#DRAWING THIS FELT LIKE COMMITTING A CRIME

[otiksimr]

will u please teach him about the horrors.

Ok.

[cameronsbabydoll]

could you write a fic with S4!Rafe x Bunny!Reader where they go to Sabrina Carpenter’s short and sweet tour and reader wears this and she doesn’t understand why rafe was being so protective of her while they were in the pit?

SUGAR AND SMOKE — ໒꒰ྀིᵔ ᵕ ᵔ ꒱ྀི১

rafe cameron x bunny!reader

Rafe should’ve known better than to let you wear this in public.

The moment you stepped out of the bathroom, adjusting the delicate lace of your dress, he had felt his stomach tighten. You looked like sugar—soft, sweet, impossible not to touch. The pale pink corset hugged your body too perfectly, tiny rhinestones catching the light as you twirled in front of him, oblivious to the way his jaw clenched. The heart-shaped cutout on the bodice only made things worse, a teasing glimpse of skin framed by shimmering sequins.

“Do you like it?” you had asked, wide-eyed, your voice as light as the ruffles at your thighs.

Rafe had loved it. But he had hated the idea of anyone else seeing you like this

And now, in the middle of a packed pit at Sabrina Carpenter’s concert, he was in hell.

You, of course, were completely unaware of the attention you were drawing. Your fingers were wrapped around his wrist, your body pressed against his chest as you bounced to the music, lost in the dreamy atmosphere. Rafe, on the other hand, was hyper-aware of everything—the way guys kept glancing at you, the way some girl had whispered "she's so cute" while eyeing your outfit, the way you didn’t even notice.

His arm tightened around your waist as the crowd pushed in closer, and you looked up at him, confused.

"Rafe?" you murmured, tilting your head.

"Stay in front of me," he ordered, voice low, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. "People are getting too close."

You blinked up at him, utterly clueless. "But—it’s just the pit, Rafe. Everyone’s close."

Yeah, and that was the problem.

Rafe exhaled sharply, his fingers digging into the soft fabric at your hip. He knew you didn’t get it, didn’t understand the way some of these guys were looking at you. The way they let their gazes linger a little too long, the way one of them had brushed against you just a second ago, his excuse hidden behind the sway of the crowd. Rafe had nearly swung on him right then and there.

Still, you just smiled up at him like nothing was wrong, letting his hand rest possessively on your waist as you turned back toward the stage, humming along to the music.

And then, of course, someone had to push his luck.

A girl standing next to you leaned in with a bright smile. "Oh my God, I love your outfit!" she gushed, eyes sparkling as she took in the rhinestones, the lace, the tiny details that made you look like a doll.

Your face lit up instantly, excitement bubbling in your chest. "Really? Thank you!" you beamed, your voice practically dripping with sugar. "I was worried it was too much, but it’s just so cute, right?"

"Are you kidding? You look adorable," the girl assured you.

Rafe felt his jaw clench.

You, completely oblivious to the way he was now gripping your waist a little too tightly, clapped your hands together. "That’s what I told Rafe!" you giggled, turning to look up at him. "I told you it was cute!"

Rafe, however, was too busy glaring at the girl like she’d just committed a crime. The compliment wasn’t the issue—it was the fact that now even more people were looking at you. Not just guys, but girls too, all admiring the way you looked like something out of a fairytale. His. Girl.

"You hear that, Rafe? I look adorable!" you repeated, bouncing slightly as you looked up at him expectantly, waiting for him to agree.

Rafe barely acknowledged the other girl before he was tugging you closer, his fingers pressing against your lower back. "Yeah, bunny. I heard," he muttered, his voice tight.

The girl giggled at his grumpy tone, shooting you a knowing look before turning back to the concert. You, however, were still staring up at him, pout forming at his lack of enthusiasm.

"You’re being all grumpy," you huffed, lips pressing into a soft little pout. "Why?"

Rafe exhaled sharply through his nose, his hand smoothing over your hip before tugging at the bottom of your skirt, as if that would make it any longer. "You’re really askin’ me that?"

You blinked, confused. "Yeah…?"

He sighed, leaning down so his lips brushed against your ear, his voice low enough that only you could hear. "Bunny, you’re standing in the middle of a packed crowd in that dress, looking like you were made to be touched," he murmured. "And you don’t get why I’m grumpy?"

Your cheeks warmed, a shiver running down your spine at his tone. But you still didn’t really get it.

"But it's just a cute dress," you murmured, looking down at the pastel pink fabric, fingers brushing over the lace. "It’s not that short…"

Rafe made a low, disbelieving noise in his throat before shaking his head. "Christ, bunny. You really don’t see it, do you?”

You peeked up at him, wide-eyed, and his grip on your waist tightened.

"Doesn't matter," he muttered. "You’re staying right here. No one’s touching you."

You blinked, then shrugged, satisfied with his answer. "Okay, Rafe," you hummed, pressing yourself against his chest, as if you weren’t already practically in his skin.

Rafe sighed, pressing a kiss to your temple before shifting his stance, his body forming a barrier around you. Because fuck no—you weren’t walking out of here looking like this for anyone else to see.

For now, though, he let you sway and sing as if the world around you wasn’t filled with people who didn’t deserve to even glance at his girl.

[coco-loco-nut]

007

pairing: oscar piastri x reader

summary: meeting your soulmate in the paddock isn’t unusual for F1 drivers, but oscar’s certainly leans on the unusual side

a/n: sorry if it’s a bit of the mess! i’ve been trying to write my way out of writers block

masterlist part two requests open

_____________

You are crazy, you have to be. At least, that’s what Oscar thought when he watched the mark on his arm change for the third time that day. You put yourself in more danger than he does, and that says a lot. It wasn’t always that way, not until five years ago when it became more and more frequent. The shared talent he gets from you is no help. Analytical and multilingual, you could be anyone. Based on how often you are in danger for long stretches, he is a little sure that you are a mobster. Being able to speak Russian and Italian fluently doesn’t help with the whole mobster thing.

You didn’t know what to think of your soulmate. At first you assumed he was a criminal, the meter on your arm only shifting to danger for a relatively short period of time for a few weeks. However, it has become regular, throwing you off. Maybe a weekend adrenaline junkie? No, probably organized crime. Besides, you are skilled at driving fast, and what adrenaline junkie has a talent for fast driving.

“We have intel that there will be a deal made at the Belgian Grand Prix. Both parties are guests of Sauber as to not draw suspicion. Everything you will need is in this file, a car will pick you up tonight, good luck,” you anxiously sit through your briefing.

You have been tracking a crime ring for the past year and a half, putting yourself in all kinds of compromising positions just to get information. Formula One though, that’s new to you. You have seen some things from former partners who followed it, but you weren’t interested.

It isn’t uncommon for crime groups to use large events for “networking.” It is under the guise of their shell companies. You studied your character ruthlessly, knowing your cover inside and out.

The race approached much quicker than you’d like. The situation isn’t helped by a weird feeling in your stomach. Not nerves, but something else. You shake it off, the mission is what is important. The paddock awaits, and you have a limited striking time.

Oscar was on edge. Something felt off, even though he went through his race routine like always. He did have a questionable pastry, but there wasn’t any mold, so it was okay. He slides his sleeve up, looking at the meter on his arm. Lando doesn’t miss how his teammate’s face paled.

“You okay?” Lando asks, trying to catch a glimpse of the meter on Oscar’s arm.

“Yeah, just realized I forgot to call my sister,” Oscar lies. He’s a little scared for the day he meets you. What kind of mobster commits crime on a Sunday? Maybe you got taken by an enemy, got caught sneaking around. Logan always told him that he was crazy for assuming his soulmate is a criminal, but all signs point to it. Some fresh air is what he needs.

“Why don’t we take a walk?” your target says as you flash a charming smile, anything to get information. It helps that the conversation is in Russian, adding to confidentiality of everything.

You feel a deep pull, like a yearning, as you agree to the walk. You brush it off, the mission is top priority.

“Can you provide some more benefits of the… investment,” you are a little unsure of what to call it. You are keenly aware of the weapons strapped to the side of your target. You weren’t expecting to be meeting with an enforcer, making the job trickier.

“Perhaps. I will if you can answer this question,” you feel your anxiety spike as you keep a calm and cool demeanor. The pull increases and it takes every ounce of will to keep yourself focused. You got most of the information you need, but you need to fish for more. You don’t really notice the target turning you into a quieter part of the paddock.

Oscar lets his feet lead the way, a little out of it. He doesn’t really notice you ahead, tucked in a relatively secluded alley of the paddock. He’s always been able to sneak around, a blessing in times like this.

“Who invited you to the meeting,” he asks, and you internally breathe a sigh of relief. Your team scanned through the information to make sure there was nothing included to trip you up, and this is something that was deemed clear.

“Peter,” you say a little too confidently, and that’s when you notice him reach for the knife on his side. You also notice the civilian looking at his soulmate meter rather than where he is walking, and at that moment it spikes further into the danger. The brief distraction is enough to put you at a disadvantage. You shove the stranger behind you, getting him out of the way as you. Sparks fly as you touch him, but you don’t pay any mind to it. Eyes trained on the target, you do everything you can to avoid being stabbed as you pull out your own knife.

Oscar feels a twinge on his arm and slides up the sleeve, looking at his mark. He feels himself get yanked, and he turns his attention to the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen. He takes a few steps back into safety and watches. Every alarm bell in his mind tells him to run away, but he can’t seem to walk away.

You kick the knife away, quickly working to disarm the target and press him against a wall, your own knife to his throat. You subtly activate your tracker, getting discreet backup.

“Tell me who runs the operation. Now.” you snarl in Russian, slightly putting pressure on his neck with the knife. The target spits beside you, you press further. “I recommend you don’t mess with me if you want to be alive.”

The information you want comes flowing out as you take a little pleasure at the fear in his eyes.

“There, happy? Let me go,” the target says and you smile wickedly. Dropping your act now would only hurt you, so you let him think you are part of a rival crime ring.

“Not quite,” you flip him around so he is facing the wall. You sheathe the knife, using your weight to brace him to the wall. “It’s a shame I couldn’t spill some blood, oh well,” you play your role, speaking in a bored yet maniacal tone. Your backup arrives and takes over for you, arresting the target.

As the adrenaline fades, you remember the guy lurking behind you. You feel the heat of anger flare up. Couldn’t he see you were dealing with something dangerous? Why wouldn’t he turn around and walk away.

Oscar can’t help but feel happy that he finally has your attention, and if the pull he feels and the danger levels that his arm displays is any indication, he just met his soulmate. Plus, you speak multiple languages, who else would he get that from that’s in the immediate vicinity. He opens his mouth to speak but you cut him off.

“Are you stupid! What are you doing walking in on that? And sticking around? That was a very dangerous situation, you know,” you fume, not looking at him, too busy firing off angry texts to your commander.

“I was right, my soulmate is a criminal,” Oscar says, a little shocked.

“That guy was your soulmate? Tough luck,” you can’t help but laugh a little. You look at him for the first time and feel your heart beat quicken as every instinct is drawn to him.

“No, you are,” Oscar says as your eyebrow quirks, as if you don’t believe him. And you don’t believe him, it isn’t in your nature.

“Well, I’m not a criminal. Sorry to break it to you. Besides, I know that my soulmate is a criminal, so unless you have a dark side, you aren’t him,” you brush it off, still ignoring the intense pull towards the brunette who is creeping closer to you.

“But-“

“Look, I gotta go,” you quickly take a once over of him, ready to look him up when you are back to safety. You disappear almost into thin air, leaving Oscar confused.

“Oscar? What are you doing here? Is that blood?” Logan stares at his friend.

“I think I just met my soulmate,” Oscar says, a little flabbergasted. Now he knows where his talent for being stealthy comes from. He wonders if you got his driving ability.

“Right. That doesn’t explain blood. You know what, you need to get ready for the drivers parade,” Logan shakes his head, helping his friend get back on track.

Oscar Piastri. That’s who Google tells you that you encountered. He’s handsome, you will admit that. A quick research tells you everything you need. Your soulmate, in fact, was not a criminal. A minor win in your mind.

After your paperwork and evidence submission, you know you can’t return to Sauber, so you choose to walk around instead. A change of clothes and hairstyles helps to hide your identity.

You easily slip into the McLaren motorhome, it is a little sad how easily you have gotten past Formula One’s security. You wait in Oscar’s drivers room for him, feeling uncomfortable and nervous. You don’t like the feeling.

Your job is too dangerous for a soulmate, you’ve seen how devastating it is for those whose soulmate never returns from a mission. You couldn’t do that to someone, so why do you find yourself needing to see Oscar again.

Oscar feels the now familiar tug as he gets out of his car, and he’s never been happier to get P4. He makes his way to his room as quickly as possible, rush in through his post-race procedures.

