tonight, if you’d like to make it up to me.”

You laugh, bury your face back into his chest. “And here I had planned to suck your cock while watching a black and white Christmas film marathon tonight,” you say forlornly. You smile into his chest as he chokes. “Oh well, the concert it is.”

He just laughs, rich and deep, and continues to sway you slowly in your living room.

“Merry Christmas, my heart,” Sylus says against your hair, in your pine scented apartment, as snow begins to fall outside your windows, as your phone continues to vibrate, filled with the love of your friends.

Here you are. Again.

You’re so grateful, to be here, again.

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace sylus #sylus x reader #my fanfic

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depressedcoffeeobsess · 2 days ago

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╰𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐝𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚 𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐞.ᐟ

Pairing(s): James Potter x fem!Reader

Summary: James would do anything for a date with you.

Warnings: none!

Word count: 680 words!

Note(s): Im loving the picture on the right side :)

:the question and answer are both from google

THE MARAUDERS WERE sitting at the library. Rare sight really. Well it was no doubt that you'd seen remus at the library. Fifth year kicked in hard with the owls so near. You and lily were working so hard, that you both decided to take a break.

You took your seat infront of James, with a book in hand. This was the break for you. Though Sirius merely doubted that. Lily had gone off to find books. You were currently reading your charms book.

“hey, will you go out on a date with me?” James was always asking you to go out with him. You considered it for once but never again.

“I've already told you my answer Potter,” you would say it every time. “and if you don't already know it's no”

“come on.” he said it in a kind of a sing a song tone. “just once, please” oh for the love of merlin.

You could tell remus was already regretting his life. So instead of that you started a bookworm conversation with him. You loved remus (no not in that way) because he was the only one you could properly relate to. You both loved talking about extra nerdy things going out in hogwarts.

“will you go out with me now?” James was starting to get a little irritated because of Remus. He didn't like watching people talking to—his future wife—you. This occurred especially when Remus was talking to you.

“no” you said blankly. You didn't want to hurt his feeling but you also didn't want to go through break ups and all that drama. You weren't one for drama like that.

“please?”

“no”

“please?” in a desperate tone

“nope” popping the ‘P’ out.

“please?”

“oh fine!” James’ eyes lit up. “on one condition...”

“and that is?” he was quite eager now. Sirius and Remus were just too shocked to not be letting flies into their mouths. You had said yes to James out of all the guys in a line for you.

“answer this question and I'll go out with you” typical nerd.

James huffed. “why is it always about studies?” he was getting bored now. (Not of you)

“because you need to study to get a good career,” you were smiling all the way. James and Sirius mentally rolled their eyes, while Remus was nodding. You were pretty confident he couldn't do it. You pretended to flip through your charms book just to find a paper with pre wrote questions. You looked at them and glanced up at James, smirking evily. “Explain the difference between a Crucio and an Imperio curse.”

“uh, funny thing,” he laughed nervously. “Is that wormy I see there pads?”

You sighed and mentally face palmed. “seriously? Are you that dumb? That was a basic question!” (this line was for you rese)

“fine if you're so good why don't you answer it y/l/n” James looked like he was pretty confident too. His ego was obviously at it's fullest.

“Crucio causes extreme torture, while Imperio puts the victim under the caster's control” you seemed like you were reading out of a book. You had your eyes closed and a finger pointed up.

James' mouth went open. His jaw dropped to the floor. “I obviously knew that” he huffed.

You rolled your eyes and set of to find lily. James' eyes followed your figure until it turned to the corner. James sighed.

“do you think she'll go out with me?” he asked this question normally.

“No”

Sirius and Remus said in unision. They were tired of James asking them a single question all the time.

“Mate, maybe she'll go out with you once you've actually read a single page of that book” Sirius didn't read either. He was just there to be James' hope.

“who likes reading these days?”

“apparently she does” remus muttered as he went back to his potions book.

“dont worry the woman will have to surrender one day!” Sirius exclaimed brightly. Honestly he was just making it worse, according to Remus.

As they usual banter on the marauders was playing in the background, you were smiling to yourself. Maybe you would consider going out with him next time.

Bonus +

James was blabbering to Peter about how good his day went. “and then she was about to say yes!” you were. “she was?” Peter was horrified for you. “yea! I wonder how our children will look like” he said dreamily. “if you ever have any” Remus muttered.

#dividers by adornedwithlight #james potter x you #james potter x reader #hp fanfic #james potter x y/n #harry potter #james potter #james fleamont potter #james x reader #prongs x reader #prongsie #[🖍]───joy writes

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azziesbattybaddie · 14 hours ago

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Shadows and Snow Angels

Chapter 1 - A little bundle

Azriel x Reader, Azriel x child OCs

Normally when your mate Azriel comes home from the camps and asks you not to get mad it's because he brought home another wounded animal, not a baby boy...

Word count: 1.3k

💕 💔

Requested: Sorta. This prompt wasn't requested to me per se, but I saw @romantasyreader28 made a post wanting someone to write it and it inspired me.

If you don't like what your reading click off!

Series warnings: past emotional abuse, past physical abuse, past emotional trauma, non explicit thoughts of suicide, depression, parental doubt, child abandonment, past child abandonment, brief talk of past pregnancy. no details mentioned, mention of non explicit SA. Every chapter will be individually tagged.

Author's note: I just wanted to say that this prompt pulled me out of a really bad writing slump after my co-writer/biscuit making master childhood kitty unfortunately passed about 2 months ago. So thank you @romantasyreader28, this story really helped me get back into writing and I hope you really enjoy it. It did deviate slightly from your original prompt but I hope that the fact that this will be a series makes up for it. Enjoy!

Author's note 2: hey so I lied, I got a boost of energy and actually finished this early, so I'm only 1 day late. I'm going to try and put a fic or drabble out every Friday but please be aware I'm in the middle of moving so if I miss a day or am late, it's probably for good reason.

Chapter warnings: brief talk of past child abandonment, non explicit memories of child abuse, brief mention of being pregnant, implied SA, some cursing but not much.

See normally when your mate Azriel comes home from the camps and asks you not to be mad, it's because he brought home another wounded animal, not a baby boy...

"Please don't be upset, Devlon said that if someone didn't take him then he was going to send him off to another camp and he would end up just like Cass... I couldn't just leave him like that." His Shadows reached out to you invitingly, curling and spinning like they were excited. "Love, please say something..."

Your mate never rambled, it wasn't in his nature and that's what shocked you the most to be honest. So you sat where you were on the couch, mid bite of pizza, trying to figure out if he actually adopted a baby without telling you, or if he just decided to babysit Nyx for the night and is pranking you. No, no he definitely adopted a baby and didn't tell you, that sounds about right for him.

"Azriel, tell me that this is a prank and that, THAT little boy is just our nephew in a table cloth..." You set down your plate of food and walked over to your mate, Shadows now running up your back and sitting on your shoulders calmly. You knew, you just had a feeling in your gut that he was not just joking around.

Azriel was clutching the small bundle to his chest as if it would disappear if he loosened his grip even slightly. You came and pulled back the fabric to see a small Illyrian infant tightly wrapped in a tattered excuse of a baby blanket. You gasped and clapped a hand over your mouth as you saw the most precious little thing, he had no clothes but the blanket. A lithe inky Shadow jumped from your hand and into the little boy. It nuzzled his cheek lovingly before returning to rest under your mates wing.

You scooped the baby up out of Azriels arms before he could react and headed upstairs to the nursery. You quickly set him on the changing table, and unfurled the raggy fabric. The poor thing didn't even have a diaper just mess of fabric pinned against him. You didn't have to even leave the changing station seeing as the shadows that followed you up the stairs had a clean garment waiting right next to you. As you were changing him into a fresh, actual diaper, you heard Azriel's footsteps coming up the stairs behind you.

"Babe, I know that you have a perfectly reasonable explanation but your timing is kind of horrible Azzie..." You said only half joking as you handed him the baby back gently and grabbed the nearest actual blanket to wrap around him snuggly. You quickly ran to dress your sleeping baby girl is some warm clothes and a blanket too. Barely 2 weeks old and the little Astrid was already mixed into the family drama.

"Where are we going?" Azriel asked tentatively. He was holding the baby like a statue, only holding him right because of how you handed him over. Azriel's Shadows swarmed Astrid the moment you set her down to go nuzzle and love on her. You had taught them to be careful to not completely smother her. It was said that a Shadowsinger's Shadows would only listen to their master. Maybe it was the mating bond, maybe they just liked you but sometimes it seemed that the inky void that shrouds your mate, liked you better.

"Az, you know how to hold a baby, you know cuz your and Uncle... And a Father..." You set your still daughter back in her crib for a moment and padded over and cradle your mates face in your hand, your other intertwined with his scared flesh. "I'm not mad at you. Just, you do realize that we've only had Astrid for a couple of weeks and now we have two, right?"

"I know, and I'm sorry for not telling you. I was afraid if I didn't bring him home, Devlon would have sent him off before I could get back." Azriels shoulders seemed to finally relax a shadow falling from his mess of curls to sit around his neck calming. His grip on the swaddled little one became natural again. "You still didn't tell me where we are going, it past 1 in the morning."

You picked up Astrid, shooing away the inky void that doted on her constantly and walked to your bed room to grab your shoes and your coat. Azriel stood in the hallway that lead back downstairs, waiting for you patiently. He was bouncing the little boy in his arms gently, this parental instincts finally coming back to him when the little one started to cry.

"Feyre always said that we could head over to the river house in a time of emergency and I'm detailing 'we just adopted a little boy with no clothes or anything we need to take care for of a second baby,' an emergency. She probably still has some clothes that is too small for Nyx laying around, for now at least."

You both decided to walk the short distance to you home to the giant river house. Your daughters wings fluttered at the feel of snowflakes melting on the every so often. You both walked close together, as you usually did, babys in arms, the quiet of velaris washed over the two of you like a blanket. You could feel Azriel's Shadows almost climbing up your legs and coming to rest on your shoulders to admire their masters daughter.

"Ok..." You said slowly your head clearing with the fresh chilled air. "I'm not upset. But I'm going to ask some questions and I need better than 'I don't know', ok?" You needed to hear what happened, as much as it happens, it's rare for a baby to end up with no one and you wanted to know everything about this little life that you were about to add to your family.

Azriel nodded his head, his eyes trailed over the white city. As tense as he always looked, Azriel's Shadows curled up under his wings comfortably. He cradled the infant tightly to his chest, scarred fingers gently played with the edge of the blanket as you both walked. Normally the Shadows would flock to you when you had Astrid but they seemed to have divided, wanting to look over and cuddle both babys.

"Does he have a name?" You start with. As you cross the Sidra you can smell the food coming from the rainbow, you could even hear the faint sound of music booming, Rita's not being far away. You still can't believe that days of going out and partying until sunrise with your family wouldn't be an option for a long, long while.

"Not that I know of." He shrugged, adjusting the blanket so the infants wings fan out comfortably after he started to fuss. The boy seemed to be a calm baby so far but you would be taking him to madja bright and early tomorrow just to make sure nothing was wrong.

"How old is he?"

"Devlon said he's not more than 6 months old, he didn't know specifics. He just said that his father was killed in the blood rite this year and his mother was... Like I said, he would have been just another Cass..." He bounced the little boy in his arms, more to soothe himself than the baby.

Your blood boiled in your veins, and you had to take multiple deep breaths to keep from crying. You loved your mate dearly, and his brothers were your family, the best you could have asked for but Illyrians in general made you so angry most of the time! They treat females like property and they steal them just the same. Then the female gets shamed for being pregnant, without a husband. If he really was like Cass, you prayed to the Cauldron that his mother had a peaceful second life after what she no doubt endured.

"Well, if we're going to keep him, he's going to need a name." You said with a smile as you neared the side walk that lead up to the river house. Your mate had the biggest heart and the kindest soul, you didn't care what anyone said, you knew him best. This male brought home countless animals so he could nurse them back to health. He always made sure that nothing bad happened to those animals, and if they didn't make it, they earned a spot in your backyard with the other rainbow pets, as Azriel likes to call them. If the Mother sent him a baby then she meant for us to be the ones to love him. Azriel thought for a bit. He only looked up once we stood at the front door of his brother's home.

"What about Rhain?" A shadow flew up and wrapped around the door knocker, knocking loudly before returning to your mates shoulder.

"Why Rhain?" You asked before knocking again louder this time before you saw a light turn on inside meaning you got somes attention.

Azriel shrugged his shoulders and shook his head with the smallest smile coming to rest over his face. He looked down at the bundled little baby with a fondness you only seen him show to your daughter. You head shuffling on the other side of the door and smiled at your mate before your brother in law opened the door, looking very much worse for wear.

"Rhain it is."

FYI Rhain, pronounced Rain or Rine, either is fine means strength, power, resistance, and potential. It also means 'the spear' in Welsh.

If you want to be added to the tag list or would like to be added to the tag list for the series masterlist plz comment or dm me and I'll add you.

Thank you so much for reading and I hope that you enjoyed!

Taglist

@romantasyreader28 @mulansaucey @jennnsthings @6v6babycheese @mich0731 @starlightandsouls @ohemgeewhat

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i-drop-level-one-loot · 3 days ago

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Happy New Year! (Yandere!Fortune Teller x GN!Reader)

A delighted squeal sharply cut through the quiet chatter of the line for the fortune teller. It was a small little illegal shop that popped up overnight and was all over (Reader's) feed. Their best friend, and the reason why they were outside in the cold so early, tugged on their coat sleeve.

"They must have gotten a good one." She smiled playfully, and still a little drunk.

The fortune teller was apparently incredibly accurate. Even skeptics had been posting all morning about how this guy was able to tell them full names of people in their lives and dates of events that already happened he shouldn't have been able to guess on the first try.

"Missy, it's cold as hell.." (Reader) whined, their head also hurting a tad bit from the amount their friend had them drink a few hours earlier to welcome the new year. ".. and I just want a burrito."

Missy clicked her long acrylics in front of (Reader's) face. "And I want a girlfriend. C'mon, just a few more minutes! Please! You don't even have to get your fortune done, just stay with me, emotional support!" She huffed and stamped her boots while dramatically letting her arms fall to her sides heavy enough to make a loud whump against her coat.

They knew their friend wasn't actually a brat, but it was a fun little "act" ; she enjoyed putting on, especially when she was all dolled up (as she called it). So, as what usually happens, (Reader) rolled their eyes theatrically in a show of pretending to give in. The woman with the pink and blonde fashion wig smiled wide and squeezed (Reader's) arm lovingly.

‐---------------------------------------------------------------------------

At first, (Reader) thought that the man was a mannequin. A beautiful body propped up at a table, with a veil over the top of his head and silk clothes, but other than the fact that he was beautiful, there was something too basic about his features and too perfect about his skin to be human. Like a mall mannequin: with a dusty pale skin tone with zero blemishes or imperfections, his eyebrows looked so fine that they were maybe painted on, and the blonde hair under the veil was so light in color, (Reader) thought he was bald and that the lightly golden coloring was more silk.

Yes, he was beautiful, but looking at him was uncomfortable, like people describing the uncanny valley of robots.

He opened his eyes, revealing dull grey irises, that helped humanized him (at least, in (Reader's) opinion).

"Welcome, Miranda and (Reader)." His voice was also weirdly perfect, making (Reader's) skin crawl, but looking over at Missy they saw she didn't feel anything other than awe.

"Ohmygawd, how did you know our names?!"

He smiled very softly. "It's my job." A thin hand with long, delicate fingers motioned for the two friends to sit before him.

As the cards were laid out (Reader) allowed their mind to wander. Not only did the guy in front of them weird them out, but they believed that fortune tellers were scam artists. They knew it could be fun to just see what your future might look like, and wanted to be respectful for people who actually believed in tarot and stuff like that, but people setting up businesses promising to read your future and then just reading some generic script then charging you a hundred bucks is how you get vulnerable people to fork over their life savings. (Reader) only agreed to go because to make sure the "fortune teller" didn't try and change the price on Missy or sell her a bunch of unnecessary shit.

The man clapped loudly, startling (Reader) back into focus. "You will meet a woman this year.

You will meet her in two months, at the book store across from your job. The two of you will be searching for the same book, and it will feel like fate. Don't be afraid to ask her out for coffee, because she'd love to discuss the series with you."

Long nails scratch the back of (Reader's) hand as Missy impulsively grabs it. "Are you.. sure she's.. y'know..." she raised her eyebrows.

The man looked puzzled for a second before responding with, "The ending you always wanted for NaNa."

Missy nearly cracked her neck turning to (Reader) as quickly as she did, whining happily "Oh my god...." before burying her face in their chest. Then (Reader) felt the tears, and realized Missy was more drunk and exhausted than they realized.

"Uh, thanks, did she already pay, or?"

"Would you like your fortune read now?"

He seemed unfazed by Missy's minor meltdown.

"Ah, no thanks."

"I'll give it to you free. Call it a two for one deal."

Alarm bells were ringing in their head. "Why?"

He was silent for a second, like he was listening to something, just as he was when he told Missy she was going to be living out her headcannon fantasy. "Something's just telling me I should give you a fortune reading."

Missy wiped snot across (Reader's) chest before raising her head. "Oh, are you getting read too?"

"What? N-"

"Can we get burritos after this?"

They looked down at their best friend in the entire world, and sighed. "Yeah, if it's completely free."

‐---------------------------------------------------------------------------

Even compelling completely scrunched up in concentration, there was a concerning lack of wrinkles, leading (Reader) to the conclusion that if this man was in fact human, he most certainly had botox.

Suddenly, his eyes shot open wide. He looked up at (Reader), staring deep into them without blinking.

"What?"

He didn't answer. His mouth opened, but nothing came out. But his face began to change into an odd shade of pink.

The wig wearing woman loudly gasped "IS THEY DYING?!" while clutching (Reader's) arm in mock horror.

"I'm not dying!" (Reader) shoved their friend off, feeling overwhelmed by their current situation.

The fortune teller reached across the table, and without asking, grabbed one of (Reader's) hands, observing their palm intensely. But he could only do so for a second before they yanked their arm back and stood up.

"Missy, let's go, I told you this guy was a fucking scammer."

Like a switch had been flipped, Missy held up her middle finger and called the man a creep, apologetic for not trusting her best friend. "Why did he grab you like that? So gross!"

The two left. They would later get burritos and watch half a movie before passing out. This moment was creepy, but ultimately, nothing to them.

He had always been gifted.

But when they left the gifted medium on the floor, images of what he had just been shown were still fresh in his mind.

The tarot cards were a gimmick, just there because that's something people associate with being able to see the past, present, and future. Was he a scam artist? Maybe, to some. He never gave people the fortunes they didn't want to hear, and only reminded them of memories they liked. You don't get tipped if you tell someone their child is going to die. And we all need money.

Then (Reader) came into his pop up shop, another skeptic, and he figured if gave them a reading for free and made it really good they would be the type of person to tip him out of guilt. But for their future all he saw was... him.

Him?

He had never thought about himself. He was creepy and disgusting. His presence made people uncomfortable. If he focuses hard enough he can speak to the dead. No one wants to be friends with that. No one wants to love that.

No future is set in stone. There are hundreds of thousands of possibilities, and he can see them all. And while (Reader) sat in front of him, staring at him with their beautifully tired eyes, he searched through every single one.

It was.. exciting, he had to admit, seeing himself with someone. He didn't know this person at all, but it wasn't hard to feel some kind of affection for them seeing a future where they felt affection for Him.

He couldn't even remember the last time someone willing held his hand. Maybe when he had to cross the street with his mother? No, she required him to wear gloves.

While staring at his client, he couldn't help but watch their entire life. He was supposed to look through their memories briefly to get a sense of the "past", but like time didn't exist, he watched their entire life play out. They made him feel things.

Even when (Reader) called him a scammer, he still loved them. After all, he did kind of lie by omission to their best friend: Missy's new relationship would only last five months.

But it was okay if they thought he was creepy or a scam artist. Because he already saw the future.

And he knew every single correct step to take to make sure they were smiling at him like they were in that vision.

‐---------------------------------------------------------------------------

Happy New Year everyone!!!!!!

Let's hope that this upcoming year is better than the last!

I'm a really pessimistic person, so I'm trying to be hopeful. I'm also trying to find ways to reduce stress since I can't afford to take care of my mental health (haha). I'm getting white hairs. White. Ain't that crazy? It's stressful trying to not stress out lol

Does anyone else play future telling games on New Year? As a kid my family would all play MASH to see what our future is going to be like hahaha and a lot of my younger coworkers this year were talking about eating grapes under tables? Very cute <3

I hope you all had a great new year, and didn't get too drunk, stay hydrated, and if you have and future telling game memories for me years tell me about it!

Let's make 2025 better than 2024!

#happy new year #not proofread #yandere #yandere x reader #gn reader #thank you for interacting with me #fortune telling #fortune teller

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genderqueerdykes · 1 day ago

Note

I promise this is just coming from someone who wants to learn, and I apologize if it sounds hateful or rude for what I'm about to ask that is not what I want at all,

but when it comes to systems, DID, plurality, from what I have heard, it is something extremely extremely rare, and something that most people under the age of 25 the body isn't even supposed to like "reveal" until older. I'm just confused and I would really like to hear from someone who actually is plural and not just from like Google

is being a system, DID, and plurality even the same? And the only plural people I have met irl have like 25,000+ alters of dsmp characters (I ofc know not everyone who is plural isnt just fictive and it's all different)

just a very confused person who isn't plural and I would really like to learn and be educated !! I would really like to understand more and hate unreasonably for something I don't understand

hello there!

you can be plural without having DID. there's not really much else to it. DID is one form of plurality. it's not the end all be all of plurality. there are even other dissociative disorders like OSDD that get cast by the wayside when people adopt this kind of mentality. there's so much more to plurality than DID. also, there is no set age at which the symptoms at DID become apparent on the outside. i've been having dissociative symptoms since i was a kid. my alters were active and present even as a teenager!

relying on medical statistics alone for DID is a bad idea because most professionals who are capable of diagnosing someone with a mental health condition don't even know what dissociative disorders are or what they entail. my own therapist has known that I have DID the entire time i've known her, but she has told me that currently, she can't help me with it, because she has not received training for it. dissociative disorders are nowhere near as rare as we think they are, one has to consider that a number even as low as 1% - 2% of the global population is an absolutely massive number of people!

saying that DID is "extremely rare" in this case in order to discredit non dissociative plurals is an appeal to authority. it's appealing to the medical industry who refuses to take it seriously in the first place. the amount of professionals i've had who pointed out that i have dissociative disorders vs. the ones who never commented on it at all is pretty staggering. this is due to a lack of proper research due to lack of funding, not because DID is genuinely that rare. the reason there isn't more research into plurality in general is because of a lack of funding. medical studies and organizations require funding. if they don't see money in it, they won't do it.

DID is still a heavily stigmatized condition. things haven't gotten much better since it was renamed from Multiple Personality Disorder. people with dissociative disorders are still treated like shit in medical settings, so to me, it makes no sense at all whatsoever to pit dissociatives against other plurals because no one takes ANY of us seriously, it's not non-dissociative plurals' faults that we're not taken seriously. it's the medical industry. there are no medications to push for DID. DID does not respond to medication. this already makes a lot of doctors not want to interact with it at all, because there's no commissions for medications prescribed.

"And the only plural people I have met irl have like 25,000+ alters of dsmp characters."

i'm pointing this out gently, i don't think you're a bad person, but this is sooooo mean, please don't be that mean and judgmental about other people, plural or not. please consider how those people would feel if they heard you talking about them like that. even if you don't view them as plural, you shouldn't think it's okay to discredit their lived experience. what are you getting out of phrasing it like that? even if that person turns out to not be plural, please do not judge other people based off of things like this. you don't live inside of their head. you don't know what's going on in there.

i'm not entirely sure why people think this way about introjects and fictives, but they're an extremely normal part of the plural experience! one of the most well known DID systems of all time, Truddi Chase and The Troops, had not only fictional alters (Elvira) but also factual ones as well (Mean Joe Green). this is not new, nor is it isolated to non dissociative plurals. introjects and fictives are extremely normal. it doesn't mean someone is faking just because they've introjected someone, or someones.

hope that helps, in general, please understand that the only lived experience that you are the arbiter of is your own and you cannot tell someone else what they're experiencing, no matter what. plurality will look different for every person, system and so on that experiences it! the sooner you accept that the easier your own life will become. it's not hurting you for someone to have headmates that you don't like. that's their business, not yours, and that's actually a very freeing thing!

great addition from the tags:

#asks #answers #plurality #plural #did #dissociative disorders #actually plural #pluralgang #plural system

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trippinsorrows · 19 hours ago

Text

through your eyes + au 5

authors note: it's been so long. omg. i'm sorry. thank you to my bestie @prettypynklemonade for essentially making me update this 😭

masterlist

words: 6.7k

**gif by @dejameflorecer

warnings: some fluff, roman being possessive/borderline stalkerish, and smut

It’s just a date. Just a low, non-commitment type of date.