“You’re here. How are you here?” Oscar sees you leaning against the wall of his drivers room.

“It is embarrassing how easily I can get past the security here,” you have a hint of a smile on your face.

“So, if you aren’t a criminal, who are you?” Oscar swallows, a little nervous. His only knowledge of you is that you are highly dangerous and semifrequently in danger.

“I can’t tell you that. Brilliant race today, maybe I will actually watch one for once,” you walk towards him, and he feels his heart leap in his chest. You slip a card into his hand as you head to the door. “Oh, and thanks for the driving skills. It’s gotten me out of quite a few situations,” you smirk, disappearing once again. Oscar looks down at the card in his hand.

Y/n L/n. Special Services.

In neat penmanship you wrote down a series of numbers, and a note to burn the card after saving the number. Oscar races to the window that overlooks the only exit of the building, but you had already disappeared into the crowd.

[phantasmicfish]

Just some more Dune Part 2 things that I thought were interesting with a specific focus on Feyd-Rautha:

- just… the way that he’s so very accurately portrayed as a psychopath adds a level of grit I didn’t get reading when the book

- the scenes with him and Lady Fenring got me good. The book mentions that he finds her attractive, definitely echoed in the movie. There weren’t explicitly written scenes in the book of how Lady Fenring slept with him (but this was confirmed through dialogue), so I liked the movie’s interpretation of her luring him using her Bene Gesserit abilities

- I would have liked to see Feyd-Rautha tested by the Gom Jabbar the same way Paul was. In the book (and I think part 1 of the movie?) it’s specified that Paul has endured the most amount of pain anyone can handle from the test, but given that movie Feyd-Rautha seems canonically a sadist + masochist, I wonder how long he would have lasted?

- overall the vibe and aesthetic of the Harkonnen’s was terrifying and great. The black and white visuals, dimly lit rooms, flashing lights… There are a lot of different villains in Dune, especially in Part 2 — The Emperor, Jessica — but the most clear-cut ones by far are the Harkonnens. I think the visuals definitely amplify that. I find it rather interesting that the Harkonnens are portrayed to be evil as an entire house. The fact that they all had bald heads gave them a mass identity, served to make them seem more alien and less human, all capable of committing heinous crimes. Even Feyd-Raytha’s servants or whoever eat human organs

- I think it was an interesting choice to have Feyd-Rautha actually stab Paul during their final fight. We have a character who people think is the messiah. And then we see the blade actually hurt Paul, penetrate his skin, we see Paul gasping for breath, we see Paul struggling for survival. I believe the book made the fight seem more cut-and-dry, that Feyd was a formidable opponent but he didn’t actually stab Paul (though he does draw blood). So I sorta felt the fight was a good contrast between showing Paul as still human while he maintains this cult status. I could see how his ability to survive this fight, despite his injuries, also elevate his messiah status among the Fremen

[retiredteabag]

Unknown Rivals

Pairing: Sukuna x Reader

Synopsis: There was only one thing worse than being paired with Sukuna for an important school project, and that was realizing the slacker somehow had a higher class standing than yourself.

Tags: Academic rivals, enemies to eventual lovers, type A reader, anxiety, college!au

pt. 1 - pt. 2 - pt. 3 - next part

One thing was for sure about the past weekend, and that was the fact that your advisor knew not to assign you any future classes with this monster of a man.

You had three finals coming up, one of which came in the form of a presentation. And you had yet to practice said presentation and your partner scheduled that particular event at the most inconvenient of times. The whole endeavor was drawing a lot of your current anxiety. Of course, you didn't ask to reschedule.

You had looked over the combination of slides in your PowerPoint, waiting by the day for Sukuna to finalize his speaker notes, and everyday your distress only grew.

It was not uncommon for the dunning kruger effect to take hold of the arrogant men in your lectures. He may have brought up concerns about your own public speaking ability, but you have yet to see the man speak in full sentences before anyone.

Over inflated head, self-important, Oscar Wilde level egomaniac-

The class's presentations were split into two groups; the first half of the class would present on Thursday, and the latter half, on Friday. You were one of the unfortunate teams that would go first.

The nerves were getting to the point of being sickening every time you passed the auditorium. The hollow heartbeat swelled in your chest and you felt nauseated. Too soon, you would be in there, on that stage, stood beside that arrogant prick.

Being one of the first groups to speak might be better than having to be last; just get it over with... still, it wasn't great for gauging the audience, competition, or topics.

You were to present before the faculty, classmates, and employers looking for interns.

Maybe Sukuna had been correct. Yes, you could be "anal about this stuff", sure, but you had put too much money into your education to not put in equal effort. Since when was it a crime to try?

For the fifth time that week, you looked over his slides...still, no speaker notes on the later half.

He did look like the type to wing it. Read the SparkNotes and assume he could sound intellectual with the insertion of pauses and emphasis on basic information. For a normal assignment, a professor might be non the wiser, but for something as important as this final? He needed to know his stuff.

And what then, if he was asked a question? What if he didn't prepare? What if he crashed and burned? The smoke would affect you too.

That's why you find yourself waiting inside a private study room in the library that Wednesday. You had arrived right on time to the room you had reserved and were unpacking the contents of your bag when a pack of giggling students retched the door open.

There was a moment of silence that passed between all before you cleared your throat, "Sorry...I reserved this room..." the group looked around at each other, making pouty faces.

Eventually one of them spoke up, "Do you really need it?" They all shared a pitiful look, "Theres a lot more of us, we really need the room..."

You stood there for a moment, expecting someone in their friend group to have a speck of sense. It quickly became clear that none of them did, "Right... well, I'm sorry but I need the room too."

"Every other room is reserved by a group, this room is just you." One of them pointed out, speaking far too loudly to have the door open to the library stacks.

"I'm here to work with my project partner." You huffed, as if that made a difference. The room was yours! There was no way you were going to back down. You would be presenting tomorrow and needed a space to practice. "That's why I reserved the space."

They make faces as if you have committed some kind of hate crime, throwing their arms in the air in offense. "Your partner isn't even here, can't we just use it? You could literally go anywhere else."

The group nods at the boy who spoke up, fully supporting his argument as if he just slam-dunked you with a killer 2AR. You sigh looking down to check the time on your phone. If Sukuna wasn't here, you might as well just leave. Who’s to say he’ll come anyway?

You weigh your options, he hadn’t responded to your email this time either.

"Pretty sure it's you who can go anywhere else."

He wasn't loud, but his voice rang with conviction. Speak of the devil. You look away from your watch and observe his effect on the group.

Sukuna pulled the door back wider, he stood at least a head taller than the largest among them, and while he was never found with a smile on his face anyway, he looked particularly harsh in this moment.

"Can't we just-" one of the girls leaned into Sukuna, grabbing his bicep, "take the room?" She smiled sweetly, tracing an index finger over his arm, "There's a lot of us, you know?"

Sukuna practically jolts off of her, tearing his arm out of her grasp, and making a twisted face in the group's direction. "Get offa me." He moves through the rest of the students, tossing his bag onto the table with a bang.

You make brief eye contact before he watches you turn to see the pack of freshmen resolutely standing in the doorway. He swings back, rolling his eyes, "Now get out."

There wasn't any room for argument in his tone. The lot of them huffed and griped but made no real fuss as they crossed their arms and whispered insults. The door slowly slid shut.

You plug your laptop into the adapter, muttering, "Good to see you've finally showed up."

"I didn't have an attitude when you were late to the library."

He just stands there. Unzipping his bag on the ovular table in front of the projector.

You look at him, recalling that day well, you want to snip at him again but you cant help the short, somewhat shocked, laugh you let out.

He walks to the other side of the room, pulls out his notebook and looks at the screen. "So are we practicing, or what?"

"Oh, we're practicing, all right." You mutter to yourself.

You bring out the sheet from the first week you met in the library. It outlined the topics that each of you would need to cover. You open up the PowerPoint and turn to look at him, comfortably sitting down.

"We should probably start with introductions."

"We roleplaying this?" He sat with his legs spread on the swivel chair, arms crossed.

"You were the one who asked to practice." You point out, motioning for him to get up. "At the presentation, the students will have nametags, but we should still open up with a greeting so they know who to call on for questions."

He sighs, lifting himself from his seat like it took a great effort, he stood beside you, looking to his mock audience, he points to himself,

"Sukuna, Ryomen." Then he turns to look at you, jutting out his thumb in your direction, and as if it is the most natural thing in the world, calls out your full name.

It was so strange, you got caught searching for words. You had no idea he knew your name. If there was one thing obvious about Sukuna, it was his blatant dislike of his peers. It wasn't uncommon to see him rolling his eyes, or avoiding the fellow students that followed him around all the time.

"Right, okay, we'll smooth out that part later, for now, lets focus on the first few slides." You lean down and point out the screen of your laptop, "I'll go first. I’ll give my thesis as a roadmap for my information, then you can do yours."

You turn your face to the side, expecting him to still be standing behind you, listening to your explanation, but pull back in alarm to find his face right beside yours, he was focused on what you were pointing out on the slide.

You jolt back, taking a moment to regain your thoughts, "…I’ll get into my half and allow for a segway into yours.” He follows your motion, standing straight. “We'll have clickers.” You continue, “Let's just say that whoever finishes explaining the slide will be responsible for clicking to the next one, okay?"

He was so watchful, it was unnerving. Had he always been like this? Seeming bored, he gives you a nod. "Sure."

The following two hours flew by. It was actually nice to not have to dance around issues, you could be confrontational and know he wouldn't get offended. He was well versed in his area of the presentation, easily paraphrasing what he wanted people to grasp from his slides. It wasn't until he sat down, asking you to present for him that you started having issues.

"What?" He leaned back in his chair, spinning slightly, "Give your speech, do it like I'm the audience."

"No." You huff, "not if you don't." You point at him.

"I'll do it, but you go first, you we're the one who wanted to start us off anyway." He’s brought this on you somewhat out of nowhere.

You look around the room, feeling suddenly anxious. You had practiced both you and Sukuna’s parts to the point of near memorization. You had recorded your speaker notes and listened to them before bed nightly. You knew what to say. But you were feeling suddenly…shy?

"Don't act like I've put you on the spot," He waves a hand, "We're here to practice."

"I know." You look at your shoes, feeling small, stupid. It was embarrassing to have him watch you. He just screamed judgment. You huff, "Fine. Turn around."

He looked almost insulted at the notion. "What? No."

"Would you just do it?"

Assuming he wouldn’t complain, you wait for him to turn. He just squints at you,"I knew you worried over nothing but do you have stage fright too or something?" Sukuna leans down, elbows on his knees.

You didn't really know what the issue was. Performing on stage, you could probably disassociate long enough to not feel so uncomfortable, but here, alone, with only his eyes to see you, it was different somehow. "No...maybe... I don't know."

"Well." He shrugs, "Now's a great time to shake off those nerves. Go on, I'm sure you have all your information down."

He motions your way, and you force yourself to go over your work, starting from the top. You try to focus on your cadence, intonation, and scripted pauses from your recording. You turn to look in the corner of the room, mimicking the intentional body language you had meticulously practiced in front of your bathroom mirror.

You spent the time expressing what you would say rather than pretending to teach him. Having already used the room for hours, you simply focused on the main points of contention, explaining your slides with practiced ease. Once you finished, you moved onto his starting slide and cantered passed him to one of the opposing chairs.

He did not take your cue, getting up to present, however, opting instead to open his body language, "I woulda thought you had a script in front of you."

"Like you said, I actually know my information." You snark, huffing out a breath you hadn’t known you’d been holding. Starting to become tired and stressed at the idea of the upcoming exams.

He simply rolled his eyes as the suggestion that he might not, "You can't make eye contact."

He was speaking as if stating a fact. Your brows furrow, having been doing exactly that what he said you apparently couldn’t do. "When you're presenting, you don’t look at me" He continues. "It's weird, you have no problem with watching people but when you know that someone is watching you, you can't seem to acknowledge it."

Your mouth twists into a mock smirk; he reminded you in that moment of your previous first-year psych student roommate, who genuinely believed themself a genius among feckless plebs.

"When we're on stage, we won't be making eye contact with anyone really-" You were about to defend yourself before being interrupted.

"See. You’re doing it again. You can't look at me." He narrows an accusing finger in your general direction. Moving to stand, he grabs the clicker off the table and shifts into a teasing tone. "Here's how it's done."

You were still somewhat reeling from him pointing out a habit you didn't even know you were taking part in. Wondering suddenly if others had noticed it and if so, why nobody had said anything.

You felt suddenly irked and wanted to prove to him that, no, you very well could make intentional eye contact with someone making a point to notice you.

It was a grueling task, and, as you would find out, your brain seemed to be sending every 'I am uncomfortable' signal to your body while attempting it. You couldn't seem to stop swallowing, voluntarily blinking, or forcefully making your hands stop moving.

All these small tasks took up some serious mental effort but despite that, you were still able to take in his oratory skills.

For a man so lacking in the interpersonal communication sphere, he presented with poise, confidence, and knowledge on his subject. He paced himself well and it almost seemed as though his speech was conducted in a way that made note-taking ideal. He seemed aware of his space and motioned accordingly.

When he wasn't gesturing or looking back at the slides, he was looking at you, as if he was lecturing you with the information you had tirelessly slaved over when studying his speaker notes.

And on the topic of speaker notes? He totally strayed from them! He didn't even follow the same roadmap that you had seen nights before. You hated it, but none could deny, he was still a compelling speaker. You couldn't make a sensible complaint because of how undeniably well he spoke.

Besides, what kind of anal, control-freak, dictator of a school partner memorized someone else's speaker notes?

The issue arose in you suddenly that Sukuna doesn't need to make an effort like you do. He doesn't care to, he simply has the confidence in himself. He seemed to hold no anxiety and no care for how he was perceived. The only issue was, these types often flunked out of school, and here he was thriving.

While he wrapped up his slides, he crossed his arms over his chest, pointedly looking your way.

You think back to your previous interactions, Sukuna must see himself as so terribly generous, allowing you the time of day to practice with him. He likely thought the concept stupid. And worse? His efforts didn't ease your nerves, and they did not qualm your worries.

Your thoughts are cut off by the brisk striking of his knuckles on the table. You look up at him, "Get out of your thoughts." He slides past you to his bookbag, putting away a notebook. "We're in good shape."

You aren't sure what to say. You don't feel like you're in good shape but you don't want to discourage him, not that you thought it possible for him.

Before he slips out of the door, you turn to him, "I'm going to send you a list of mock questions so you can prepare some answers." He wouldn’t look at the email, you were sure.

He snorted a laugh, "Good to know you were paying attention."

And he was gone.

--

Sukuna was not terribly fond of school, that is, in the typical sense. He did enjoy learning and was dedicated to his area of study, sure, but being around people? He found it exhausting.

You hadn't stuck out to him, but it was hard to not notice you. You sat in the front of every single lecture, pristinely on time. You were one of the students that the professor felt inclined to call on. And he saw you in the library, often.

It was not until he had been enlisted as your partner for the practicum that he started to see why you had taken his notice.

At first, he shook it off, thinking himself crazy, but after three sessions in the library, it was clear what it was. You reminded him of someone.

You were just like his nephew.

Wednesdays and Fridays in the library, you would be rambling on about something, going over the expectations for the project draft, explaining the sources you wanted him to utilize, and he would be listening, sure, but he would be seeing Yuuji.

The little boy was a little shit, and despite being wildly more extroverted that yourself, he too was nervous about everything.

Sukuna was like a second parent to the boy, and as much as he would complain, he wouldn't change it for a thing.

It was weird, to see the kid in you. At first he stocked you up as a try-hard, but in reality, he assumes you're just scared. You really are just like that little boy.

--

You did not sleep well last night. You got to bed early but you simply couldn't slip away. And when you finally did pass over into restless sleep, you were promptly woken up by your own hyperactive consciousness.

You checked the clock each time. Had you really set that alarm? You would go over your script and the more you did, the sicker you felt. You craved more time to practice, you craved for your body to stop jittering with nerves, you craved to just fall asleep damn it!

After a few more hours of waking only to have found rest in literal minute increments, you arose. Dressed yourself and began to get ready.

Everything around you spoke of a good day, the weather was perfect, you looked great, and you had all the rehearsed information at the ready.

Still, internally, you couldn't reach peace.

Once you arrived at the auditorium, you spotted your professor and retrieved your nametag from him. Sukuna was no where to be found which only added to your panic. You paced in the box, the private room for speakers, behind the theater, and repeatedly touched your hair.

Even with potential hours to go, you were feeling overwhelmed, you were at the point of wishing you could just go first and be done with it all.

You were squeezing water out of a thin paper towel and placing it on your neck when the door creaked open.

You flipped to him, "Where have you been?!" You hissed.

You had plenty of time before you would be introduced but you couldn't hide the frustration in your voice.

Sukuna was dressed in a Mandarin suit, he looked perfectly relaxed and the notion only fueled your anger. "I had a class..."

He comes forward and sets his (backup) flash drive on the circular table in the middle of the loge. "Well, why didn't you say that before?” You make an exasperated face and feel your heartbeat quicken, “And where is your nametage?"

Even you could hear the hysterical twinge in your voice, you took a deep breath and told yourself to relax. He didn't say anything, just raised his brows while reaching behind to retrieve the very thing from his back pocket.

Embarrassed, you tear the makeshift cloth from your neck and rush to sit on the couch. You scrap the towel to shreds before disposing of it.

"Everything's in order, we'll be alright." He didn't come to join you on the sofa but watched from the side of the box. He didn’t sound comfortable but he certainly seemed to believe his own words.

"It doesn't even really matter." You had been telling yourself this very thing for weeks when someone took notice of how concerned you were. Not a part of you believed it but you hoped the phrase would ease your mind anyway.

"Oh, it matters." Sukuna laughed.

You wanted to be mad, but in all reality, he was just saying what you knew, him lying would not have comforted you. He started to come over now.

"It just isn't so important that you need to kill yourself over it." You rolled your eyes, knowing what he was saying.

"If we bomb, then that's that, so what?" He tossed his hands up slightly.

You looked at him, and without even needed to study his face, you knew he meant it. He believed it. ‘So what?’ You roll the words around in your brain, shaking your head. You couldn't have stopped the words from escaping.

"I hate people like you." You mutter it, undertones of a laugh there, nothings amusing. "Seriously, I hate how you can just say that."

He isn't mad. The bastard grins, "Oh, trust me, I know."

And then he’s leaving the room. You don't have much time to wonder about what exactly he was doing. You hadn’t thought he would be upset at your declaration. Then again, you hadn’t exactly been thinking when you said it.

What had he meant, that he knew? I guess a guy like him just assumes everyone who isn’t perfectly relaxed at all times is a suck up.

When he returned, he was carrying water bottles and complimentary fruit from outside the auditorium doors. This time around he does come sit, right next to you.

"Have some."

You don't feel thirst but you still accept it when he cracks open the bottle for you. He places the fruit on the table before you both and takes a drink himself.

"I didn't really mean that, I'm just jealous of how you live." He's leaned back and his suit pants clung to his legs.

He purses his lips and shifts his head from side to side, smirking, Mmm, I don't know, I think you actually meant it."

You both chuckle, the nerves are still getting to you. "I still hate you for what you did earlier this semester." You lighten your voice but glance his way to show you do mean it.

He turns his head now, brow raised but still comfortably leaning against the back of the couch. "What did I do earlier this semester?"

You laugh, rolling your eyes. It takes him a moment before he sees you’re not gonna reply, "No, what did I do?"

"The whole beginning of this project." You muse. He still isn't catching what you're saying so you motion with your hands. "Our meetings, in the library? You never told me you were top of the class."

“Should I go out and advertise it?" He clearly isn't getting what you mean.

"No, Sukuna, it sucks because you never told me that you were well versed in the class material.” He still doesn’t seem to grasp the issue, “I’m saying, it made me feel stupid to find out that the guy I thought I was tutoring was actually competing with me."

"It made you feel stupid?"

"In a way. Like you were mocking me."

Sukuna frowns, he leans onto his knees. "I wasn't mocking you."

"You say that." You poke his shoulder and he looks at you quizzically.

In all actuality, it was nice to be able to tell him these things, you didn't feel that anger anymore. As of it had rolled off, only shame lingered.

"I never minded our sessions in the library. I guess it made things easier, you're so..." he reaches for the word,

“Anal?” You recount when he had called you that very thing.

He rolls his eyes, "Organized."

"Thanks." Your voice is low, sarcastic.

He shrugs. Some of the nerves have left you, but suddenly you're hearing voices in the auditorium, one specifically telling people to file in through the doors, and you know you'll be speaking soon.

He turns to look at you again, legs parallel to your own, his palms flat on his thighs, "You care too much about what others think."

He's doing that thing, that I'm-going-to-make-intentional-eye-contact-with-you-and-it-will-be-an-unspoken-comeptition-to-prove-you-can't-do-it thing.

"Maybe you're too carefree." You offer silently.

Soon, someone will come through the doors before you with mic packs and you'll have tape on your face. Your heart pounds. "You should feel okay without having to prove that you’re worthy of validation from others."

He reaches forward for his water bottle, voices can be heard above you, to your sides. People are taking their seats. "You're a smart girl."

And for the second time this week, he says your name and it feels just as strange as it had that first time. "And you didn't have to prove it for me to see it."

And with everything else occurring in this moment, you feel the most upset about the fact that the obnoxious Sukuna Ryomen might just bring unshed tears to your eyes.

You’re silent as you stand, brushing unseen dust off your clothing. Sukuna is stood there by the door that leads to the area behind the stage, his hand is outstretched.

You look around frantically, turning to find his clicker that he must have left on the table, but before you can start searching, he scoffs.

He leans forward and grabs your arm, spinning you gently. He robotically shows you his hand again and places your own in it.

Oh.

He tightens his encompassing palm around your own and makes a tugging sensation to pull you ahead of him through the door he held open.

People in the tech crew were setting everything up and called you each over to get your mics on.

When he lets you go, your hand twitches involuntarily.

You hadn’t realized how cold you were until you felt the warmth of his hand. And for some reason, you couldn’t think of much else as you got mic’d up, despite the ever growing voiced in the audience.

〰・♡・〰〰・♡・〰〰・♡・〰〰・♡・〰〰・♡・〰

Tags: @blueyesuguru @monimonster57 @p1nkfl0wers @giasssslife @csolya @esmedelacroix @sukubusss @v1sque @clp-84 @snowsilver2000 @blueemochii @bitchyfestivalbouquet @rodeorun @chosolovrrr @minethy

(if your name is here but you didn’t get tagged. I think it’s either because your blog is new/blank/empty where you need to check your privacy settings.) :[

[acynicalsweetheart]

Could you please write high school reader with daddy issues and meeting Jimmy. She lies to her mother to drop her off at a friend's house just to see Jimmy. He grooms her and thinks he has power over her when one day she drugs him ties him up and rapes him when he wakes up. +using a dildo on him for funsies :3

LYING WHEN I SAY (trust me) !

pairing: jimmy x fem!reader

word count: 3.9k

dead dove do not eat: 18+, non-con/rape, dub-con, grooming sort of, age gap, daddy issues, daddy kink, drugs, smoking, virginity loss

author's note: hai no dildo on jimmy unfortunately LMFAO did try to follow everything else tho.. umm this took forever and ending is very rushed and very ass.. it’s this long cause i felt i had to make it a fic for the grooming aspect so . yah. interaction/feedback appreciated!!

You’re on your way home when this strange, shady type you’ve seen lurking outside of your school walks up to you. Is this it? The last moment of your life, the end, kaput? Okay, paranoia’s getting the better of you, might just be a new janitor or something—

“You got a lighter?” He asks ever-so-casually. 

He’s… old. Real old. Like, fourty-something kind of old. 

“What?” 

“A lighter?” He makes a gesture with his hand, pretending to draw a lighter flame with his thumb. 

“Umm… no,” why the hell would you have a lighter? “No I—I don’t, sorry.”

You didn’t think you looked that old. Or like you smoke, for that matter. It’s kind of hard to take offense to his words though, when he’s that cute. Cute in a hobo sort of way. 

“Fuck,” he curses under his breath, hand gliding down his rough face like you not having a lighter is the worst thing since Elvis. 

Is this what they call withdrawal? 

“But I think they have some at the store.” You point your finger down the street, giving him a once-over and - for safety - deciding to add, “they’re cheap.”

“Forget it.” He tells you sternly, dismissing you with a wave of his hand like you’re cigarette smoke before walking away—opposite direction to the store. 

You’re left there standing awkwardly, shifting your weight across your feet. Body moving before you have time to think, you trail after him. 

“I can buy them for you, if you want,” ‘cause you’re a pushover and a people pleaser and an idiot all at once. 

He scoffs, glances at you over his shoulder. “You think they’re gonna let a little girl like you buy lighters?” 

“Well, I…” You can’t tell if he’s angry with you or if his face just naturally looks like that, pulled into a perpetual scowl. 

“Just take ‘em,” he shrugs. 

“Can’t you take them?” He might look broke, but surely—

“I would, if I was still allowed in the stores.”

“Oh.” You bite your lip, looking down at your shoes. That’s unbelievably hot. Is he a felon or something? 