At least, that’s what Solana keeps trying to tell herself. Keeps trying to remind herself. Keyword being trying, because of course, she decided to go the route of self-sabotage and self-harm by keying in Rhea on just what’s been going on, and more specifically, who she’s going on said date with.

“Are you out of your fawking mind?” Solana sighs while Kayden does her eyeshadow for her.

The shorter woman snorts, working to blend in the crease color. “Well, that went as expected."

“Is this a joke? It has to be a joke?” She walks over to the two women, her tall presence alone demanding their attention. “Please tell me this is a joke.”

Kayden bites on her lip. “I—I don’t think it’s a joke.”

Solana sighs. “Rhea—”

“Sola.” Nothing about her voice indicates anything about what she’s about to say is going to be nice. “You can’t do this.”

“It’s just a date, Rhea.”

“Yeah, with Roman fawking Reigns.” Solana winces at the disgust imbued in his name. “He’s a sociopath. Why the hell would you even want to go out with someone like that?”

“He’s not….” Solana stops, unsure of how to word it. “I think there’s more to him than people realize.”

“Yeah, more evil,” Rhea harshly rebuffs. “Whatever you think you see in him, I promise, is an act. If he’s being nice to you, it’s only because he wants to fuck you.”

Another wince from Solana as Rhea more or less reiterates what Kayden first hypothesized when Solana confided in her best friend about the man.

“Maybe. Maybe not.” Kayden speaks up, turning to Rhea. “Regardless of how we may feel, Solana is a grown woman. She can make her own decisions.”

“This isn’t a decision. It’s a big ass mistake.” Rhea’s gazes soften for the first time, her tone almost pleading. “Solana, please don’t do this. You’re one of my best friends. I don’t want to see you get hurt, and Roman Reigns is the exact kind of person who would hurt you.”

It’s strange. Just a month ago, Solana would 100% agree. Would not even be in this situation, because she would have found a way to cut Roman off, get away from him, even if it meant leaving town for a little while.

But, that was before she got to know him. Well, as much as one can get to know a mafia head who seems insistent on making her his, not excluding breaking into her home to ask her out on a date.

Solana is especially happy she decided to leave that part out of the story.

“It’s just a date,” is the final answer she settles on, not missing the disappointment in Rhea’s pretty blue eyes. “I promise, I’ll be careful.”

It’s definitely not the answer her friend was looking for, and Rhea doesn’t hesitate to make her disagreement known. As well as her boundaries.

“Well, I don’t want him here. This is your home, but it’s ours too,” she gestures between herself and Kayden. “And if you want to play with fire, I don’t want the flames anywhere near us.”

It’s a bit hurtful but fair. Solana nods. “I understand.”

She can’t allow herself to think about how the flames have already entered their humble abode, partially because of Roman’s lack of boundaries, but mostly because she’s continued to allow the lack of said boundaries.

Rhea’s gaze is assessing. “Your family doesn’t know, do they?” Intended as a question. Comes out as a statement.

Solana’s answer is quiet. “No.”

Another pointed look. “I wonder why that is.”

“Okay,” Kayden cuts in, nervous chuckling a contrast to the tension building. “Obviously, we don’t necessarily agree with Solana’s actions, but again, we listen and we don’t judge.”

Rhea scoffs. “Speak for your fucking self.” She kicks off the door, turning to leave when Solana calls her name. A blown out breath followed by her turning around. “Yeah?”

It feels wrong to ask, but Solana doesn’t have much of a choice. “Please…..please don’t say anything to anyone.”

A small smile sets on Rhea’s face, but there’s nothing friendly about it. “You know, Sola, the fact that you even have to ask me that should tell you how fucked up this is.” The smile is wiped away, replaced with the disappointment. “Don’t worry. I have zero desire to tell anyone about this.”

—------

“You wanted to see me?”

Roman lifts his eyes from the contracts laid out in front of him. Right away, he can see his sister is annoyed. Unsurprising. Rosalia looks and is irritable on a daily basis, but considering her activewear, he’d bet she’s even more irked with him because he’s interrupted her training.

Slamming the door behind her, she walks in and props down on the sofa closest to said door. “It better be worth my fucking time, too.”

Her comment doesn’t bother him. Roman sits back in the chair, responding in a calm but steel voice, “I’m gonna right to the chase.”

She glares. “As you should.”

Roman’s smile is small and wry. “You’re interfering in my personal business, Rosie.” The smile is dropped. “You know I don’t like that shit.”

Rolling her eyes, his twin couldn’t be more unbothered. “You mind telling me what the fuck you’re talking about? Not that I care, but—”

“I know you said something to Solana,” he interrupts, gaze cutting. “Something that upset her.” Something that made her try to push him away, and that’s the part that really pisses him off.

His words seem to trigger something for his sister. “That little girl from the fight?” She scoffs, shaking her head. “She’s even more sensitive than I thought.”

“What did you say to her?”

“Nothing that wasn’t the truth.” Rosalia’s response is nonchalant as she casually admires her nails. “Just reminded her that she isn’t any different than your other hoes—”

Roman looks away, rolling his neck, doing his best to remind himself that Rosalia is his sister. She’s family. His response to her can’t be like it would to anyone else in this moment, where he’d already have pulled out his gun and lodged a bullet in their head.

He has to be…..mindful.

Running his hand through his beard, Roman manages a curt response. “Do me and yourself a favor, and stop fucking talking.” Because the more she does, the harder it will be to control his brewing temper. “Stay the fuck away from Solana.”

If he didn’t have her attention before, he most definitely has it now. “Excuse me? I don’t give a fuck about any of your little whores—”

He slams his fist on the desk, unable to taper his temper. “Call her out her name one more fucking time, Rosalia.”

His twin, however, is unbothered. Her eyes narrowing, assessing, studying. “Careful, brother, your feelings are showing.” Roman says nothing as his sister leans forward, head tilted. “You actually like this girl, don’t you?”

He doesn’t look away, but he doesn’t answer the question, either. “As I said, my personal life is none of your fucking business.”

Not answering the question is a bit of a necessity, because he doesn’t really know how to answer it. Saying he likes Solana feels a bit too much. He’s intrigued by her, massively so, intensely attracted to her and fantasizes about the day he can fuck her senseless. However, all of that can be true along with the fact that he doesn’t actually care about or like her.

Again, it’s just the intrigue of it all. She’s the first of many, many, women he’s entertained over the years that hasn’t fallen at his feet. Who he is, the power he holds, and the wealth he possesses doesn’t make her bat an eye. None of that means anything to her. In fact, she’s most definitely the first woman he’s had to pursue in his over thirty years on this earth, and while that may seem irksome and not worth it for most women, Solana is different. He doesn’t know how, but it and she just is. Hence him needing to put his sister in her place before she fucks up just whatever this is.

“And I as I told you, I don’t give a fuck about your personal life and who you decide to fuck. She was just there, and I told her the truth. Not my fault she couldn’t fucking handle it.”

“Rosalia.” He closes his eyes, that damn temptation to snap on her at an all time high. He’d never hit his sister, not unless they were training together, but he certainly isn’t above cussing her ass out and screaming at her. Right or not. “I’m only going to say it once. Leave Solana alone.”

His twin matches, meets, and maintains the stare-off. Sibling against sibling. Alpha vs Alpha. Naturally, she is the first to walk away, not back down. Never that. Just recognizes it isn’t worth it.

“Whatever.” She dismisses, standing up, hands on her hip. “Anything else you need to waste my time with?” She doesn’t wait for a reply, turning on her heel. “Didn’t think so.”

Anyone else would receive a much different response, especially as his sister slams the door, but as already stated, this is his sister. Rosalia drives him insane, but he loves her. It’s always been the two of them, and it always will be. Immediate family, at least. He just needed to establish some boundaries with her, and that’s been done. Should she decide to test them and test him, well, he’ll cross that bridge if and when they get there.

He doesn’t have time to focus on that.

He’s got a date tonight to focus on.

—--------

“Oh my gosh…..”

Solana has been on her fair share of dates. Most of which take place at a restaurant, from regular ole Red Lobster to restaurants with names so foreign and fancy that she can’t pronounce. Though the latter only happened once, and it was a disaster, resulting in her sneaking out halfway through the date.

But this, standing on the dock in front of the most stunning yacht she’s ever seen, she's certain that this takes the cake.

Solana is prompted by security to move so they can escort her onto said yacht, and she's so consumed by taking in everything majestic around her that she ends up completely oblivious to when she’s taken directly in front of the man himself.

Roman

He’s dressed appropriately given the setting and weather. Nice, short sleeved beige shirt with khaki shorts and matching shoes. Expensive watch on his wrist. Gold chain around his neck. Smoldering gaze on her, drinking her in from the bottom of her heels to the top of her head where her hair is pulled up in a nice updo.

He licks his lips. “Gotta admit, I was hoping you’d wear red.”

She refuses to tell him she considered it. “I—I like pink.”

He makes a sound and offers his hand. Solana takes a second to accept it, gasping quietly when he tugs her closer. “I like it.” His eyes flicker with something. “I think I’d like you better in nothing instead though.”

Solana tenses, hating the way she’s hit with something other than discomfort and is immensely grateful when he smiles. “Relax, sweetheart.” He starts to guide her behind him to where she realizes a table is set up for them, a romantic, beautiful dinner. “I’m a man of my word.” Solana tries not to think too much of him pulling out her chair for her. “I said no touching.”

Damn.

Embarrassment fills her at such a betraying thought, because why should she feel disappointed at that?

Roman sits across from her, staring almost. “God, you are breathtaking.”

It’s hard not to look away when God Himself bestows such a compliment. “Thank you.” And she means it, something warm and almost comforting brewing in her belly, replacing the abundance of nerves. “You—you look handsome.”

He always looks handsome though.

And judging by the smirk on his face, he knows it. “Thank you.” His gaze is studying, as he admits, “I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

Curious, she asks, “what would have happened if I didn’t?”

His smile is cheeky. “I think you already know the answer to that.”

She does. Solana knows this man would welcome himself into her home once more. Into her bedroom. And potentially, into her.

Thus, her showing up tonight truly was for the best, and the more she sits across from him, dialogue easy amongst them, something tells it was also the right thing to do.

Solana glances around, suddenly unnerved by him looking at her so much. It’s equally unsettling as it is flattering. “This is beautiful. You—you rented it out for us for tonight?”

He smiles again, but it’s more amusing than anything. “I own it.”

Her eyes widen. “You own it?”

“Bought it for tonight,” he answers, making her eyes widen even more as he reaches for the bottle of wine, popping it open and starting to pour some in her glass followed by his.

“Wait, you bought a yacht for our date?” Even saying it aloud sounds ludicrous. “An actual yacht?”

“Pretty sure I answered that already.”

“Roman, that’s…..” She trails off, unsure just what to say and make of that. “We—we could have went to a restaurant or something.” Solana would have preferred that over him spending an obscene amount of money for just one night.

He shrugs. “You said you wanted something private.”

“Restaurants have private rooms, Roman.”

His voice is dangerously calm and smooth. “But not a private bedroom.”

Oh, Jesus.

Solana shifts in her chair, looking away as he chuckles. “Are you always this wound up?”

“I’m not wound up” she replies, feeling an unfamiliar amount of defensiveness. “It’s just….you’re very bold.” And, you don’t take no for an answer.

“I see something I want, and I go for it.” Is his simple reply as he picks invisible lint off his shirt. “That’s extended to people as well.”

Solana doesn’t doubt that one bit.

Eager for a changing of subjects, she’s about to inquire about when the waiter—or whomever—will arrive when he takes her for yet another loop. “So, I was looking at your Instagram—”

“My Instagram?” She doesn’t mean to interrupt, but it’s hard not to. “H—how?” A valid question considering her page is private, and it’s been a couple weeks since she accepted any follow requests.

“I told you already. When I want something, I get it.” His answer objectively makes no sense but somehow answers her question. “I didn’t read your bio. Just looked at your pictures.”