“Yeah. Oh.”

And so maybe you do end up taking a lighter, casually shoving it into your pocket and walking out of the store, egged on by a man you were convinced was the school janitor. You actually still aren’t sure if he is or not. 

He leads you to some lightly secluded street. The sun’s setting and you should really get back home. 

“Umm, here…” your hands shake when you hand it over, fingers brushing against his callused ones. “Mister—”

“Jimmy.” He grabs the lighter like it was his all along, like you didn’t just feel your heart falling out of your ass when you committed an actual crime for him. 

“Jimmy,” you try out his name carefully, syllables rolling off your tongue in a way that tells you you’re meant to be. 

“You know, since you were such a good girl for me,” Jimmy pulls out a cigarette from a package you didn’t know he had and holds it out for you to see. “Why don’t we share one of these?”

It takes a minute for you to get back on earth. 

“Oh, I don’t… do that,” you scratch the back of your head, knowing all too well that you’d get a third degree ass beating if your mom knew. “Smoke, I mean.”

“Had my first cig at nine, you’ll be fine,” Jimmy says nonchalantly with the cancer-stick hanging from his lips, his gaze pressing you subtly as he glares up at you. “First time for everything.”

He’s too irresistible and you don’t want to seem like a pussy in front of the only cool, older guy to ever pay you attention. 

So you give in. Lord help you.

“O—okay, umm,” you awkwardly take a seat on the pavement next to him, too scared to look him in the eye. “I don’t really know how to.”

“You know how to use a lighter, don’t you?” You wonder how many cigarettes he’s smoked to get his voice this rough. If it gets rougher for every cigarette. 

“Yes…” Your experience goes as far as having only ever used matches to light candles. 

Hands still shaking like crazy, you struggle to light his cigarette. Jimmy scoffs and you shrink.

“There.” 

Once you finally muster up the courage to look at him, it’s clear how unimpressed he is. 

“Saw what I did there? You gotta inhale like this,” Jimmy takes another drag and you feel a cough building up in your chest just by watching. “Try it,” he blows out, hands over the smoke.

“Okay…” Jimmy helps you hold the cigarette like he’s your father and you’re his baby and the dart is a spoon. Well, you weren’t wrong about the coughing. 

“No, no,” for the first time since you met, his upside-down mouth goes upwards and your heart skips a beat. “Gotta do it twice, so you feel it here,” Jimmy presses his palm to your chest, accidentally brushing his fingertips against your breasts in the process. 

“Oh.” You almost moan, thankfully covered up by your coughs.

Jimmy helps you till you get it right, till there’s no cigarette left to be smoked. He doesn’t even put it out, just drops it onto the ground. 

“Better keep this a secret from mommy, huh?” 

Heat of embarrassment spreads across your face like a wildfire of some sort, and you freeze up. It’s like Jimmy can see right through you. 

“Yeah…” you reply quietly, playing with your fingers. 

But maybe you end up having your first kiss that evening, exchanging cigarette-flavoured spit with a stranger whom you met only a couple of hours ago. Maybe you let his hand trail further up your thigh than what was appropriate. 

And maybe you keep coming back for more. 

Hanging out with Jimmy becomes a regular part of your schedule. The secrecy of it is even more of a thrill—feels just like those colourful pills he shows you that make you feel as if you’re on another planet.  

Mommy dearest doesn’t know a thing, and daddy dearest… Well, Jimmy’s pretty much the closest thing you have to a daddy dearest. 

He’s so different and so cool and you feel so ashamed that you let him touch you and kiss you. 

Jimmy’s your new world—he shows you these grassy things that you can roll and smoke like cigarettes and make you all dopey. He shows you this trashy, thrashy music that makes your ears hurt, not just ‘cause it’s that loud but ‘cause it’s that bad. He shows you that fingers can go in holes and places you never knew, that mouths can go where nobody is allowed. 

He shows you fun. You think you’re in love. 

You think you should die.

Jimmy finishes up rolling his joint, exhaling the smoke right in your face once he’s lit it. “You know, you should call me Daddy while we try it.” 

It. The new thing. For you, obviously. The fuck, the sex, the cherry-popping. Jimmy can practically smell your virginity on you. 

“You can—you can… do that?” You question meekly, gaze zeroing in on his blunt, too scared to look him in the eye. Too scared to say a sentence properly around him, really. “I mean, it’s not wrong? It… feels kind of wrong, it’s what you call your dad.”

“Knew a guy who called his girlfriend mom in bed.” And that guy is Jimmy, a couple of months ago actually. Not his proudest moment. But what’s done is done. 

“Eww,” you snort like he’s told a joke. 

After a moment of awkward silence and two guitar solos from the background music, Jimmy puts the dart down, letting the fugly thing sit and burn on a makeshift ashtray in the form of a plate. After 30 years of smoking you’d think he’d be better at getting them to look fucking decent at the very least. 

“So? You’re gonna let me fuck you?” Jimmy asks into your neck, kissing it lazily so there’s less of a chance of you turning him down. 

“I… don’t know, Jimmy.” You say so quietly he has to physically exert himself to hear you. Shouldn’t have. “I mean, we don’t really know each other that well and I—“ 

Way to ruin the mood.

He pulls away from your neck, groaning out of pure annoyance. “Come on, don’t be such a fucking milksop.”

“…What’s a milksop?” You ask, wide-eyed and newborn. 

God, you’re making Jimmy feel old. He has to deliberately simplify words when talking to you, speak in fucking baby phrases ‘cause you’re a baby and the only language you understand is goo-goo goddamn ga-ga. 

“Forget it,” he pinches his nose bridge and tries to not combust, “just let me do it. You didn’t come all the way here just so we could sit and listen to Pantera, did you?”

You look at Jimmy like he is speaking an ancient foreign language. 

Right. He forgot you’re not only incompetent but uncultured as well.

“You don’t even know how old I am, Jimmy, I could be—“ Off you go again with your incessant babbling. Just when are you going to realize that he doesn’t give a fuck? 

“You’re legal, aren’t you?” 

“Well yeah,” your head hangs lowly, the skin on your arms suddenly looking a lot more interesting so you start picking on it. “I am but, Jimmy, it’s like you don’t even care.”

Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy, in every fucking sentence. You want him so bad—you’re just too pussy to say it out loud, which is literally what he was trying to tell you. He’ll just simply have to show you.

Jimmy is overdue for some good ‘ol cherry-popping after all. 

Resuming his biting on your neck, he says things the way they are to hear you gasp. “That’s ‘cause I don’t.”

“That sounds naughty…” 

He almost bursts out laughing, keep talking like that and you’ll end up in a porno in no time. 

“You’ll let me do it,” Jimmy bares your tits, pulling your dress down, “won’t you, baby?” ‘Cause a pet name or two is all it takes to get you to melt. 

You’re pushed down onto the bed before you can even reply. Left in only your underwear before you can even blink. 

“Okay, Jimmy…” you say timidly. 

“Remember what I told you?” His fingers trail down your tummy till he finds your panties, the print and ribbon something you’re much too old to be wearing. 

“Daddy,” your voice gets stuck in your throat when he palms your clothed mound. “Yes, daddy,” you correct shakily.

And Jimmy’s fingers slide underneath the fabric, struggling to fit two in your pussy. You’re squeezing him so tight he thinks they might fall off and get stuck inside you. 

He doesn’t let you cum.

That’s an activity that takes place on Jimmy’s dick and nowhere else. 

Once your panties are off and you’re naked like the day you were born in front of him—dripping onto the sheets, Jimmy lazily pulls his cock out and you stare like it’s your first time ever seeing one.

“Like what you see?” It’s a rhetorical question, there’s a 95% chance that you’re judging him. Shit looks more like a wild animal than a dick if Jimmy’s being entirely honest. 

“Is it going to fit?” You’re blinking up at him with those awfully glossy eyes of yours. “Daddy,” you add a minute too late. 

“Don’t know,” Jimmy tells you honestly. 

He prods at your entrance, trying to find the right angle that will slide him right in after a nice little struggle. Your expression contorts every way, resembling a crumpled napkin more than your actual face. 

“Ouch, Jim—I mean, daddy,” your eyes and mouth are wide open, looking like Jimmy’s impaling you with a knife and not his dick. “It hurts.”

Dramatic much?

“It’s supposed to hurt,” he keeps pushing in, managing to get a quarter of his tip inside. “Nobody ever tell you that?”

“No…” you heave out, gripping onto his arms for dear life as he very choppily forces himself into your hole. 

Jimmy coos at you unenthusiastically, “poor little girl.”

(You are, probably never heard of sex till Jimmy mentioned it.)

He doesn’t let you get adjusted—immediately starting to fuck you harder, faster, rougher than one should a virgin. Jimmy’s popping your cherry, alright. Can even spot a thin red layer coating his dick already. 

“Ow, ow, ow,” you whimper under your breath with every thrust into your cunt. Kind of hilarious. 

“You like it.” It’s a statement, not a question. 

“I… like it,” you repeat with the most pained look on your face, tears pricking at your lash lines. 

Jimmy makes sure you feel all of his cock, drilling deep enough to feel your fleshy cervix ‘cause he’d like to hear you scream. 

“Daddy,” you kick your legs, pussy struggling to keep Jimmy’s dick inside you. “Oh, daddy.” Not quite a scream. 

“Yeah,” his eyes are glued to your stretched entrance, growing impossibly harder at the sight of your ruined pussy—ruined innocence. “Gonna make daddy cum already.”

“Not inside…”

Oh and now you’ve suddenly taken sex-ed classes? 

Jimmy keeps slamming his hips into yours, the sound of skin slapping echoing throughout the room, he can hear you loud and clear over it. Purposely letting his groans loose so you really get the hint. 

“Not inside, Jimmy, pleasepleaseplease not inside!” You claw anywhere and everywhere you can reach, trying to get him off. Didn’t he explicitly tell you to call him daddy?

“Huh?” His hips stutter against yours, movements turning sloppy as his balls tighten—readier than ever. “Can’t hear you, sweetheart.” 

Just a moment later, Jimmy cums inside, shoots like a fucking pistol—bullets in the form of sperm straight into your womb.

You start sobbing.

Jimmy’s never been good at comforting so he rubs your clit in consolation. 

“Better cum on daddy’s cock soon,” it’s like he’s speaking to a fucking brick wall. A crying, teenage-girl-shaped brick wall. “Getting pretty sensitive over here.” 

Can’t exactly tell with your hands over your face but Jimmy thinks you cum, ‘cause you squeal and push his dick out. 

Well, could’ve gone worse. 

“I don’t wanna get pregnant,” you whisper between sniffles after receiving the thickest creampie Jimmy has ever given anybody. Uh huh. 

He pulls out with a sloppy pop! and watches his cum mixed with your blood drip out of your gaping cunt, soaking through he’s sheets that he’s most definitely not going to clean. 

Jimmy’s been smoking and drinking since before he fucking grew balls, do you seriously believe that his sperm’s going to knock you up? If Jimmy became a sperm donor, the only thing he’d be giving out is strains of herpes—not babies. To put things into perspective. 

“Don’t worry ‘bout it.” He tucks his softening dick back into his pants, “a plan-B should do the trick.”

“Okay…” you’re crawled up like a frightened mouse—a naked frightened mouse, all sorts of questionable fluids leaking out of all your holes. “Okay, Jimmy.”

At least you seem to know what a plan-B is. Jimmy half-expected you to go but Jimmy I didn’t have a plan-B! I didn’t even want to sleep with you in the first place! in that whiny voice you do that makes him want to light himself on fire. 

And for safety’s sake—partly out of spite, “I heard they sell some at the store. Could get it for cheap.”

“You’re not gonna buy it for me?” You’re shaking like you have fucking hypothermia. 

He shrugs. Only time not being allowed in stores has ever been of a convenience to Jimmy. 

Once you’re dressed he ushers you out of his apartment that he hasn’t paid rent for in a couple of months. 

“Bye.” Jimmy says slackly, pushing you out of the threshold to his place. 

“But—“ you start frantically, confusion written all over your features.

He shuts the door in your face. Locks it, twice. 

Through the peephole of his door, Jimmy can see how you’re limping like a lamb born yesterday on the way out. He bets your mommy ain’t gonna be too happy about that. 

You’re so sick and tired of Jimmy treating you like shit. How is he allowed to do that and get away with it? Every single time. 

He’s a sad sack of pure sleaze and you can’t believe you let him take your virginity all those months ago. 

You sneak into his place unnoticed because he’s such a sad sack of pure sleaze that he hasn’t even locked his door. He’s asking for it. 

From the hallway you can see that his glass is empty. Jimmy’s rolling one of those grassy things again, watching the TV and listening to his shitty music. You haven’t even seen Jimmy’s face yet but you know that he looks thirty years older every time you do. 

Disgusting.

You’ll sleep with him one last time. 

You trail into the kitchen with the stealth of an elephant, knocking over a lone empty beer can on the floor in the process, yet Jimmy doesn’t seem to notice. 

Rummaging through his cabinets, you’re reminded of this conversation between Jimmy and his really cute friend with a very unusual name that you can’t remember. Jimmy was telling him about the roofies he keeps in the fourth cabinet while his friend just laughed awkwardly. 

They should do the trick. 

Rohypnol reads the package, half of the pills are missing. Foul. But then again—this is Jimmy you’re talking about. 

You put a singular green oval pill in his drink, watching it dissolve and colour the alcohol a shade weirder. 

Jimmy groans from the living room and you scramble to hide underneath his table like a scared little kid. Your freak of a not-boyfriend - ‘cause he never did ask you out - actually drinks the shit in one gulp. 

After a moment he stumbles into his bedroom and you think he passes out ‘cause you hear obnoxiously loud snores echoing throughout the entire apartment. 

Guess this is your time to shine. And… fuck. 

Fuck, that word is so unnatural—so vulgar. And Jimmy uses it so casually. 

To embarrass him the way he’s embarrassed you countless times, you undress the entirety of Jimmy’s body apart from his feet—never his feet. 

You decide that restraining Jimmy might be for the better ‘cause he’s like a wild fucking rabid animal when he’s drunk. Actually, you don’t know if he is drunk but all for safety’s sake, right? 

You’re trying to make this as un-personal as it can be but Jesus he is hot. You just have to feel him up one last time. How there’s not one area that’s not covered in at least some hair, cute brown and puffy nipples, and his dick. 

The one that sits there sadly and all alone, giving you puppy eyes. 

Maybe it’s a miracle that Jimmy is soft so you can play with it for just a little. Maybe it’s a shame that Jimmy’s not awake to grab your hair and force you down all the way till you’re gagging and choking around him. 

Once he’s hard you slide off your panties and bare one of your tits ‘cause you’re feeling kind of bad for Jimmy against your will. How he’s the only one naked. 

Sliding down on his cock, it feels just like the first time—stings like hell. But this is your revenge after all so you suck it up. Bounce up and down until your slickness can’t keep quiet and is coating his length. 

It actually feels good when you’re the one in control for once. When you have time to adjust, to feel it inside you in a way that feels more like sex than getting stabbed repeatedly. 

Jimmy’s eyes do that weird back and forth thing that looks a little demonic—his body twitches like you’re an exorcist and not a technical rapist. He’s fighting against literal sedatives, it’s kind of funny. 

You keep riding him. 

All Jimmy remembers is thinking that he’s gonna get another drink and get back to his nice fucking joint before he very oddly lost consciousness. Shit was a real scare, thought he died and went straight to hell for a second. 

No—the real scare is that he’s awoken by a weight in his lap, a death grip around his dick like somebody’s trying to rip it off, and most importantly, you. 

You’re the weight in his lap, the death grip around his dick because of course you fucking are. 

“What the hell are you doing?” Jimmy asks very rightfully angry. Let a man smoke for fuck’s sake. 

Moving your hips back and forth like it’s your first time horseback riding, you counter with a half-aborted,  “shut—shut up, Jimmy…” 

Yeah, that’s real convincing. You can’t even get the words out without stuttering. Probably the first time you’ve ever told somebody to shut up in your life.

“No.” Jimmy is a man and men do not take orders from women let alone little girls. 

You slow your pace and Jimmy is about to push you off when he notices that he fucking can’t because he’s tied up like he’s in a torture chamber. 

Creativity must not be your strong suit seeing as you’ve used three of his belts and a pink sparkly jumping rope for his left foot. 

“Fuck,” he thrashes in your makeshift bondage fantasy come to life, “get off me, bitch.”

“No.” You tell him and force your polka-dot fucking panties in his mouth. 

They taste good so who’s really losing here? 

“I’ll kill you,” Jimmy tries to say with your underwear down his throat. It comes out inaudible and muffled and you fucking laugh. 

“Mmm, yes, kill me, Jimmy.” You run a cold finger down his chest, put on this sexy voice. “That’s so hot.”

He can’t tell if you’re joking or if you’re just being fucked up like always. 

“I’m serious,” it’s like he’s fucking chewing the fabric. 

“You’re sexist? That sounds right.”

Jimmy fucking gives up, flopping down all boneless onto the mattress and glaring at the ceiling ‘cause he can’t stand your face. “Oh my God.”

Contrary to what Jimmy’s saying and doing, he actually quite enjoys it. Well, he would have, were you a fraction of a better rider. This is exactly why you don’t let virgins stick around. Either way, he wants you to stop because you’re fucking embarrassing him—he’s stuck underneath you like a damn sissy. And you can’t even get him let alone yourself off. Should just fucking give up and let Jimmy take care of the raping. 

He’s been there, done that. 

He endures your clear first attempt at roofying for about five minutes until you force yourself to cum. You’re obviously faking it for whatever reason, squeezing out ooh’s and ah-ah-ah’s like a pornstar. 

“Fucking ugly slutbag,” Jimmy decides to add as his dick kicks inside you, a couple of more bounces away from filling you up the way he knows you like it. 

“Whatever you say, Jimmy.”

And your bitch-ass just gets up and leaves. Jimmy is stuck in your makeshift restraints, panties in his mouth and butt fucking naked. Ruined orgasm at that. Fucking cunt. 

He’s going to burn your goddamn house down. 

[thatnonameuser]

I am not sure if you have seen/remember abt the yandere purge AU. What if MC tries and sell the idea that in their world: yandere are more subtle and only has one day to "claim" their darling, World building stuff. Just an idea. Don't know if that makes it worse or better for the MC.

I have seen the yandere purge AU, and it does work in a yandereverse kind of AU. Obviously it would solve a lot of problems, and now darlings don’t have to live in fear everyday of the year, are going to be much less stressed, and less crime is committed overall. 

I feel as if it could only work if the yandere’s didn’t outnumber the number of darlings and normal people, because then it feels like an event done to uphold the peace. 

If the MC tries to sell the idea that this is a better way to have their darlings, then it’s more than likely going to catch on to the pro-darling rights areas like the Shaftlands and the Queendom of Roses. Those areas I imagine would have issues with certain crimes like murder, assaults and unlawful darling kidnappings.  So it would probably be able to catch on in those areas, because it's a more ‘civilised’ way of dealing with darlings.

Areas like the Afterglow Savanna and the Coral Sea are definitely areas where that won’t catch on. It’s common for crimes surrounding darlings to not be treated the same as the pro-darling areas unless it’s something severe like murder or violent abuse. 

The Briar Valley believes its treatment of darlings is fair and just, the darlings are kept safe, and the entire process of claiming and connecting darlings with their yanderes is already considered civilised. So they’re disillusioned with how their crimes are considered bad. So it’s a no for them. 

The Isle of Woe is a special case, the yanderes there rarely leave the Isle unless it’s to find their darlings, and the only people on the isle are the yanderes that already lived there and the darlings that were brought there. So it’s also a no. 

But keep in mind one little detail even if every nation was to put this into practice, then imagine all the untold horrors darlings experience on that day. Yes, darling kidnappings and assaults would be high. But also consider that some of the yanderes might spend the day without laws ensuring their darlings have no one to run back to. Or in some cases, no one to chase them. 

Murder would be high on that day, because yes, while it is a yandere purge, wouldn’t yanderes take the opportunity to get rid of some people that could later be threats. 

Imagine the fear centered around that one day, that might as well be Valentine’s day, for all those poor darlings, trying to fight to protect themselves. All the yanderes fighting to get their darlings and slay their rivals.  And their families try their hardest to protect their darling kin and aid their yandere ones. 

It would be better if you were the cause, you’d be able to prepare and plan. It would be worse if you weren’t.

If that was put into practice for the whole of TWST prior to  MC’s arrival, then maybe she would feel a lot safer. Because hey, it’s only one day that she’ll be in danger and Crowley’s going to find her way back possibly before that dreaded day. She doesn’t have to worry about endearing herself to them because she’s going to be back home before that day. 

But as the days tick down, and the day of the purge draws closer you start to realise how screwed you are. And then one month before that day, over twenty of those horrible red letters come in the mail. 

Each of them are different, some sweet and sappy like a love poem, others direct to the point about their plan of your capture, some are downright terrifying, incredibly detailed in either their plans, and about how no matter how hard you’d try to escape it would end in failure, or how they truly felt about their disturbing and obsessive love for you. 

At that point, you’d realise how screwed you were.  It would be worse than you could ever imagine since you would have no idea of what to expect, or what they were capable of. 

Either way, someone is going to lose. Whether it’s an easy loss or hard one, that’s just based on luck.

[gay-dorito-dust]

Have you ever think about Boothill, Sunday and Dan Heng with Foxian reader?

Poke ears and brush tail, they will do it with a smile while watching you squirm and face burn in embarrassed.

One of them will bury his face into your tail and sniff it gently, your tail is his pillow and teddy bear to hug.

Boothill:

This man would take one look at your ears and tail and automatically his mind is filled with ways he could -lovingly- get on your nerves. He’s just fascinated by the way they twitched and perk up at even the slightest of sounds, it was as cute as it was entertaining.

He’d even softly blow hot air against your ears and watches as they would twitch/ flinch at the sensation and how you’d try to hide your fluster expression behind your tail.

He loves getting you riled up and will not give it up for the life of him as it was just too much fun!

Boothill was shameless in his teasing and that was enough to make you flustered and he’s barely even touched you! He’d probably even used his shark like teeth to playfully chomp on your ears, drowning out your protests with his boisterous laughter.

Your tail is his personal pillow and his head is always buried deep within it 24/7. He’s nuzzling it, smelling it, kissing it and so much more that the crimes he committed against your tail and ears were astronomical.

Dan heng:

Had accidentally fell asleep on your tail once. Cuddling against it even and muttering under his breath about how ‘soft’ and ‘warm’ your tail was as he nuzzled his face into it with a small smile upon his face.

The moment you told him this the next morning, the poor man was embarrassed and flustered to the highest of heavens. He was about to profusely apologise for his actions when you waved him off and saying that it was pretty cute of him, before then telling Dan Heng that he was more then welcomed to do it again should he ever get tired.

He tries to reframe from doing so now but even he had to admit that at times it was just too tempting to pass up. And yet he still managed to find the will power within to not give in, he’s already made a fool out of himself once in front of you, he was not doing it again.

…until he does it again and cuddles up against your tail, purring as he once again smiles while doing so. You’ve decided not to mention any of this to him later on, and kept it as your little secret.

Sunday:

He’s the type to poke and prod at your ears and tail just to see you get flustered and squirm beneath his insightful gaze.

He finds you easy to tease but that never stops him from taking through enjoyment every time you fail to swat him away, or conceal your expression behind your bushy tail. After all His wings were pretty sensitive too but yet you still touched them with a mischievous smirk, so of course he’s going to want to get back at you for it.

It’s a game to him to see just how many expressions he could coax out of you within a certain time frame before leaving abruptly.

‘H-hey! Where are you going?’ You’d cry as you felt Sunday pull away from toying with your ears, watching on in confusion as he stood up from his seat, adjusted his clothes and began to walk towards the door.

‘I have a meeting soon and I do not wish to be late because I was indulging in…other things.’ He says as he looked over his shoulder with a wry smile at your expression, but you couldn’t help it! The way he spoke was only meant as a means to make everything that happened come off more intimate than it actually was!

You hated him sometimes for drawing reactions for you so easily but that was also something you admired too, and besides you did kinda start it but messing with his wings.

[firefly--bright]

forwards, beckon, rebound.

jean kirstein x fem!reader, modern a.u.

summary ; falling in love with jean kirstein was too easy. realizing and living with it, however, was more difficult than ripping your own heart out of your chest - veins and all. warnings ; unrequited? love, mentions of alcohol at the end, a little angsty. a/n ; im not doing well LMFAO its okay guys...its okay.... i have another thing im going to post tn before going on an undecidedly long hiatus so!! i hope you guys enjoy this <3that being said i think college will be the death of me also mini thank you to @\samepictureofjeankirsteveryday on instagram!! i wasnt going to post this fic originally but she lowkey made me want this baby to see the light of day :3 taglist ; @holding-infinity-and-a-book , @mrsnobodynobody , @hopeless-anti-romantic-again , @jeanscremebrulee , @berrijam , @happxme , @cherrypieyourface , @imgayandshesanime , @moonmalice , @kivernova , @potaho3frog , @xakilicious , @katestrophes , @gojo-ana , @ppushable, @candleohappiness , @zombiefiedskeivy , @1ovede1uxe

masterlist is in pinned post! ✿ enter my taglist! ✿ requests for headcanons are open! ✿

middle tile art creds ; @ppushable beloved

Falling in love with jean kirstein wasn't too much of a task.