Swallowing, she finds herself asking, curious almost, “and?”

His brow lifts, matching her curiosity. “And?”

Unsure why she's suddenly so nervous, Solana clears her throat, asking, “what did you think?”

The delay with his answer is the farthest thing from helpful with her anxiety. “I think there’s a lot more to you, Solana Miller, than I initially realized.”

Another almost vague answer that has her sitting forward in her seat, asking almost desperately, “is—is that a good or bad thing?”

The smile returns, and for the first time tonight, it doesn’t seem or even feel like there’s something underneath it. Just a genuine, authentic smile.

“Tell me the more, and I’ll let you know.”

Solana chews on the inside of her cheek, not wanting to mess up her lipstick by biting down on her bottom lip. "What do you want to know?"

His answer is instantaneous this round. "Everything."

It’s such a broad response, and off the top of her head, Solana is struggling to recall her posts. She’s shared photos of herself, obviously. Photos with friends and family. Photos of her bookstore and hobbies that include cooking, books, bible journaling, and even her horse, Rainbow.

But, all of that seems too much to dump on a man for the first date.

Maybe the last.

Thus, her settling on sticking with the major things.

"There's not much to me,” she answers with a shrug, taking a sip of her champagne before continuing. “I'm....I'm an RN, but I've been on sabbatical for almost two years now. I—" There's a type of sadness that bleeds into her voice. "I was working in the ER, but the things I saw...." She shakes her head. "I just needed a break, needed to not be surrounded by so much death.” An honest, truthful, almost vulnerable thing she’s grateful Roman doesn’t press her on despite the absolute intrigue in his expression as she shares pieces of herself.

A small smile falling on her face, she continues. “I've always found an escape in books and writing. Another passion I share with my mom, and we opened the bookstore and that....that's been it."

She’s not sure what she expected him to follow up with, but his question certainly isn’t it. "Does she work there with you?"

Ignoring the almost warmth that fills her at such an innocent, kind question, Solana shakes her head, "No, she's a cardiologist over at Central hospital." For whatever reason, even though he most definitely did not ask, Solana finds herself providing additional, unasked information, "she was a nurse back in Mexico, but when she married my dad and moved to the states, she went back to school and got her MD."

He sits forward, elbows on the table. "Did you ever want to do the same? Be a doctor?"

"I did, but...." Solana leans back in her seat, shrugging. "I was a gifted kid. I did all honors classes and a running start program, so when I graduated at 18, I already had my associates and was only in undergrad for 2 years. Did an accelerated program to get my RN, and by 20, I just felt burnt out from it all. I needed a break from school. Then I needed a break from nursing, and now I'm just....trying to enjoy the quiet."

An ironic thing considering there's nothing quiet about the man sitting across from her.

It’s what causes her to ask, voice soft, "Roman....what do you want from me?"

Because this can’t keep going on without her knowing just where they’re going. She needs some guidance, some insight into where his head is. Outside of the sexual aspect of this all.

That part is very clear.

Roman seems to really sit and mull over her question, his handsome face shifting into something serious and genuine. "Not sure, but I'm intrigued by you, and that doesn't happen. Ever. So, I want to see where this goes."

It’s an answer, so she can respect that much. But, the fact that specificity is lacking in his response bothers her. What about her intrigues him? Is it the fact that he’s been able to initiate some type of intimacy both times they’ve been alone? Does she seem easy to him? Because, if that’s the case, the line in the sand needs to be drawn here and now.

“Roman.” Solana is the one to take her time in figuring just how to word this. "You should know that I—I meant it when I said I'm not like that. I don't—I don't sleep around." Or at all, but he doesn't need to know that. Something tells her Roman knowing she's a virgin will only increase whatever interest he has in her. And, not in a good way. "I don't—”

His response arrives right away. “I know you don’t, and if that was what I was wanting, I wouldn’t be sitting here right now.” Something tells her he’s being honest. If actual, full on sex is what he was after, he certainly wouldn’t be with her right now.

And it’s his honesty that creates that bridge for her. “Roman, I know we’ve….done things.” More him doing all the things to her. “But, I mean it. I—I don’t want to have sex with you.” And before he can press her, inquire just what and why, she explains, “sex means something to me. It’s not just a thing you do. It’s a bond and connection, and I only want that with someone I have a bond and connection with.” And, I don’t with you.

Might not ever.

“I’m fine with….other things.” She doesn’t feel the need to elaborate on that. He should know exactly what the ‘other things’ are. “But….penetration is where I draw the line.” And just where the next quiet part comes from, she hasn’t the slightest clue. But, she says it, and she says it loud enough for him to hear, whether intentional or not. “For now.”

It’s a stupid additive. One that makes his brow lift and Solana swallow. If she didn’t give up her virginity to her fiancé of all people, what chance does Roman have? It doesn’t even make any sense. He’s the last person she can see herself going that far with.

“For now….” And of course he settles on that part. Solana hates herself right about now. “I don’t really agree with you. On sex, I mean. We clearly have very different views on that, but regardless, I respect it. I will respect it.”

Oh.

That….that’s not exactly what she was expecting.

At all.

“So what…what does that mean?”

Because now she’s even more confused than before. Because she was convinced the minute she made it clear she has no intentions on sleeping with Roman tonight, or any other night, he’d shut the shit down. Would pull away.

That’s clearly not what's happening though.

Roman’s answer is clear, concise, and assertive. “It means that doesn’t change what I said earlier.” He reaches his hand across the table, turning hers over, fingers tracing her palm. “I’m still intrigued and still want to see where this goes.”

Solana is quiet, sitting on each word that leaves his mouth, trying her best to process it. All of it.

What the hell is even going on? How did she end up in this position? Roman represents everything she hates about the world she was born into. People like him are the reason she’s done her best to stay away and keep her distance.

And now, as Rhea pointed out, she’s playing with the fire God himself.

Yet there’s been zero effort on her part to extinguish the flames.

Even as they threaten to lap and consume her.

—--------

For all intents and purposes, dinner is enjoyable and not just the meal itself. Conversation between herself and the Head of the Table is normal, casual, their banter almost something natural and organic.

And she finds herself just as interested in him as he is in her. Finds herself asking more questions about him, wanting to know more about the man who seems to not exactly be what she always thought him to be.

Like the fact that he can cook. Or rather, claims that he can. Or that he makes an effort every Sunday to watch football with his cousins, his “best friends” as he calls them. Or even his interest in photography he shares with her, even a couple photos from his phone.

And with each tidbit shared, the normalization deepens. Roman feels less and less like a thing and more and more like a person.

The staff have just cleared the tables, Solana wiping her mouth when he asks, “where do you want to go for the next date?”

For the twentieth time tonight, she’s taken off guard. “Next date?” The small smile on her face betrays her as she teases him almost, “who said I agreed to one?”

Roman chuckles, once again reaching for her hand, holding it this time. “You did the second you stepped foot on this boat.” Her stomach drops, chest tightening for reasons unknown. “Agreed to this.”

Her heartbeat is in the danger zone as she asks in a low voice, “and what is this?”

He doesn’t skip a beat or take his eyes off her, answering so confidently, “us.”

Solana is a mess. What the hell has she gotten herself into?

Shifting, she moves into a new space of trying to set more ground rules with the man who has her questioning almost everything she thought she knew about herself. “Roman, there’s no—”

“Come here.”

Two words. So simple. Also challenging.

“Roman….”

He sits back in his chair, legs spreading just enough. “Solana, come here.”

Here would be his lap. Here would be a place that she absolutely should not be. But, it’s also the exact place she finds herself moving towards. Barely in front of him, Roman doesn’t hesitate to yank her down on his lap. She’s sideways, face angled down at him, hands on his shoulders.

"Let me help you understand." Roman’s fingers dance up the spine of her back, adjusting her position on his lap, Solana having to ignore the sizable bulge underneath pressing into her ass.

Why is he hard?

An unspoken question that’s drowned out by the alluring sound of his deep voice. "You're with me now. That means if someone looks at you, I'll kill them." His hand eventually moves to the side of her breast, applying just the lightest pressure, but enough to have her squeezing his thigh. "If they breathe too hard around you, I'll kill them." Solana has to bite on her bottom lip to retain what's bound to be a moan when he slides his hand to the front of her body, fingertips massaging her exposed skin through the cutouts of her skimpy dress. "And if they try to fucking touch you, they'll wish I had killed them when all is said and done."

Completely stunned, she isn’t sure how to respond to that. Isn't sure what to say. Her response is truly something that spills out her mouth….”you’re crazy.”

Roman, however, just chuckles. “I’ve been called much worse, sweetheart.” He then sits up a bit, her eyes closing as he ghosts his lips over her shoulder. “Regardless, you still came tonight, stayed, and now you’re sitting on my lap. You know why?” Solana gasps when he moves his hand between her legs. “Because you like this shit. You like how I make you feel. All flustered and discombobulated.” She swallows, and he hums against her, asking, “wanna know how I know?” He easily slides his fingers past her soaked panties, grazing her wet pussy lips and lifting his hand to show her the proof of her body betraying her.

Roman presents the undeniable evidence. “This is how.” And if the situation wasn’t already erotic enough, Solana can barely contain herself on his lap when he sticks his fingers in his mouth, sucking each off.

Her stomach is caving and twisting and doing all sorts of things. “Roman…”

This. All of this is the exact reason why Solana has wanted to stay far away from this life. Has wanted nothing to do with the mafia world. The violence. The carnage. The mayhem. And yet, her thighs press together at Roman's oath and his carnal act for reasons she can't decipher.

His gaze drops to her legs, and she curses inwardly. Once again, her reaction to him is out and in the open.

Roman smirks. "You're touch deprived...." His assessment is embarrassingly accurate. It's gross how Roman's inherently innocent touches seem to evoke more from her than her hand ever could. "I can't wait to fix that."

Solana swallows and taps into some deep rooted assertiveness as she asks, "what about you?"

Roman continues to lightly touch her through her dress. "What about me?"

Her stomach is doing all kinds of weird things, and her head clearly is several miles behind, because there's no logical basis for what comes out of her mouth next. "If—if I can't be with anyone else, then...then neither can you."

His eyes flicker with something akin to disapproval. “I can't fuck you, but you don’t want me fucking anyone else?” He makes a sound, finger moving circles around her thigh. “Doesn’t seem very fair now, does it?”

On one hand it doesn’t, but on the other, it makes sense to her. “You say…you say you want to get to know me, to see where this goes, well that’s….that’s my stipulation.” The only one she’s really set throughout this whole thing that probably shouldn’t even be a thing in the first place.

Roman is quiet for another good minute, finally answering. “Fine.” It’s painfully obvious he’s not excited about this caveat, but he agrees, nonetheless. “But, I meant what I said.” His voice and gaze darken again. “No one touches you but me.” His hand lifts to her neck, grasping just enough to evoke a gasp but not enough to restrict breathing. “Is that understood?”

Solana’s gaze is locked with his as she licks her lips, answering breathlessly, “yes.”

And just like that, the darkness settles into something easy. “Good,” he says it so simply, so casually, hand dropping from her neck.

Solana just looks at him.

It should be unsettling to her, at least a little, how easily he maneuvers between calm and charismatic and dark and intimidating.

But, it doesn’t.

It does a bit of the opposite.

Lord, what the hell is she getting herself into?

—-----------

After some coaxing, additional foreplay, and the reiteration of no penetration, Solana finds herself following Roman deeper into the yacht, headed toward the bedroom. The travel there is a nice distraction, Solana continuing to marvel at the luxury of it all. She wasn’t exactly raised poor, but this level of opulence is unfamiliar. But, something she most definitely could get used to.

It’s still up in the air if it’s something she should get used to though.

Finally arriving, Roman closes the door behind them and walks past her. Solana's eyes never leave him, especially when he starts to unbutton his shirt, discarding it to a nearby chair.

Her cheeks are warm and reddened watching him move onto the bed, sitting back against the headboard, legs spread just enough. She’s ready to remind him of her boundaries when he motions for her with his index finger. “Come here.”

Her chest tightens. “Roman…..”

He makes a sound. “I thought I told you I don’t like repeating myself.” He did. He most certainly did. “Come here.”

Solana swallows, partially unsure why she can’t stand her ground, can’t comprehend what causes her to pull her dress up her thighs just enough so she can crawl on the bed, over to him. Her heart races even more when he grabs her, positions her between his legs, back against his firm chest.