Realising you were in love with jean kirstein, however, proved to be a big one. 

You dont realise it at first. Of course not, that would be too easy and stupid. You couldn't give yourself the permission to do that - to intrude on someone else's life so easily without guilt; because liking someone, romantically or platonically, has always been a selfish act, one that you were hesitant to commit. It felt like a crime, really. The first time he sat next to you on the couch despite there being more than enough room on the other side of it, cushions perfectly clean and waiting, he sat next to you. 

Nothing came out of it. He sat next to you the whole night - the first night you two got close and talked about your stupid lives even after everyone had called it a night, with two glasses empty of any beverage, already long gone under inattentive care, because you’d rather look at him. His hand was in the air, actions drawing themselves in the space around him, claiming the place to be his without hesitation. He’d say something, you’d make a bad joke, he’d stifle a laugh and lie through his teeth about it not being funny. You’d say something unimportant, his elbow would be on the back cushions of the couch, supporting his head, hand tangling through his hair - not that you were staring at it when your eyes pleaded for something else to focus on. He’d lick his lips absentmindedly, nodding to your story. He’d make a silly, offhanded comment that you’d milk out into another joke, and he’d stutter his responses. The night went on, drowsily, and you decided to reluctantly surrendered to sleep as his eyes slipped closed to your voice, head directly on the back cushions. As if he had forgotten the conversation that occurred two minutes ago - “And.. i mean, yeah, i get it, but- are you.. Are you falling asleep?”

“No, no. of course not. Just… resting my head. Go on.” 

“Your voice just got deeper, man, stop lying-”

“No! Im.. im serious. Im listening. Keep going.”

“Right,”

“Come on, i wanna hear you.”

“... oh. Right, so then…uh.”

“Mhm.”

“Uhm…right so, i got, what she was saying, but then again, why would she need to-”

And the conversation followed with just you speaking, a little hushed, pretending not to notice how his breathing evened itself out completely, his finger twitching every so often. Pretending not to notice, really, because that's all you'd been doing all this while. 

That was your first offense, you suppose. Pretending the love wasn't there. Pretending he isn't this easy to love, this easy to find your way back to. His presence was the one thing you looked forward to with each large group hangout until it was just the two of you - he’d asked you to accompany him going grocery shopping. “Connie wants some stupid fucking water gun.” 

You had laughed, unserious at first. But his voice did’nt waver through the phone, making you wonder out loud, “wait, for what?”

He sighed. You could almost feel his breath through the speaker. “April fools is coming up. Your guess is as good as mine,” he said, “anyway, i’ll come pick you up in ten?” he questions, as if you’d ever refuse. You could. You really could. But part of you wanted to know why connie would need the gun and what exactly he’d do with it just so you could be prepared incase of oncoming attacks. But the other part - the bigger, more selfish, more hesitant one - wanted to spend time with him because the aspect of just going grocery shopping sounded appealing. 

Appealing, as if it was something more. 

Maybe it was. Jean had a way of making every task of yours feel special. His eyes were always on your movements, something you appreciated, his blatant observation an endearing trait after you’d been gone unnoticed for long enough for you to feel non-existent entirely.

You dressed appropriately. Made sure your hair was good enough. Swiped a finger over your eyebrows to shape them before heading out. He was waiting under your apartment, back resting against the shining metal of his car, thumb hovering over his phone as he waited. Your shoes clicked - did they squeak or did they click? The dirt seemed interesting. - and he looked up at you before smiling. “Where do you think the best place to shop for a watergun could be?” an important question. You hummed in faux thought, mind only filled with his cologne, and the fact that his feet were only a couple inches from yours, “i dont know. Did connie not say where? Considering he’s such an expert?” you said, and he snorted. “Right. He just gave me a very specific model to look for. And the money for it, surprisingly.”

You made a joke about stealing the money and buying something “pretty for himself” which was met by slightly reddening cheeks and a scoff. “I look pretty in anything. I mean-” he stuttered over his own words, stumbling over consonants until he landed on, “i- we should..uhm, go. Before it gets too late.” you wanted to ask what you could possibly be late for, but he opened your door for you before you could say anything, and sped-walked to his side of the car. It was the two of you, the silence of his car, waiting to be broken. 

He asked you to play a song. You played careless whisper. He laughed. A full-bellied, deep hearted chuckle that you were sure you’d keep hearing over the course of the next few months if not your lifetime.

When april finally did come, with a summery breeze to accompany it, connie’s prank set itself ablaze. The “prank” being that he and eren would go around - “no, the point is that no one can see it coming!” - college campus, spraying their elaborate victims with a not-so-discreet snicker, not realizing that the cold water was a treat rather than a trick. “If that’s the point then youre fucking failing because your shiny bald head and his fucking stench is enough to let everyone know youre coming from miles away,” jean had said, hands folded over his chest. Armin stifled a laugh while you snickered in broad daylight, unashamed. 

Maybe that was your second offense - finding him fucking funny. It wasnt even your fault, in all honesty, it should be his for being witty and quick on his feet to make a remark that he knew would make you break. And you knew he was out to get you because sometimes he’d lean in close to your ear and whisper the joke against the loudness of the rest of the world - in a language and words only you could hear and understand and almost wait for his prize. Youre not sure if your laugh was his prize or the pride that came with the idea of being funny was, but you presented it to him without hesitation either way. 

How you couldn't realise you were in love with him in those moments always made you question your own instincts. 

It felt like a crime. Little offenses that would add up to one big debt towards the big national system that was out to get you - letting your yearning run rampant and unchecked while you sat on the floor, wondering, questioning, untrusting of your own feelings. What else could you do, really? When your love had been dormant for so long without any interaction, was it really your fault that it did not know when to wake up and tell you that it was real? Your crimes didn't matter. The number of them, their destruction. It wouldn't have mattered if the love would’ve just told you what it was instead of concealing itself under layers of disregard and faux indifference. 

And the worst part is that it didn't even escalate. His actions remained the same and so did your unnerving, unnatural feelings, laying bare-boned in front of you. He’d call you late at night, usually on tuesdays or fridays, and ask you, surprised, what you were doing up this late. You were always up this late, you'd say, even if it was him who called. Youd turn the question to him and he’d tell you about how he couldnt sleep because he was playing a game with your friends. 

“Why are you whispering” he had asked, ever keen about your every action. 

“Sasha’s asleep on my lap,” you said, your hand in between her brown hair, conditioned and soft between your fingers. 

“That doesnt answer my question.” he said. You could hear his blatant smirk through the phone.

“I dont want her to wake up,” you said, a smile of your own creeping on your face, slowly, carefully. It was meant to be there, though, however much you didnt want it to be, like moths to a beautiful flame. 

He hummed. Fluttering of patterned wings flying towards a bright orb. “What else?” god, its like he wanted you to peel apart and let him observe the shredded, unmoving pieces. Maybe he really did.

“We watched the perks of being a wallflower,” “oh?” “yeah, sash said she wanted me to see it-” “you’ve never seen that movie before?” “i mean, i did now,” you muttered, voice now only a little bit higher, smile growing only a little bit wider. Moths to an open, inviting flame.

“Jesus. Thank god she did. Did you cry?” he asked, eager. “Do you want me to cry? Thats telling-” “-no i dont want you to cry,” “hey, im not shaming your fantasies, im just-” “my fantasies dont involve you crying.” you pause before speaking again. “Right.” “i mean- they.. They involve you - like all of you guys, hah, just..not crying. Happy,” you hum. The moths get dangerously, hopefully closer to the burning flame. Its painful and its warm. “Whatever. Did you cry?” he asks, and you allow him a laugh at that. You wonder if he has moths of his own. Maybe dragonflies. They suit him better, you think for a split second, before his fire invites you again with a calloused hand, crackling firewood. “See, the fact that you’re not answering is more of an answer.” You shrug, knowing he cant see it. Part of you wonders if he knows you well enough to commit your actions to memory - enough to know when you're doing them, enough to predict them like a well choreographed dance. “I cried a little. Like, one tear, and then i stopped,”

“Right, sure.” “you know, you forcing an answer out of me is also more of an answer.” you say, flipping the conversation over on it’s head, the dancers doing a somersault on the thin cracks in your ribs.

“what? How?” “now i know you cried while watching it-” “i did not-” “-or else you wouldnt want me to be as miserable as you-” “i didnt cry, i dont even know what youre talking about,” “i can literally ask sasha.” “you wouldnt…do that,” he says, unconfident. you suck in a dramatic breath, pretending to get ready to shout sasha’s name, before he interrupts you with a slight terror behind his teeth, “okay, i cried like, a little,” he says, his voice a little static, but you could hear the expression he was making behind the layers of faux cockiness. You hum knowingly. “Just a little,” “dont sound like that.” 

You breathe out a laugh, smile reaching your eyes, your cheeks pushing against the phone on your ear. “Sound like what?” “like…like youre judging me,” “im not judging you! Im all for crying.” “just not enough for you to do it?” “i’ll cry when i need to.” “and when’s that?” “i dont know, maybe when they declare that, like, all chocolate has lead in it or something, and they ban it.” there was another pause. You gauge his reaction, a flash of regret for your statement, and then a laugh from his end, crystal clear. Even with the phone hindering your view of him, its perfect - the happiness resides in his chest, and it makes it’s way out because of you, crawling into your arms through the shitty microphones that the big companies cant seem to perfect, and youre afraid it’ll catch a hold of you and you would never be able to shake it away; the feeling of his laughter in your chest, shared and kept and bottled up in the shape of something familiar but terrifying and real. You dont realise youre also laughing a little by the end of it. 

“That wouldn't stop you from still eating it.” he says. “Fair point,” you reply, playing with a strand of sasha’s hair between your fingers. Your love has always been louder than you would've liked it to be, its shouts keeping you awake at night, the harmonies - or lack thereof - disrupting your usual schedule. It had to find a way to get out, and you weren't sure where to put it once it did. Where your love could find a place to rest without urgency, silent under a warm gaze. You didn't know where to find it. 

you suppose your next offense - and it was a big one this time, staring at you in the face until you were too scared to look away - was actually noticing. 

not that you didn't before. it wasn't unknown, the fact that he put meticulous effort into his appearance, combing his hair a certain way, wearing different colours that he knew worked, smelling nice. he was the one who made it known, a pretentious boastful laugh about how he'd bought a new perfume after sasha pointed it out, telling the table of five that he actually had the money to buy it and he was going to use it to it's fullest extent. but then you started noticing the unimportant details, the natural ones that came as a habit to him but became holy to you. waving a hand through his hair after it unravelled from its former position throughout the day, wearing the bracelet you had hastily and ironically made for him as if it was a part of his own wrist, regardless of if it matched his outfit or not, his perfume wearing off sometime in the middle of the day, but the residue of it could only be smelt when you were sitting close to him, brushing his shoulder with yours. All the unimportant things, you think, a big weight on your already hesitant shoulders, weak under the boulder you were trying to push. 

The way his voice dipped when he muttered something he knew was unimportant but wanted to be known anyway (you wouldn't tell him you would always keep those mutters in mind - chanted scriptures until they're all your tongue and ears remember). The way he fidgeted with his rings sometimes, slipping them off of his finger and and onto the next, continuing to do that until all his fingers had worn the jewellery (one time it slipped and fell through his fingers, an unnoticeable action, and his fingers hovered mid empty air, grasping metal that had slipped away). The unimportant scar on the front of his right shoulder, only to be seen when he wore a tank top during the summer, when he’d told you he’d saved a dog from a car accident with red cheeks and ears - a telltale lie. You let the statement lay in front of you before smiling with an exaggerated, proud puff of air, after which he had immediately went back to his story to correct it. The reality was that he tried diving into a pool once - only for his shoulder to be scraped up on the diving board, along with his jaw, as he fell. He said this ungracefully, scratching the back of his neck and waving his hand as if it wasn't a big deal - and you would agree, it wasn't a big deal. yet. There was always a yet. You wanted to write down all his words, through his stutters and higher-pitched words, his unintentional pauses, and etch them into your spine. What good were your bones if not to be carved under a weathering, hopeless love that could never prevail? What good were your lungs if not to build a home out of unbreathable air?

Unimportant. You’d call your love that; a universal truth. You couldn't give yourself the permission for more than that, for an offense greater than the one you’d already guiltily committed. 

Falling in love with jean kirstein was out of your hawk-eyed control. Realising you were in love with jean kirstein was an unmistakable, out-of-question, universally bound reality that you couldn't escape. Or maybe one you didn't want to escape. 