His lips hover against her temple. “Good girl.”

Her eyes shut, that racing heart of hers nearing dangerous territories. “Roman, wh—what—”

“Touch yourself.”

Solana’s eyes shoot open.

What did he just say?

And, she goes to express as such, “what do you—”

He moves his hands to her dress, dragging it up higher until her black thong is exposed. “I want you to show me how you touched yourself when I left that night.”

Immediate goosebumps sprout all over her damn body, her mouth dry, her brain struggling to process all of this. “Roman….”

“Because you did, didn’t you?” His taunts are accompanied by his hand slipping under the waistband of her thong, snapping it against her skin. “You fucked yourself thinking of daddy, didn’t you?”

Solana swallows, unable to answer. Horrified at just how he knows this. How he knows she most definitely laid up in her bed, using her hand and vibrator after he left her so flustered and needing a release.

Something freezes her more when an equally terrifying and erotic thought crosses her mind. Was he watching her?

“Roman, were you—” She’s silenced by his fingers dancing along her mons pubis, continuing to taunt and tease her, eager for compliance with his task.

“Shhh.” His lips are moving along the perimeter of her face as he travels his hand from downward to upward, palming her breast. “Too much talking.” She chews down on her bottom lip when his thumb flicks her pebbled nipple. Damn her for forgoing a bra. “Daddy’s ready to watch.”

It’s crazy. All of it. All of this. All of him. Solana should be running for the hills, should be seeing what resources she can utilize to disappear for a little while, just long enough for this infatuation he has with her to fizzle out.

But, that’s not what happens. What happens is quite the opposite. Lifting her lower half, she slides her thong down her legs, lightly tossing it on the other side of the bed, thus leaving her bare and exposed.

In more ways than one.

Almost nervously, her hand travels to that special space between her legs, a small moan leaving her mouth when she realizes just how wet she already is.

It’s not normal how aroused this man can make her with just words and light touches.

Three fingers gliding up her vagina evoke another moan from her and an almost grunt from the man behind her.

“Look how wet you are.” His voice is something of awe and intrigue, Solana moving her fingers back to her pussy, gathering more of her essence. “Just for me. Always for me.”

Her breath is ragged as she starts playing with herself, eyes closing, thinking back to that night. Thinking back to how good his fingers felt inside of her, working her in a way no man ever has.

Solana spreads her thighs, giving her more access to her swollen throbbing clit. “Oh, fuck….”

“That’s it,” he murmurs against her skin, slipping his hand into her dress, palming her breast. “Work yourself, baby. Show me how you take care of yourself when daddy’s not around.”

Solana’s head is thrown back against his chest as she moves her fingers from her clit, to her sticky, gushy opening. In and out, she thrusts her fingers in, all the while imagining it’s someone else touching her. Someone else making her thrash and moan the way she is.

And that someone else is the man behind her, the man whose name she finds herself moaning, “Roman…..”

“Hmmm.” Stll, that damn teasing voice of his, deep, baritone, and already knowing. “What do you need, sweetheart? Tell Daddy what his good girl needs.”

Oh, she hates him. Hates the way her pussy flutters every time he refers to himself as daddy. How her body responds in a way that defies all logic.

Same as her response.

“Touch me.” It’s embarrassing how needy and wanton she sounds in this moment, the way she nearly begs him, her other hand going to his thigh.

Solana would give anything to see whatever nonverbal response he has at this request. Something smug, no doubt. All knowing. Because there’s no way he can be surprised at such a plea with this situation they're in, how she’s finger fucking herself, leaned up against his chest, his big hands groping and feeling all on her titties.

The erotic of it all almost calls for his participation.

And his participation is exactly what happens.

“Oh my God,” Solana nearly jumps off the bed when Roman’s hand is over hers, his thick fingers gently moving hers to the side, the pad of his thumb hovering over her clit, two other fingers dipping inside her. “Shit, don’t stop.”

His deep voice chuckling against her nearly rocks her to her core. “Oh, I don’t plan to.”

Solana’s body moves in sync with his hand as he works her, so good, oh so good. Solana is a whimpering mess, her hand now on top of his, unable to move away, unable to do anything but sink into this all consuming hole of pleasure. “Yes. Oh my—just like that.”

“Look how needy you are. Fucking my hand like this.” His voice is deep, primal, laden with passion and sensuality that matches hers. “Do you have any idea how I’m going to ruin you?”

Yes. Yes, she absolutely does, because he already has. Just from his hand and mouth.

Roman’s ministrations are nearing the point of too much, Solana’s release right around the corner, something the man bringing her to heaven is clearly very privy to.

He practically growls, asking, “you gonna come all over daddy’s hand? Hmm?”

“Yes,” she whimpers, eyes clamped shut, hand moving to his wrist, squeezing when he quickens and intensifies his actions. “God, I’m gonna—ohhh.” She’s cut off by the orgasm that wrecks her body, her drenched cunt throbbing, body jerking against him, flashing, blinding white lights against her closed lids.

And minutes later, she’s limp, slightly panting, still holding onto him, still trying to settle herself.

Never has she come as hard as the man before her makes her come. It’s….overwhelming. In all of the right ways.

“You don’t think we’re done, do you?”

It’s that question that makes her eyes shoot open. What did he just say?

But before Solana can process anything, Roman is moving them, switching around their positions, and it’s when he goes to lift her, she realizes just what position he’s putting them in.

Trepidation consumes her. “Roman, I can’t—”

“I’ve been thinking about eating you out all day,” he groans. Solana hates how easy and natural it is for him to say and admit to the most filthiest things. “Come sit on daddy’s face, so I can suck that sweet pussy.”

And that’s exactly what he’s doing, positioning her, hiking her dress up even higher, holding it scrunched at her waist. “Roman—”

“Stop talking,” he murmurs, Solana finally straddling his face, her hands gripping the headboard. Roman’s eyes are entranced by the sight of her pussy, so wet and pretty, dripping and needing him. “Come here….”

“Roman!” She gasps, when his strong hands tug her down, his mouth completely covering her, his tongue thrusted inside her tight hole. “Oh shit.” Solana’s head falls against her forearm that’s across the headboard. She’s seen this position in porn, has heard her friends talk about it, but no one told her it felt this damn good.

And maybe it’s less the position and more the man.

Roman’s moan underneath her as he eats her out, feasting on her pussy like it’s his first meal of the day, seems to lean on the side of less the position and all the man.

There’s no concern in the world about suffocating him or too much of her weight bearing down on him when Roman’s grip on her thighs tighten as he pulls her even closer, his tongue circling around her engorged clit.

“God, it feels so good,” she moans, one hand reaching for her breast as she plays with her nipples, grinding down on his face. “Daddy….”

Roman’s groan underneath her is loud and unmistakable along with the way his left hand moves to her ass, giving a slap that echoes through the room and evokes another moan from her.

She’s not entirely sure what stamina is required for eating pussy, at least the way Roman does, but his seems above average. Because Solana is propped up on his face so long that she feels her thighs begin to cramp and tense, resulting in her sinking down farther on him. And for a brief second, she feels bad, worries that her weight is too much. But, it’s quickly shoved to the side when he once again tugs down on her, welcoming it, welcoming and wanting her cunt to completely suffocate him.

A torture he seems to be deeply enjoying.

It takes some time, what feels like hours, hours that are filled with nothing but pleasure and ecstasy, before Solana’s orgasm overtakes her. And once again, she’s a whining, moaning, writhing mess, coming all over his face and in his mouth. It’s too much, overstimulating in every sense. So much so that it’s Roman who has to carefully lift her from off his face. He moves her down so she’s straddling his lap, her hands going to his shoulders, head in the crook of his neck as she tries to settle herself.

And, it’s not helped by the massive bulge she feels pressing up against her ass.

Roman kisses her temple, applauding her, “such a good girl for me.” She feels it, every bit of it, even if nothing about this whole thing is good. The pleasure she’s getting out of it certainly is. “Look how you came for Daddy.”

And came she did, Solana can feel his damp beard scraping against her cheek, no doubt her essence being the cause of it. It’s better to focus on that feeling and sensation vs the strange sense of pride and accomplishment she feels at being his good girl.

It's just all so confusing.

She doesn’t know how to feel about this, about a lot of what’s happened since meeting a certain Roman Reigns. Or the way he just holds her, the way she holds onto him despite being fully descended from her orgasmic haze.

One thing’s for certain.

If Solana is in fact dancing with the devil, right now, in this moment, her only hope is that it’s a song that doesn’t end anytime soon.

#roman reigns fanfiction #roman reigns fanfic #roman reigns fic #roman reigns #arisnotebook

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shiny-jr · 1 day ago

Text

PLAGIARISM UPDATE!

So, maybe I should not have said: "Hopefully this will have been the last we see of plagiarizer Kristynaka1." Perhaps from the exterior it may have seemed like it's been over, but it hasn't. Again, I've tried to deal with this silently in the background. However, my hands are tied at this point and I believe it's best to go public with this once again.

Let's rewind it a bit, shall we? In order to give y'all the full picture of what is going on.

DECEMBER 26, 2024

The story containing the plagiarism is deleted. Oh, what a joyous day. I had figured that would be the end of it, as there's nothing left to do but move on. But, as usual, I was proven wrong.

DECEMBER 27, 2024

I was made aware of an announcement post the plagiarizer made which I will share here. Keep in mind, to my knowledge I was still blocked but others alerted me and shared evidence with me.

Not too long after, I receive a message in my inbox. A message that states they were a neutral user on the issue but accused me of bullying.

I was initially suspicious of this message, but I decided to take their words into consideration. I asked others of their honest thoughts and opinions, because I genuinely wanted to know if I did anything wrong. Most agreed that the user truly didn't sound like they were a neutral party, and that it was likely the plagiarizer themself or a friend of theirs.

Later, I received a dm with practically the same message.

So what do I do? I block them. Perhaps that was wrong of me, and they accuse me of doing the same that they did when they blocked me. But I ask you to consider. Why would I want to continue to entertain this notion of accusations and messages when the ordeal is supposed to be over?

It's around this point where I'm notified by others that comments are continuously being made to defend me. These comments were appearing on the plagiarizer's Wattpad profile, often arguing with the plagiarizer only to get their commented deleted or profile blocked. But it was slowly and continuous. Which is one of the main reasons I am making this post, and is something I will address towards the end in more detail.

Later, I am notified by a few people that the user seen in the screenshot above, let's refer them to as IDK, was messaging multiple users asking for help and their opinion on the matter. IDK created a post accusing me of bullying. While these are heavy accusations, I personally see no truth in them. Again, since I had asked the honest opinion of others earlier when first messaged in my inbox.

Not too long after, I receive another very similar message in my inbox from an anon user. I don't even try to entertain it. I block the user, because at this point, it has become a form of spam or harassment.

The first comment and like on the bullying accusation post was made by a user named Kryllia. Basically they seemed to support what was said in the post. I bring them up because the post happened on a profile with no other posts or visible likes or reblogs. And if you see the current comments, which I won't show here because there are too many, their manner of speech is very similar to Kristynaka's own. Which is why I believe it might be an alt account or a friend of theirs. I also believe this because this account is blocked from my view, and I don't recall ever manually blocking this user, so it must've been them who sent one of the messages in my inbox on anon.

Anyways, those that were messaged by IDK and alerted me, informed me that their own opinions did not align with this new user's claim of neutrality. The post gained a bit of attention, but I attempted to do some damage control by messaging users privately to please keep this under wraps as I didn't want this spiraling out of hand. To which they all obliged and were very respectful.

I had assumed that this would fizzle out and nothing would happen. I was wrong. Now I had users alerting me to comments being made on Tumblr and on Wattpad.

DECEMBER 28, 2024

Now is probably a good time to bring up Teenfic.net and Penana. Just to remind you all. Some research was done and we found both the user and the copied stories on these sites. DO NOT go to these sites, as they are both ridden with malware!

Teenfic appears to be a mirror site that copies stories from Wattpad, so it likely saw the story from Wattpad and copied it. While Penana is a smaller and highly suspicious website where the plagiarizer likely created an account and posted the copied story since they were banned off Quotev and the story was taken off Wattpad. I'm not too concerned with Penana, since it's also full of malware and there's hardly any traction.