You weren't hopeful of a reciprocal or even a secure future. You were never quite the hopeful one, and maybe that's why you chalked yourself up to a non romantic person who’s forbidden to use those big movie words with the big important meanings and the confident and hearty laugh after a confession. Being a romantic took a hell of a lot of hope, something you fundamentally lacked, something that you could never live up to. 

So this was it. Staring at you in your face, his eyes brown and a little golden at the edge like a pot of pouring honey, warmth under those tones, unhidden with full and weighted importance that you never had the permission to receive. His shoulder - the scarred one - is pressed up against the wall and the party is loud and his cup is almost empty, his first drink of the night, and his cologne is fading away only a little, a strand of his hair falling on his forehead. And this wouldn't be a big issue if it wasn't for the fact that you were thinking about it all, the unimportant parallels and the god like, important-unimportant words, etched into your hesitant and tired vertebrae. His smile is soft. Has it always been? Were you deserving of that? After all of your committed offenses? 

“This punch is fucking disgusting,” he says, changing the previous topic, smelling the drink in his hand. You were incapable of speaking, of using your big mouth and small words. “Its.. interesting,” you finally muttered, looking down at your own cup, your thumb rubbing gentle, controlled back-and-forths on the rim of the cup. you‘re not sure how he even heard you but somehow he always does.

“I can make a better one for you,” he says, as if he doesn't have anything better to do. “No, im good. I dont want to get… y’know,” you say, eyes pointing to the vague direction of a now-shirtless connie, waving the shirt in a loop over his head disregarding the beat and rhythm of the song completely.

Jean’s eyes remain on his friend for a while. “Yeah i wouldn't want to get…that either,” he says, and you snort an unattractive laugh, and when you look back up, he’s laughing with you. Smiling at your unimportant sound, his hand holding the cup by its rim and dropping his elbow down so the cup rests somewhere near his thigh. 

Unimportant. All of it. But somehow holy. Human condition. 

He moves towards the kitchen either way, claiming something about having non-alcoholic fruit beer in the fridge just for “this”. He says “this” as if its a confession, something he’s been meaning to get off of his chest, “this” like he knows your unimportant and off-handed comment about not wanting to drink from last week and carrying it around like an effective poem, life altering with every sentence. He says “this” like it's important. Somehow holy, human condition.

And he follows through, with whatever his “this” meant, and hands you a can of some kind of soda. A sip later, you find out its peach flavoured, surprisingly addictive, not too sweet. You steal a glance at the front of it, a bright and vibrant logo greeting you with a smiling mascot of a peach with sunglasses. You look back up at him with a raised eyebrow. “This was a conscious decision?” you ask, turning the front of the can to him so he could see what you were referring to. A smile split his face, followed by faux annoyance and an eyeroll, “thank you, jean, for always thinking of me,” he says, high pitched, and the implications are not lost on you, and he continues when all you do is smile with a breath of laughter, “thank you, jean, you bought me my favourite flavoured drink-” “thank you, jean kirstein, my saviour, for thinking of me,” you say, the sound getting lost somewhere in between your mouth and his. His smile hangs on his face with pride, an action you unknowingly put there. 

God, and falling in love with jean kirstein was so easy. Easier than breathing, more conscious than involuntary blinking, more natural than your fidgeting hands. 

But realising you were in love with jean kirstein was more uncomfortable than the act of being alive, more conscious than the fact that your voice could produce a sound that occupied space, more careful than your hesitant thoughts. 

Everything chalked up to this; loving jean kirstein was easier than any feat you couldve ever done. Any holiness, any prayer, any selfish and hopeless act of greatness that was trapped in your veins.

Realising you’d always love him, realising maybe you’d always be stuck in this limbo was the only thing that proved to be difficult. You're a creature of habit - habitual sighs, rhythmic steps, habitual solitude - and you'd never been prepared for this. But it was okay.

Being in love with jean kirstein - and realizing you’d always love him - was okay. Habitual. All offenses could be just those - offenses. Habitual. You’d learn to live with it as you did all other things. 

✿

[just-a-ghost00]

Crush series : what is their current love status ?

This is for those of you that are puzzled right now about their crush and don’t know much about them yet. We are asking spirit to help us clarify what their situation is so that you can act accordingly. To pick your group, you can choose one of these emojis.

✍🏼 🧛🏻‍♀️ 🎓

Group 1 ✍🏼

Cards : Emperor, 4 of pentacles, Queen of cups, 5 of swords, Queen of pentacles, 8 of cups, 8 of wands as the overall energy

This person is single. They are focused on their own accomplishments and well being, mainly when it comes to their career. They are very busy and taking part in many projects. Their heart space is closed. They are friendly with a lot of people but they don’t connect with them on a deeper level. They may flirt here and there but that never goes too far because they don’t want to be involved in drama. This person draws a lot of attention and they are wary of connections because of past experiences. Also, dating could impact their societal status and their personal life drastically if it went wrong so they try to avoid dating as much as possible. This person could have been used for their wealth and power in the past or dealt with people that were not genuine. They could struggle with trusting people and/or being vulnerable. However, they are starting to feel lonely and a part of them wants to find somewhere they belong and a person that can match their vibe and support them during hard times. A part of them may doubt that they are ever going to find such a person. They tend to feel pessimistic when it comes to love and romance. I asked for a card to clarify the 5 of swords and got the knight of cups. This person feels confused when people express feelings towards them. They may have recently come across someone that showed them affection and they felt conflicted about it. If that person is you, the expression of your emotions sets them off balance. This is something they did not expect and that they are not used to.

Confirmation signs : Aries, Taurus, Scorpio, Sagittarius, numbers 4, 5 and 8

Group 2 🧛🏻‍♀️

Cards : The Empress, The World, The Fool, 3 of pentacles reversed, Hierophant, Justice, overall energy is the White Numen

Your crush is looking for committed and deep love. They are in a phase of their life where they are finally where they wanted to be, they are embodying the version of themselves they always dreamed of. They are finally loving themselves and feeling empowered. They’ve come to terms with their self confidence issues and they are now taking control over their life. Their energy feels very feminine and very confident. Very sensual also. This person wants to create, to gather with other people, not just a romantic partner but all kinds of people to express their true potential. But they are also looking for their ride or die. Their partner in crime. The person that will love and support them no matter what, that will match their crazy and follow them anywhere they may go. This person is starting anew and moving forward with a positive mind and receptive energy. They may enjoy traveling alone or indulging in creative endeavors. They also spend a lot of time taking care of their body, dressing themselves up, working on their body image. Though the Hierophant represents commitment I think that this person is mainly committed to themselves and their own well being. They’ve been through a lot and the wheel has just recently turned in their favor. Justice is being served by blessing this person with everything they ever wanted. I feel like this person is entrusting the divine with their love life and hoping for the best. They are just existing and shining at the maximum of their capacity, hoping that their light will reach someone worth their time and love.

Confirmation signs : Taurus, Leo, Aquarius, Scorpio, Pisces, numbers 3, 5 and 21

Group 3 🎓

Cards : Black Numen, Tower reversed, Moon, Ace of pentacles rx, knight of pentacles reversed, 4 of wands, overall energy 2 of pentacles

This person is either single or in a situation ship. They have gone through a major transformation in their life and/or a rough period of time where they were isolated, possibly struggling with depression or anxiety. They felt like things were not going in their favor and faced a lot of fears. This person is now dreaming of a time of peace where their life isn’t as chaotic and messy. Especially when it comes to romance. They are hoping for a serious relationship that doesn’t seem to want to manifest in their life. They feel like things are moving too slow in that area of their life. One one hand they want that connection so bad but on the other hand they are scared to let anyone in right now considering how their life is all over the place. This person feels conflicted. They may try to interact with people and then retreat back to their bubble because they don’t trust themselves and/or others. A part of them doubts that they’ll ever find someone to be with. They may think they’re not worthy of love or that they don’t have enough time and room for someone to be in their life. However they feel lonely and out of luck and a part of them may believe that having someone in their life would help them get back on track and be more successful. This person may daydream a lot about being in a relationship. They may have a lot of crushes but never act upon them. They may be very shy, introverted, scared of being left out or rejected. They possibly tried to be in a relationship in the past which ended terribly. Their plans to be with this person were not fruitful. Maybe because their family did not accept their partner or because of their work taking too much of their time.

Confirmation signs : Scorpio, Pisces, Taurus, Virgo, numbers 18, 16, 1, 2 and 4.

[lala056]

Exhausting

I have no respect for billford shippers that look down on stancest shippers.

Oh what, you’d have me believe a genetic tie to a partner is somehow worse than being with someone that stabs through your hands, forces you to swallow live spiders, and also SA’s you by having yourself forcibly strip down in public and swing your clothes over your head like a helicopter? (sorry but anyone that forcibly removes your clothes and exposes your body, even if you’re a guy/lacking breasts and it’s just your chest, is committing SA against you. They’re exposing your body against your will plain and simple. Try to write that off how you like but that’s the facts)

The logic behind this baffles me honestly.

There’s a reason Alex titled that kissing drawing as "the worst drawing in the world" and then linked to an amazon BIBLE page (yeah I know that was part of a joke well guess what he frequently uses the bible joke for shipping in general so yeah).

Because he knows it’s BAD, TOXIC, PROBLEMATIC AS YOU GUYS LIKE TO LABEL THINGS. What I see people incorrectly accuse PROSHIPPERS to REPRESENT rather than the actual representation of the LIVE AND LET LIVE CREDO OF SHIPPING.

Ever stop to consider that maybe Alex didn’t do stancest or art involving Wendy/Dipper because he simply a) didn’t like those ships, which is valid since everyone has their own tastes, and he did base some of these characters on his own family so it’s close to home for him, or b) knows how toxic and chronically online a lot of haters are? That he wanted to avoid drama for this stream that he’s trying to milk every cent out of for CHARITY? (It's ridiculous how many times he felt obligated to say "REMEMBER IT'S FOR CHARITY" when shipping came up just to try and prevent any meltdowns from uptight fans and viewers. And even then he still didn't do some because he knew the fact of it being for charity still wouldn't fly for some- because a lot of people would rather watch REAL PEOPLE SUFFER to preserve their fictional sensitivities)

Not to mention he still works with Disney (chibiverse hello), any backlash (the form of false pedo accusations or incest apologist accusations being what happens to be thrown around all willy nilly nowadays over fictional bullshit) could get him blocked not only from working with the company ever again, but lose any input he might have over his beloved passion project and baby Gravity Falls itself?

This is a man who has said COUNTLESSLY that he doesn’t care about ships, has even encouraged people to "be weirder" and made omelet hypotheticals for how much HE DOESN’T CARE BECAUSE FICTIONAL SHIPS DON’T MATTER.

Alex Hirsch is a KING.

And it’s sad to see that so many of his loyal subjets are so bigoted and blind to ignore his own feelings in order to justify their own, or to somehow perform the mental gymnastics in order to absolve themselves of "thought crimes" so that they can feel like they aren’t bad people under the imposition of conservative purity culture.

The terms "cest" and "age" are trigger words now. If those show up in any form, pitchforks come out and roofs get burned. Companies overreact and overcompensate. He said Disney people were watching, so of course he’s gonna say and act in what is deemed an appropriate manner because even companies apparently prefer abusive relationships to ones that have a blood tie even if blood ties are wholesomely depicted.

The age old double standards.

And don’t get me started on bringing up Dipper Goes To Taco Bell. Alex and cast know of that story, they’ve made references to it in a video game and such, immortalized it. They engage with all corners of their fandom, also shown by Jason’s "saving the town" reference on stream.

Another thing, anyone notice how they laughed off the Dipper and Wendy suggestion Jason made, rather than exploded? BECAUSE THEY DON'T CARE IT'S NOT THAT SERIOUS - and most likely turned them down because they know there's more drama about characters being aged up and crap so it wouldn't have mattered if they're adults now, there are people who will always see them as "kids".

Point is - If there was such a strong hate on Alex’s part about the darker side of fiction or taboos he’d do all in his power to make sure they were never mentioned again and be active against them. 

He’s a kind, caring man that obviously likes to just get along with people, but he does put his foot down when he feels something is awful. He’s made political posts about presidents he feels are corrupt and spoken out against social injustice. You honestly think he wouldn’t speak out about those taboo ships in frank language if he thought that they shouldn’t exist and that the people who create for them are awful?

Newsflash, he would. Yes, he’d isolate a sadly small part of his fanbase, but he’s shown time and again he doesn’t care about being liked. He cares about what’s right.

And abusing others over which made up character kisses who, isn’t.

If you’re someone that mislabels proshippers too, to mean "problematic shippers", then as a billford shipper you’re one by definition. And yes, I'm including you AU billford shippers too because there is always some degree of toxicity.

Knock the hate and abuse off. People that go off about why their ship is justified and another isn't are the reason people leave fandoms and leave amazing works often unfinished, even Gen writers and artists.