I will take the time to say that if you see any stories that are highly similar to mine, please make me aware privately before doing anything else! I imagine this plagiarizer will continue to use other people's work and claim it as their own. I will bring this up again later with more screenshots.

JANUARY 2, 2025

I'm notified by others that the user Kryllia has commented on the bullying accusation post again. Now, after reading their recent comments, they sound more and more like the plagiarizer Kristynaka. However, I'll let you be the judge of that.

So from the looks of it, their plan is to get my account deleted and also to feed original work into AI and claim the result as their own work. Which is not how writing works.

JANUARY 3, 2025

Today I made the decision to finally go public with this information. However, not for the reason y'all may suspect. I want to be honest with my readers. Although I truly believe there is no reason for my account to be banned, I just wanted to put this out there in case it does happen.

Most importantly, the main reason I wanted to make this post was because I want to discourage anymore interactions with the plagiarizer or their alts/friends. Please, no more comments or posts about it. While I appreciate any attempts that were made to defend me, I would like them to stop now as this is only prolonging the conflict. However, if anything does come up, please message me privately.

I would like this to stop, and the situation to end. I realize that it may not go according to plan, but I would rather not acknowledge anything else said by the plagiarizer or her proxies anymore unless the need to arises again.

Thank you to my readers and anyone reading this post. As I said above, please do not engage in any interactions with them, and I encourage you to share this post in the possible scenario that Kristynaka really does uses AI to copy from my works or others again in the future.

#shiny speaks #probably important #plagarism

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crepezinhos · 1 day ago

Note

omgeee. I see requests are open...can we please get wanderer orrr Kabukimono in a dress? A cute little smut fic? This stuff has me UGH. I just want to see him in feminine attire but I'm busy writing something else, so the next best thing is to ask someone else and HOPEE

No pressure <3 thoo

My Little Geisha~

“You know… I think I should start being more grateful for you. Wanna know why..?” You leaned down to whisper in his ear as you continued thrusting a dildo in his g-spot from behind, a spot that you had just discovered, actually.

“W-Why..?” He continued pushing his head against the pillow under him, mumbling most of his voice.

“Because if it weren’t for you, I would’ve never found out how beautiful you look in a kimono and a veil, and how fun it is to peg you on it while calling you a… good boy.” You made sure to coo when calling him a ‘good boy’, which forced a whimper out of his mouth.

“Y-You little— aAAH!!” He was about to rise his head from the pillow to insult you with his stare, but you made sure he didn’t do that by using a hand to slide under his body and hardly stroke his bricked, pre-cumming cock.

“What would’ve been of me if I hadn’t walked on the one and only, Hat Guy, trying out a random kimono and veil I’ve never seen while using my makeup and hairpins without my permission?” You proceeded to whisper on his ear as if you weren’t making the poor puppet scream for his dear life. “No need to feel embarrassed, darling, I think you look mesmerizing on it…” You kissed the back of his neck after reassuring him before continuing. “But if I were you, I would feel very embarrassed to have the dildo I used to fuck my girlfriend with being used on me.” Your tone changed to sexier tone that brought him to lean his ass up to you even more.

“S-Shut up and go faster..!” You could see his hands tightening their grip and the sheets under him as he tried to keep his voice stable.

“Faster? I’ll go faster…” You chuckled in the back of your throat as you rose your body up and begun being more precise with the dildo in your hands.

He couldn’t help but slide his legs apart from each other even more than before, melting at how you had quickened your pace.

“Such a good boy…” You tapped his left buttock as a way to approve his manners as you cooed like he was some little puppy.

“Why do you even like dressing up like a woman? If I knew about it earlier, I would’ve definitely helped you with your makeup!” You asked more seriously to him, but made sure to always keep him overstimulated.

“I don’t know…” He whimpered under the pillow, trying to ignore you to focus on the pleasure he was receiving.

“Oh, come on… tell me!” You begun stroking and jerking his cock faster to convince him, causing him to moan high-pitched.

You could even feel a few drops of cum sprinkling off him, all of them falling on the palm of your hand.

“G-Gonna cum..!” Wanderer announced the good news as if it was a war cry.

“Cum for me, my little geisha~…” You continued cooing to him in that same merciful tone although you were being merciless to him.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck…” He kept whimpering multiple insults and bad words as you obliterated his manually-lubricated hole.

You were struggling to push the vibrator in and out with how tights his hole actually was, no matter how much lubricant you applied to the dildo and him. It needed you to get up to make sure all of the precision and strength of your hands were being used to push Wanderer over his edge the same way he’d do to you when he topped.

His hands slid under the pillow where he was drowning his face at, trying to make the contact he did with it even harder for you to not hear to his shameless screams and failed makeup attempt. You didn’t care really for it, but it’s not only his first time ever being pegged by you, but the first time you’d ever seen him in such feminine clothes.

“Oh, I can certainly feel you cumming…” You cooped your palms on the leaking tip of his dick, trying to pump it out of it directly in your hands.

And those movements definitely brought his body to go insane with its hormones levels, resulting in a very precocious orgasm that left on him on edge of insanity. To have an enormous dildo shoved down his hole, bullying a sensitive spot, while his dick spasmed cum in your palm was a feeling that he’d never expect to feel so good. No matter if he used to torture you just like that, anal and oral sex, he thought it’d feel lame with roles switched.

Thank God you didn’t find his request weird… and thank God he got to experience what it was like to be the one receiving a cock.

“L-Listen… would you be ok if I asked you to try… uhm… to be… the one… thrusting..?” His puppy eyes, being accentuated by his pathetic makeup and feminine clothing made it impossible for you to neglect.

Just remembering him asking you that made you feel sorrow for the situation you were putting him in, but also glad to be the only one he trusts to do such an intimate act.

After a few seconds of Wanderer himself thrusting his hips against the air, you felt a final thin rope of cum add itself to the little thick pod of cum in the center of your palm.

“There you go~…” You gently leaned down and smooched his cheek with a whole load of love while he still drooled and breathed in exhaustion. “How do you feel?” You whispered in his ear.

“G-Good… Really good…” His hips were still shivering every now and then at the fact that the dildo remained shoved down his hole.

“Good boy…” You patted the back of his head.

“T-Thank you for… this…” He finally turned his head to the side, finally making eye contact with you.

“Open your mouth.” You quickly pulled out your hand that remained messy with his cum, and he obediently took the order like a trained dog.

He begun licking and swallowing the cum that rested in your hand, rope by rope, cleaning your hand crystal clear.

“Such a good boy..!” You patted his head in appreciation for he obedience, very glad that you were experiencing that side of Wanderer. “But seriously, why do you do it?” You finally laid down on the bed too by his side, still making eye contact with him.

“It’s nunya.” His eyes turned serious again, just like the Wanderers you fell in love with him.

“It’s all my business.” You argued back before he could even dare insulting you.

“I guess it’s just…” His hands finally started pushing him upwards, and Wanderer quickly turned and sat on the bed before finishing speaking. “I was supposed to be a girl when my mom first started drafting me, and I guess that led her into putting a lot of… estrogen… on me…” He looked away from you and pulled his kimono upwards, trying to cover his chest after having it exposed for so long.

“That’s cute.” You treated him with honesty, which made him immediately get triggered.

“No, it’s not! He screamed at you with that cute little annoyed face of his, looking even more pathetic with the makeup.

“Yes, it is.” You remained chill.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Don’t start this.”

“I already did.”

And the conversation quickly enrolled into multiple other topics until both his and your eyes couldn’t keep themselves open anymore.

Taglist: @shyentsfoundherink @kindofshyent @the-stinky-winky @alatusorrow @bigmantiddys @luminieee @goofy-ego

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thef1diary · 2 days ago

Note

Dirtbag!Daniel overstimulating you just because he heard you say he can’t make a woman cum

— hurting a man’s ego? Eh. Hurting dirtbag!danny’s ego? yeah… you’re in for a wild ride. 18+ content below

You didn’t even see it coming. One offhand comment, said half-jokingly to a friend while Daniel was within earshot, and now here you were—spread out on his bed, thighs trembling, body utterly wrecked as he hovered over you with a smug, infuriating grin.

“You said what now?” he taunted, dragging two fingers lazily through your soaked folds before pressing them back inside you, curling just right to make you gasp. “Can’t make a woman cum? Baby, you’ve lost count.”

“Danny—oh, God—” Your protest turned into a breathless moan as his thumb found your clit, rubbing in slow, deliberate circles. He kept his eyes locked on yours, the heat in his gaze making your stomach twist deliciously.

“What’s that, sweetheart?” he asked mockingly, leaning in closer, his lips brushing against your ear. “Can’t even keep still, can you? And you had the nerve to run your mouth. That’s, what… four now? Five?”

You whimpered, your head falling back against the pillows, fingers clutching at the sheets. Your body was hypersensitive, every touch unbearable yet addicting. He didn’t stop—not when your thighs tried to close around his hand, not when tears spilled down your cheeks.

He worked you over with ruthless efficiency, each stroke of his fingers pushing you closer to the edge. The sound of your wetness filled the room, obscene and utterly mortifying, but the way he looked at you—so smug, so sure of himself—only made it worse.

“Come on, baby,” he murmured, his breath ghosted over your neck. “Let me hear it. Let me hear you beg.”

You whimpered, your body trembling as his movements sped up. “Danny, please—”

“You want to cum?” he taunted, biting down on your shoulder just hard enough to leave a mark. “Say it. Say you need me to make you cum.”

“I need you,” you gasped, your head falling back as your walls clenched around his fingers. “Danny, I need you to make me cum.”

“There we go, that’s my good girl,” he murmured, voice dripping with mock praise as he kissed along your jawline. “So pretty when you’re a mess. Bet your friend would love to see you like this,” he added, his voice dripping with arrogance. “Soaked and shaking, crying my name. Think she’d still believe you after this?”

You could barely form words, your nails digging into his shoulders as your sixth orgasm barreled through you.

“Fuck, pleasepleaseplease—”

“Please what? Don’t stop?”

Before you could catch your breath, he was sliding his cock inside you, thrusting deep, his pace instantly becoming relentless. Your back arched as the overstimulation hit its peak, your nails dragging down his back. “I don’t plan on stopping, sweetheart.”

“Daniel, I can’t—”

“Oh, you can,” he interrupted, his teeth grazing your jaw as he pounded into you. “And you will. You’re gonna cum for me again, and you’re gonna thank me for proving you wrong.”

Your body immediately gave in to his relentless pace, your vision going white as your orgasm ripped through you. He stilled for a moment, his cock buried deep inside you, before pulling out at the last second. He wrapped his hand around himself, stroking lazily as his cum splattered across your skin. “Look at you, all wrecked and trembling. Next time you want to talk shit, remember this.”

You could barely move, your body boneless and spent, but his smugness didn’t waver. He reached for his pants, pulling out his phone and snapping a quick picture of your ruined, flushed form.

“Proof,” he said with a wink, before tucking it away.

want more dirtbag!danny? send me an ask with your filthiest thoughts and it’ll get answered during one of my dirty drabble days

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moralesluvr · 1 day ago

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FABLE AND TRUTH 2 | billie eilish

୧ ‧₊˚ love was the law & religion was taught…. ↳ summary: you had always been raised on being poise, feminine, classy. but what was most important to your family was your religion— and it had embroidered itself into your daily life. but when it’s time to pick between feelings and faith, which will you choose? pairings & aus. billie eilish x fem!reader warnings. religious backgrounds & guilt | mature language | sexual content | substance use author's note. chapter two is here !!! wc. 5.4k

you could not stand drunk people.

well, unless they were your best friends.

after emma had dragged you out of the party, she stumbled against you, babbling on loosely about how some guy at the party was trying to flirt with her— and in less harsh words than her own, he wasn’t the most attractive.

he had begged her for a dance and even offered to buy her as many drinks as she wanted, whatever the price— but she kept politely refusing. until he grabbed her and tried to kiss her, which definitely ended with his hand over a bruised and bloody nose, and every single curse word under the sun had come from emma’s mouth.

oliver was nowhere to be found, but he’d checked in on the life360 that he was at some guy’s house, and that’s really all you needed to know.

jules and naomi stubbornly filed out of the house soon after you and emma retreated to your car, the red-head fanning herself as she slumped over the front seat, “oh m’gosh…y-y/n….think i’m literally gonna fuckin’ hack right about now.”

you let out a quiet groan as the car door opened, your two remaining friends falling into the backseat and carelessly tossing their purses into the empty passenger one. naomi held her head, while jules tried to cover her stained lips with a tattooed palm, “h-hey…we couldn’t find you…at all.”

you couldn’t even be annoyed at them for being intoxicated, because you were the one that promised you’d attend the party, only as the designated driver. and you being you, you were always there for a friend in need, especially the people that you loved oh so dearly. so you cranked your car up, turning your queued worship music down, sliding your right arm over the passenger seat to back up, “guys, please please do not throw up in my car. i just cleaned it!”

that statement earns painful groans from the three girls in the back, holding their stomachs as you sped off and onto the main road, carefully. you placed both hands on the wheel and tried to drive as slowly and heedful as you could, partially afraid that the night would end with vomit on your undyed seats and lipstick stains on your seat covers. but you took a deep sigh and looked in the rearview mirror, “anyone feel like they need to pull over right about now? please tell me now, i don’t really feel like cleaning throw up.”

“please….the diner on….just pull over.” jules swallows thickly, and you watch as the other two bold-haired girls nod at her statement in agreement. you swivel into a turning lane abruptly, tired eyes fixated on the sign that reads “GINA’S DINER.” it’s quick the way you pull into a spot, apologizing for how recklessly you turned into a spot— but you really needed to make sure that no one was going to ruin your clean car.

you all file out, naomi nearly falling as they all hurriedly make their way towards the door, their heels clacking against the pavement as you locked your car and followed them in.

a bell above you makes your appearance known, and you give the lady at the front an awkward, slightly apologetic wave. she doesn’t understand your gesture until she sees naomi, jules and emma rush towards the bathroom, stomachs clutched and faces washed with sickly expressions.

“fun night, hm?” she asks you, southern accent so strong that you almost can’t understand what she’s saying. you just shrug at her, slipping into a front booth as you pull out your phone, eyes droopy and slightly achy. there’s a Bible notification, and you can’t help but smile, even in the midst of all this. it’s a verse from psalms, something about finding refuge in the Lord during chaos. you could definitely use that right about now.

you tuck your phone into your lap and breathe deeply, letting the soft hum of the diner soothe your nerves. the air smells like coffee, bacon grease, and syrup, the kind of mix that shouldn’t be comforting, but is.

your friends are loud even from the distant, dingy bathroom, their laughter carrying through the thin walls as they recover from the night’s bad decisions, and it’s all masked quickly as you hear three in tune gags.

you shake your head.

emma’s voice cuts through the noise, something about how she could’ve totally taken that guy out even harder if she wasn’t wearing heels. jules and naomi laugh, and you imagine their glossy lips curling into wide smiles, mascara smudged and carefree.

“refuge in the Lord,” you mumble to yourself, tracing the edge of the laminated menu on the table, your finger settled on a plate of hash browns that mistakenly look like a cross, but you’re sure that it’s a sign. you smile to yourself as a waitress approaches— mid-50s, with tired eyes but a warm smile. “long night, sweetheart?” she asks, pouring water into a glass in front of you.

“you have no idea,” you reply with a small chuckle, rubbing the back of your neck. “but they’re my people, you know? i love them with all my heart.”

the waitress smiles knowingly, nodding toward the bathroom. “i get it, honey. not many would be the driver for that crowd, y’know, but you’ve got something sweet on you. you’re a kind soul, i can tell.”

you laugh, genuinely this time, glancing toward the bathroom door to make sure that they’re still in there, “thank you. and yeah, they’re a mess, but they’re my mess. couldn’t go through life without them.”

she doesn’t really respond. she just places a coffee cup in front of you, even though you didn’t order it, and pats your hand sweetly, “on the house, sweetheart. looks like you could use it.”

the warmth of the mug grounds you as you watch the bathroom door finally swing open, after what felt like absolute years. your friends spill out, looking slightly less disheveled, faces cleaned up but eyes still glinting with the remnants of the night’s mischief. they weave through the diner, collapsing into the booth with you like puzzle pieces falling into place.

“dude, holy shit,” emma groans, leaning her head back against the booth. “that bathroom was a war zone. i honestly deserve a real-life award for surviving it.”

“you deserve an award for not throwing up in my car.” you deadpan, and that earns a round of weak laughter, the waitress sharing a portion of it as she disappears into the back. you were serious, but your joke was light-hearted, and you slump your head against the cool surface of the table, letting it sooth your slight headache.

“should we order pancakes?” naomi blurts, her lipstick hastily reapplied, and she cracks open a mirror to set it with a thick, pinky gloss, “i think we all need some pancakes.”

“and hashbrowns!” jules adds, pointing at the menu as if you’re about to argue. it was late— nearly three o’ clock in the morning, and you refused to drive these girls home and pay for a meal you knew they’d only eat half of before hauling to the bathrooms again.

you just shake your head, sipping the coffee. it’s too bitter for your liking, but the caffeine jolts you enough to sit up a little straighter, “fine, but one of you better be paying. you guys are driving me absolute nuts.”

emma’s hand shoots up dramatically, her movements still a little sluggish, but way better than before. “it’s all on me. it’s the least i can do after saving my own dignity from that creep earlier.”

you raise an eyebrow at her as naomi and jules snort, “pretty sure dignity doesn’t include nearly breaking someone’s nose, em. that was mean.”

“oh no, you weren’t there. he completely deserved that shit.” she says firmly, twirling her finger in the air like she’s drawing a halo over her head.

you lean back, letting their chatter wash over you like background music. emma’s wild stories, jules’s dry wit, naomi’s quiet observations— they all blend into something that feels like home. you’d never say it aloud, but moments like these are what make the late nights and exhausted mornings worth it.

still, as you glance at the phone in your lap and reread the verse from psalms, there’s a nagging thought in the back of your mind. something about balance. about faith. about how these nights with your friends, full of chaos and laughter and the occasional Bible verse for grounding, somehow fit into your life.

you love them. and you love God. but sometimes, it feels like both are pulling you in opposite directions, but tonight, in this diner, they coexist. the coffee is too bitter, the pancakes will probably be disgustingly dry, and your friends are a complete mess, but for now, it’s enough for you.

before the food comes, the three girls beside you decide that they need to make sure their stomachs are empty enough to eat, so they all get up, rushing to the bathroom and leaving you with just your thoughts. you distract yourself with some game on your phone before the bell above the door jingles again, and you glance up absentmindedly, thinking it’s just another group of drunk strangers coming in for some late-night pancakes. but it’s not. it’s billie.

and she’s stumbling. horribly.

“oh, please kill me,” you mutter under your breath, straightening in your seat. as if on cue, emma, jules, and naomi all file out the bathroom, turning to look, their chatter dying down as they notice her too. she’s wearing extremely oversized jeans and a tank top that clings to her in a way that feels like it should be illegal, her hair slightly tousled, like she’s been through a windstorm— or, more accurately, a stupidly wild party.

she’s got a girl and two guys with her, but they venture off somewhere else to slip quarters into an old jukebox, cursing loudly when they realize that the device is way outdated. you snort. you thought that was obvious.

“isn’t that your girl?” emma teases, leaning over the table with a sly grin. she pokes your shoulder and you immediately shove her off, your cheeks hot and angry with a blush that blossoms to the rest of your body.

“she’s not my girl, don’t say that.” you hiss, your but your statement’s really all bark no bite, per usual. but your heart skips a beat when billie looks up and locks eyes with you, her face lighting up in a way that’s both charming and disarming.

she weaves through the tables with all the grace of a baby deer, her steps uneven but determined to get to you. she drawls, her voice low and slightly slurred, “what are you doin’ here, angel?”

“billie…” you sigh, your voice tinged with exasperation and a little disappointment. after your conversation at the party, you had assumed that she wasn’t the type of girl to get drunk and stumble around, and it hurt you a little bit to realize that you were mistaken.

“oh, don’t ‘billie’ me,” she says, sliding into the booth beside you, much too close for comfort. the scent of tequila and her vanilla perfume hits you like a wave, and you lean back instinctively, pressing into the seat. but she mimics your actions, her shoulder pressed against yours as she slurs, badly.

“you’re drunk.” you point out, trying to keep your voice steady, but it’s broken. your skin’s hot and furious, and you can’t quite place why— all you know is that you’re mostly disappointed. your friends’ voices grow silent as they watch your encounter with the dark haired girl, and she just shrugs her shoulders at you nonchalantly.

“m’kay,” billie drags, looking up at you with soft, hazy eyes, and you swallow thickly, “maybe a little.”

she admits she’s had a little too much to drink, flashing you a lopsided grin. her finger comes up to boop your nose, but she’s so intoxicated that it misses it by an inch. “but m’not too drunk to notice how cute you look right now.”

your friends exchange looks, barely suppressing their laughter. emma actually has the audacity to nudge jules, whispering something that makes them both giggle, and you feel embarrassed. you shoot them a glare, but it’s hard to focus when billie’s gaze is fixed on you like you’re the only person in the entire diner.

“billie,” you say again, this time softer, almost pleading her to stop making you look stupid in front of your girls, “you should…you should just go sit over there.” you gesture vaguely to the empty booth across from you, but she doesn’t budge.

“nah,” she says, resting her chin in her hand as she looks at you, and you take a good look at her, your eyes involuntarily narrowing. she looks like she’s been through it— skin glossy but dull, lips chapped and dry, her voice croaked and broken. she’s slow with her movements as she sinks further into the chair, “i’m good right….right here.”

your pulse quickens, and you don’t know if it’s from annoyance, embarrassment, or something else entirely. “billie, you’re making this really weird.” you mumble, your fingers gripping the edge of the table to keep yourself from touching her.

“weird?…h-how’s it weird?” billie leans in slightly, her voice dropping to a playful whisper, “i’m just complimenting you, angel. that’s not a sin, now is it?”

your stomach twists uncomfortably at the mention of sin. of course, that’s where your mind goes. because everything about this feels…complicated. billie’s close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off her skin, and her eyes— bright and mischievous— make it hard to think straight. you just want her to go away, to disappear and never look back, to literally never utter a single word to you ever again. but she’s persistent, almost taunting you with her presence, and it’s like you can’t take your eyes off her no matter how hard you try.

you hate this. you hate it a lot. you close your eyes, thinking and hoping that if you pray it hard enough, she’ll go away. like she’s an illusion, a ghost that’s just here for a distraction. but when you open your eyes, she’s still there, eyes fixated on you as she waits for an answer.

“it’s not a sin, but…” you mutter, looking away from her gaze, eyes fighting to focus on something else, anything else, “…you’re drunk. you don’t really mean any of this.”

“who says i don’t?” she shoots back, and for a moment, her tone isn’t teasing. it’s serious, almost challenging, and you want to just get up and walk out. but you can’t.

your breath catches, and you’re grateful when the waitress comes back with your friends’ pancakes, breaking the tension. billie doesn’t move, though. she just keeps looking at you, like she’s waiting for you to say something.

“billie,” you try again, your voice softer now. “please. just…sit over there, okay? we can talk when you’re sober.”

she hesitates, her eyes searching yours, and for a moment, you think she might argue with you. but then she sighs, running a hand through her hair. “fine.” she says, dragging herself to her feet. “but only ‘cause you asked so nicely…so, see you around…”

she winks lazily at you before sliding into the booth across the aisle, and your cheeks burn as your friends erupt into laughter the second she’s out of earshot. your head turns sharply to look at them, and you feel your eyes swell with tears.

“oh, my goodness, y/n,” emma says, clutching her stomach, mostly because she isn’t sure if she’s gonna throw up, but also because she’s containing so much laughter, “you were soooo red. dudette, she’s totally into you!”

“please, emma. stop it. she’s not.” you protest weakly, your voice barely audible over the girls’ laughter.

but the truth is, you don’t know if that’s true. and worse, you don’t know how you feel about it.

as you sip your coffee and avoid looking in billie’s direction, your phone buzzes again with another verse. this time, it’s one about temptation. you let out a shaky breath and close your eyes, trying to steady yourself, making sure your friends don’t see your tears. but they’re too busy laughing and digging into their food to pay it any mind, and you rest your head down, hoping you could just disappear. to go anywhere— to run and never look back, to hide, to forget everything that just happened in the past five minutes.

the diner feels like it’s shrinking in on you, like the walls are closing in around you with every passing second. billie’s presence is magnetic— whether you’re looking at her or not, you can feel her. the way her arm drapes over the back of her booth, her carefree laugh echoing as she chats with the waitress, her eyes flicking toward you every now and then, and you always look away before your eyes can meet. it’s maddening.

your friends are still teasing you, of course— they won’t let anything go until it’s dragged out and so annoying that even they can’t stand it any longer.

jules is practically doubled over with laughter, her face flushed as she wipes at her eyes. “y/n, be so fuckin’ for real right now,” she says between giggles, lightly tapping naomi on the shoulder to tune in, “you cannot tell me she wasn’t flirting with you.”

“she’s drunk,” you speak again, your voice firm but your cheeks still hot. you wipe your eyes with your sleeve discreetly, blaming it on the air conditioning too high for your sensitive eyes. you sniffle, “it doesn’t mean anything.”

“uh-huh,” naomi chimes in, smirking as she picks at her stack of pancakes with her fork, “right. and i’m the queen of england. both those things don’t make any sense.”

emma, who’s been quiet up until now, leans over the table with a knowing look, like she can read something even you can’t. sometimes you despised that— you despised your friendship lasting so long that she could tell what you’re feeling before you even know yourself. she pauses, then gives you wide eyes, “hey…you like her, don’t you?”

“emma, no!” the denial is almost instant, too quick to sound convincing, even to your own ears.

but you’re sure.

no matter what, this is utterly wrong, for so many reasons. it’s nothing you’ve ever desired before, and it’s not right, and it’s just something that happens when you see people that are almost unearthly beautiful. man, woman— everyone has eyes, and everyone that can see knows that billie is drop dead gorgeous. but that doesn’t mean anything, it can’t. and it won’t.

emma gasps dramatically, clutching her chest like she’s been shot, “oh, my gosh! you like the emo girl!”

“i don’t,” you insist, groaning as you bury your face in your hands, “can we please talk about something else?”

“fine,” emma says, but the smirk on her face tells you she’s not letting this situation go anytime soon, “but we’re circling back to this later, girlfriend— just so you know.”

you glance over at billie, hoping she’s too wrapped up in her own world to notice the chaos unfolding at your table, and definitely hoping that emma doesn’t see you do it. but of course, billie catches your eye and grins, her lips curling in that way that makes your stomach turn in on itself.

you look away almost immediately, focusing on your untouched and horrible coffee. it’s lukewarm now, but you sip it anyway, hoping the bitterness will ground you a little bit. you find yourself caught in your thoughts until naomi taps your shoulder, making sure that emma and jules are too goofed off to notice.

“y/n,” she says softly, her tone more serious now, “are you okay?”

you nod, even though you’re not sure it’s true. you hated to lie, but it wasn’t any of her business, and you didn’t even know exactly how you were feeling. you huff, “yeah, i’m just…tired.”

that much, at least, is honest. the night feels like it’s been stretched out for days on end, and the weight of everything— your faith, your friends, billie —sits heavy on your chest. you just want to fall into your bed and stay there forever, resting until the sun rises and falls a million times.

“we should head out soon,” you say, glancing at your phone. it’s horribly late into the night now, and you know you’ll feel this exhaustion in your bones tomorrow.

but before you can usher your friends toward the door, billie stands up from her booth and strolls over to you, and you genuinely want to push her out of the way. but it isn’t like you, it never has been— so you stand idle in your spot by the jukebox, watching billie’s movements that are still a little unsteady, but her confidence is unwavering.

“y/n,” she says, her voice softening, “you leaving without saying goodbye?”

emma snorts, and you shoot her a warning look before turning your attention back to billie, “we were…um…. just about to head out,” you say, keeping your tone neutral. whatever emotion you show, it’ll be talked about in the car, so you try to remain as stoic as humanly possible.

“hmm,” she hums, tilting her head as she studies you. “you sure you’re okay? you’ve been awfully quiet tonight.”

“i’m fine,” you reply quickly, but your voice betrays you, coming out more flustered than you intended.

“you don’t look fine,” billie says, leaning down so her face is level with yours. her proximity makes your heart race, and you’re painfully aware of how close she is— close enough that you can see the faint freckles dusting her nose, close enough that her breath fans against your cheek as you shut your eyes, exhaling slowly to keep yourself calm. she giggles, “well…you do look fine, but—“

“billie,” you interrupted, your voice barely above a whisper. “you should sit down. or…go home.”

“maybe,” she says, but she doesn’t move. instead, she smiles, sweet and almost…tender. “but…. not before i tell you something.”

your breath catches, and you feel your friends’ eyes on you, the air around the table thick with anticipation.

“you’re…really something, y/n,” she says, her voice quiet but sincere, “i don’t know what it is, but…there’s just something about you. something good.”

the words hit you harder than they should, and you don’t know if it’s because she’s drunk or because she means it, or maybe even both.

“i—“ you start to say something but it’s too quiet, so you just start to rush out of the diner, embarrassment flooding your face as your friends attempt to follow you. but with the way they’re stumbling and how drunk they still are, their detour to the bathroom is definitely expected.

as you step outside, the night air is sharp and biting, the cold shocking your heated face. you could stay in and wait, you think— but you don’t have the patience to, and you’re too embarrassed to walk back in and face whatever just happened to you. you’re starting to head to your car when you hear the door jingle opened, and you hope and pray that it’s your trio of girls, but you set your hopes a little too high.

“y/n!” you hear billie call after you, her voice slurring slightly, but it’s the desperation in her tone that makes you really stop you in your tracks. you pause, half-turning, the diner’s fluorescent lights spilling out onto the sidewalk as billie’s figure emerges into view, her feet tripping over her own oversized clothes as she slumps against the run down, brick wall next to her.

her jacket’s hanging loosely off one shoulder, hair messy but somehow still perfect in that careless way she always manages. she’s really out of breath, her hands on her hips as she steadies herself, and when her eyes meet yours, there’s a flicker of something calm, something sweet. caring.

“you’re…really l-leaving?” she asks, tilting her head slightly, her voice dripping nectar as she looks at you, almost like she’s a little hurt at it.

“yeah,” you reply, trying to keep your tone even, but it comes out shaky instead. typical.

“i think i’ve had enough excitement for one night. i just want to go home and go to sleep.”

billie takes a step closer, her jordan’s scuffing against the pavement. she’s hesitant before she speaks, “did i…did i say something wrong?”

the question catches you off guard, and you shake your head quickly. it wasn’t her at all, it was just how she made you feel. her words were too much for you, and the way she was acting— it made you squirm, it was bothersome, icky, awkward. you meet eyes with her from across the parking lot, and you shrug out, trying to get out of this predicament as quickly as you possibly could.

“no. it’s not that. i just—” you falter, crossing your arms over your chest, “i need some air.”

she nods slowly, her gaze dropping to the ground for a moment before she looks back up at you. “y/n, i wasn’t trying to make you uncomfortable. i-i just…sometimes i say things when i’ve had a little too much, but that doesn’t mean i don’t mean them.”

your heart skips a beat at her honesty, and you take a step back, trying to put some distance between the two of you.

“billie, you’re really drunk.” you say, your voice barely above a whisper, and the distance between the two of you that you created falls useless as billie steps closer, almost not hearing what you’ve said.

“yeah, i am drunk,” she admits, a soft laugh escaping her lips, “but that doesn’t mean i’m lying.”

you look away, staring at the empty parking lot as if it’ll give you the answers you’re so desperately searching for. you run your fingers through the ends of your hair, fighting to keep calm. the only reason you don’t walk away and leave is because your friends are still in the bathroom.

can they hurry up?

“i don’t know what you want me to say,” you admit finally, your voice cracking slightly as you let out a choked, awkward laugh.

“i don’t want you to say anything,” billie replies, stepping closer until she��s just a few feet away. “i just…i needed you to know that. you’re cool…y/n…there’s just something about you that....”

the confession leaves you speechless, your chest tightening as you try to process her words. she’s so close now that you can smell the faint scent of whiskey on her breath, mixed with something sweet that’s uniquely her.

“please, enough.”

“i’ll stop,” she says quickly, holding her hands up in surrender. “i swear. i just—needed to get it out, you know? but i’ll stop now. sorry.”

before you can respond, the diner door swings open behind you, and emma stumbles out, her arm slung around naomi’s shoulder as jules trails behind them, shoving a tube of lipstick in your bag.

“ahh, there you are!” emma says, her voice loud and cheerful despite her disheveled state, “we thought you left us.”

you force a smile, grateful for the timely distraction, “just needed some air.”

emma’s eyes flick between you and billie, and her lips curve into a knowing smirk, “well, don’t let us interrupt! we’ll be on our way.”

“emma.” you hiss, shooting her a glare, but she just laughs and waves you off, heading toward the car with naomi and jules in tow.

you turn back to billie, who’s watching you with an expression you can’t quite read, but you don’t have the energy to figure it out. you’re so tired and upset that you just walk away, leaving billie slumped against the brick walls of the diner’s exterior, hair wildly flowing in the wind as she watches you slip into your car, cranking the engine and pulling off and away.

you really think you could cry right now.

jules, naomi, and emma eventually fall asleep in the back, and you fight to stay awake the last five minutes of the drive as you start to drop everyone off at their dorm rooms, or at least near them. and then it’s you and a sleeping emma, her snores syncopated with the barking of the wind outside, and you quickly park and roll your windows up, taking off your seatbelt to turn around and poke your best friend.

“wake up.” you whisper, prodding at her bare shoulder as she stirs awake, swatting your hand like a fly. she mumbles into the cushions of your seats, “mmmhmm, like— five more minutes.”

“we’re here, emma. we have to go inside, i’m tired.” you whined, rolling your eyes. although she’s annoyed, she sits up, wiping her eyes with the back of her palm. a sleepy grin is wiped across her face as she puts her hand out to touch yours, “i am…so sorry…for dragging you everywhere across town. you’re the best, y’know that?”

you just nod in a silent thanks, squeezing her hand before opening the door and getting out, emma copying your movements.

the two of you step out into the cold, the wind biting at your skin as you shiver and wrap your arms around yourself. emma stumbles a little, still half-asleep, and you reach out instinctively to steady her.

“you good?” you ask, glancing at her.

“yeah, yeah,” she mumbles, waving you off. “just…y’know, trying to remember how to walk.”

you huff out a laugh, your breath visible in the chilly night air. together, you trudge toward the dorm entrance, the sound of your footsteps echoing in the quiet.

emma fishes around in her purse for her key, muttering under her breath about how she’s going to “kill the next guy who offers her tequila.” you lean against the doorframe, watching her with tired amusement until she finally triumphs, holding up the key like a trophy.

“victory is mine!” she whispers dramatically, pushing the door open and gesturing for you to go in first.

inside, the warmth is immediate, and you let out a small sigh of relief, slipping off your shoes. emma kicks off her heels with an exaggerated groan, stumbling toward the couch. she collapses onto it, sprawling out like she’s never been more comfortable in her life.

“you coming?” she asks, peeking one eye open as you hover near the door.

“nah,” you say, shaking your head. “i’m gonna head to bed. i’m beat.”

emma gives you a thumbs up, already halfway to sleep again as you make your way toward your room.

but when you close the door behind you and sink onto your bed, exhaustion doesn’t come like you thought it would. your body aches for rest, but your mind is still spinning, replaying everything from the night.

you sit there for a while, staring at the wall, before finally pulling out your journal from the drawer beside your bed. the pages are filled with your handwriting, verses, prayers, and thoughts you’ve poured out over time. it’s a place where you’ve always felt safe, where you’ve always been honest.

you open to a blank page, hesitating for a moment before you start to write:

“God, tonight was…confusing. I don’t know how to feel about any of it. I want to do the right thing. I want to honor You. But sometimes, I feel like I’m stuck in this constant battle between who I am and who I think I’m supposed to be.

I feel so much pressure to have everything figured out, to make the right choices, to be good. But what if I don’t always know what that looks like? What if I mess up?

I don’t want to disappoint You. I don’t want to disappoint myself. But I’m scared, and I’m tired, and I just don’t know what to do.”

you pause, the pen hovering over the page, before finishing with a shaky, “Please, help me understand.”

closing the journal, you let out a long breath, the weight of your words still heavy on your chest.

you crawl under the covers, curling up on your side as the wind howls outside. the room is quiet, but your mind is so loud, filled with a mix of doubt and hope and a little bit of fear.

and as you finally drift off to sleep, you pray for clarity, for strength, for peace. because even if you don’t have all the answers, you’re holding on to the belief that they’ll come. at some point.

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