[thorough-witness-enjoyer]

The Witness and Why It (and its demise) Means Everything to Me (A POC Perspective)

Hey everyone!! The Final Shape has ruined me and has brought me to levels of not only grief, but hope, that I did not think possible, so I decided to give my thoughts on the different aspects of it that moved me to a place where I can be at peace with many things in my life and look forward to paving a better future!!! I think I’ll be making many posts pertaining to the Final Shape as a way to help me express my thoughts on how important this DLC was to me, but we will see!

Please note that these are just my loose, not fully structured thoughts and I’m yapping. My opinions are subject to change and I’d love to hear the input of others! We will be talking about subjects such as slavery, religion, black experiences, and personal experiences of mine!!! It’s very long too, so I’m sorry about that and any writing errors!!

Though I do not believe what I speak of was fully Bungie’s intentions when making the character, the implications and views you can take on the Witness do relate to what I will discuss.

I wanted to start off my return to tumblr with one of the many, many reasons why I have such a deep attachment to the Witness (Precursors and Dissenters will get a different post bc they mean the world to me too!!) , because truly, this entity owns my whole life. I think of it all the time, it lingers in my thoughts, my art, my writing, all of it. It has been so deeply intertwined with my enjoyment of Destiny since it appeared and has offered so much to my perception of the world. I do not think I will truly get over it and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t draw it every chance I get. It appears in every single thought of mine, it’s bad you guys.

I love the Witness so deeply because I have never harbored such a personal level of DISGUST for a character before. As much as I joke about it being silly and the love of my life, the very existence of the Witness revolts me to the core and the tragedies it has directly or indirectly caused squeeze my heart empty. This festering rot of an egregore SICKENS me as it is the beliefs that has robbed me and many others of family, culture, and livelihoods given form. My love for the Witness comes from how it instills in me such HATRED, and truly, we were far too kind to it in game.

For context, I am Caribbean American and have a tumultuous relationship with my heritage for many reasons, but it wasn’t until the Witness and its many victims that I felt like the religious imperialism that has affected my heritage was represented in a way that crept into my spirit.

My Caribbean mother always said to me that we are of this world, not in it. That the hearts of men are wicked and sin (cruelty) was embedded in existence itself. It is only when we give ourselves to a higher purpose that we will be free in the end from all suffering. To her, this life and everything in it did not truly matter for it was a temporary challenge to overcome in order to earn an eternity of salvation. A perfect paradise was awaiting us all if we just gave into the way and left everything else behind.

These were all convictions she held to her very core as she tried to shed away all other aspects of herself to give into this “truth”, especially her Caribbean culture.

She did not always believe this way, but to her, the island she came from did not truly matter at all. Those “wayward people” she grew up with were not worth anything and would die as nobodies on that nowhere island for their lives were not saved, even if they knew of the “truth”. In her adopted views, those people believed in false gods and practices (such as Vodou and beliefs that belonged to those taken from Africa and indigenous populations), they invited in frivolous wants of the flesh such as lust (with „improper“ attire and certain dances), and committed crimes that proved to her that they could never be anything more than what they already were (though she would be blinded to the fact that these behaviors are a result of hostile environments created by the systems established for slavery and racial subjugation). If she wanted to be fit for “walking the right path”, those people had to be left behind for they were lost causes who could not be saved unless they were delivered by the “respectable” ways of life. She had to discard her black mannerisms, hair, speech, and more to have a place amongst the truly chosen.

Religious imperialism has a long history of being heavily tied to discussions of race and colonialism as those who participated in subjugation believed themselves to be more enlightened than the people they brought devastation to, giving them an entitlement that drove them to force their way of viewing religion onto populations. After all, in their minds, they were doing the greatest good for they were setting the people they subjugated on a path for eternal paradise. There was no cost too high in this finite life for infinite salvation to colonizers and all efforts to convert populations who did not see this truth would be “necessary”. People would die or be forced into servitude in mass to support the ambitions of the “enlightened” ones, whole cultures and populations being scrubbed from the face of this Earth in an attempt to “heal what is sick”, to “break broken bones again to heal them right”. I think of all the generations lost to war, slavery, colonialism, and every other act done to deliver “purpose” onto others, all the people whose names will never be known because others used the breath needed to utter it on preaching of their own virtue, and I am left in ruin.

I think of how my mother speaks of those lost to destitute lives because of the social pillaging of the island as an unfortunate side effect of guiding them to the truth and I look at how her world view has been ruined.

My mother thought she was saving me by keeping me from my culture, my people, my family. I did not get to know the language, the customs, the land, but I did get to know how much my mother thought those were distractions. She spent my whole life trying to cement the truths given to her by the same people who left her island in such as state that she felt like she had to run from it, to ensure I would not grow into a person, but a vessel of the righteous message. After all, to be a person is to be complex, nuanced, and flawed and there was no room for that in the visions given to her. The complexities and human flaws that came with our culture would only distract us from giving our whole lives to freeing ourselves from the curse of existence.

The cruelty the Witness delivers with such gentleness as it razes civilizations, its unwavering belief that it is the objective truth and other perspectives are blind to this truth, the means it will use to get that “justified” end, its gut wrenching to me and all that has been lost throughout human history to ideologies that bear the same qualities. Its zealous, static nature that relies on circular reasoning keeps me up at night and makes me mourn what could have been if the unfamiliar and hard to understand parts of human expression were allowed to flourish instead of being eradicated for diverging from someone’s vision of what makes a life worth living. I see this big eyed vessel, incapable of growth and convinced of its own righteousness and my chest feels like it is going to cave in. I see its disciples and pawns in the faces of too many people I know and recall their stories in moments that remind me how poisonous what the Witness represents is.

The Witness is an evil that has hollowed out lives, homes, land, and futures, especially for those who come from heritages that have persevered against attempts to “rectify” them. I still grieve the empty life my mother lives and the people left to suffer the consequences of daring to create their own meaning. I look at the face of the Witness and think of the “burdens lifted off my mother’s shoulders” by those who thought themselves as witnesses of a truth that could not be contested with interpretations that could not be questioned. She prides herself on being a weapon wielded to correct the sinful hearts of men, but I just wish she prided herself on being a person because those who “delivered” her robbed people of color of personhood entirely.

The Witness is not a person, but the embodiment of these deeply rooted ideologies and concepts that affect so many. It’s horror, both in game and the parallels it has in reality, is far too grand and unfathomable for me to bear its weight on my soul and not agonize. Its very existence is monstrous, despite the understandable intentions that went into its making, and my stomach churns at the mere thought of it.

How many species in the Destiny universe will we never know about because their whole galaxy was used to get closer to the Final Shape? How many star systems were left barren because of the Witness’ ambitions? How many children, spouses, artists, philosophers, siblings, neighbors, and more, people who were something, became nothing because of eons of the Witness‘ justifications? Bile boils just thinking of it.

What the Witness represents has hung over my head my whole life and its perverse touch lingers on the whole Destiny universe, tracing many of the depraved atrocities in the game back to itself. It’s death in the Final Shape, at the hands of those it had turned into victims and left to deal with the repercussions of its influence united together, moved me in ways I do not think I could ever properly articulate. To see beloved characters I had given a decade of my life to come together from different backgrounds with different reasons to defeat such a heinous entity, I felt like I could do my part to bring others together, despite our struggles and differences, to rebuild what had been taken from us.

As a person of color from a group of people many still think are undeserving of life, seeing so many characters I have related to over the years say “I matter because I decided to and you can’t take that away from me” to an entity who thought itself so refined that it got to determine everyone’s worth strengthened my entire being. Existing as a person of color is bold in and of itself, but the defeat of the Witness at the hands of people who wanted to exist so bad they risked everything for it ignited in me a flame to be audacious. My existence and culture as a poc is unsightly and heretical, but TFS encouraged me to take on the prejudices of others by saying “Here, despite generations being molded into a “perfect” image and so many lives lost in the struggle to live personal truths, ergo sum. Ergo sum and there is nothing wrong with that”.

To me, the Witness’ death showed me that the stains left behind by social structures such as religious imperialism and colonialism can be overcome by people banding together to make the future different from the past. When we embrace the subjectivity of existence, we can create spaces for different views on life to flourish and reconnect with the nuances of this world. We can better the lives of our people, no matter who they are, not by abandoning all cultural practices and ways of life that were deemed meaningless, but by rebuilding our societies to allow for fulfilling lives and self efficacy for all.

My people no longer have to let imperial powers decide our fate for us or decide that we can be nothing other than the „nature of our race“ that they believe is inferior. Instead of looking up at others who asserted themselves as more enlightened for salvation, we can look at each other and realize there is no one truth to life, especially one worth all the devastation and cruelty placed against those who lived differently. The intricacies of life often lead people to belief systems that allow for comfort and understanding, alleviating the anxiety of possibly living an improper life that will forfeit a desirable afterlife. It is up to individuals to decide what makes their life fulfilling and what beliefs will guide their actions, for no one can make your fate but you.

My mother still likes to wear the patterns of the island and keeps paintings of island scenery in her room. She talks on the phone in patois when she doesn’t feel the pressure to be “proper”. She misses her mother because she used to make dishes from home. To relate it to Destiny, she still has the coordinates to her Lubrae in her pyramid despite convincing herself abandoning it all was for the best and there was nothing there worth keeping. I once thought reconnecting with our heritage alongside her would be a frivolous endeavor, but I hope that with time and understanding, the Witness may not have power over her anymore and she won’t look back on her disassociation with relief. Time and understanding will make our island grow and flourish, free to decide what it wants to be, not held back by preconceived notions of the worth of its existence.

Despite all the Witnesses in the world, I will persist on and try to acquaint myself with my culture without shame. The Witness is everything to me because I hope one day it desecrates nothing ever again. I hope the Witness becomes nothing at all and the cultures it has corrupted make themselves something audacious.

Thank you guys so much for reading!! I hope you guys don’t mind the vague language, I chose to spare some details for my own sake and to make the message more applicable!! I’d love to hear the takes of other people about this bc I love hearing people’s perspectives!! And always remember, no one makes your fate but you!!! Go be audacious!!!!

[nevieeland]

title: thought i was dead

pairing: bourgeoisie!m.yoongi x street rat!reader

synopsis: another day, another patrol. big black trucks roll down unused roads, sharply trained eyes moving over the battered streets in search of particular fugitives of the law. fugitives that are on the other side of the city, roaming streets where they 100% don't belong.

rating/warnings: mature (16+) ; action, violence (there’s a very brief fight scene), profanity. um... there's also implications as well as explicit mentions of police brutality and abuse of power in regards to the patrolmen and the citizens of the valley, gambling at a casino very briefly, talks of death, and reader is morally grey. not proofread.

last updated: 27.01.25

word count: 5.3k

there's the usual sounds of big wheels rolling down the gravel of the streets, heads popping out of old and broken windows to catch a glimpse of the big black trucks that seem to come down the block every other day, circling neighbourhoods like vultures looking for their next meal. mothers keep their children hidden behind them, and teens run out of the door to spew obscenities that the dark suited officials in the suvs won't be able to hear. everyone ushers whoever they can grab into the nearest building, hoping to escape their line of sight, and ultimately, the crossfire of whatever rebellious street rat had caught the attention of the inner circle today.

there were numerous repeat offenders within all corners of the sunken slums, gangs and squads who'd often draw too close to the fence or vandalise one of the many statues of the governor strewn about the village. it had gotten to the point that even the most generous of individuals had given up on hiding them, finding it not worth the trouble. if the patrol wanted to find someone, they would, and there was no two ways about it.

how many times had a child, barely a teen, ben forcefully dragged from the arms of their mother, simply for committing the crime of being curious? loitering was one of the more serious crimes frowned upon by the inner circle, guards stationed at every corner of the fence, guns in hands and eyes watching for any fool who'd gotten too inquisitive and wandered too close. one of the first things any inhabitant of the valley is taught are the three big laws.

all of those within the valley sect must remain at least ten metres from the circle fence at all times, law number one.

if the patrol felt kind, then the worst punishment someone would receive was five nights in the cage, cold and alone and given only scraps for food until their release. if not, then you'd be taken to the public square and beaten and lashed for the rest of the village to gaze upon; a cautionary tale to any upcoming ruffians or seemingly invincible rebels.

you usually hear the vans before you see them. but not today. today you watch the guards open one of the big metal gates and let the trucks drive in, an expression of determined resolution making it's way across the planes of your face. you're barely obscured by the pile of rubble and bricks beside the old hospice, another member of your ragtag crew hidden within the rotting wood of one of the crates.

"sure, okay, lets say we get to the gate. the trucks roll in, we're on the outskirts of town while they look for us inside," taehyung says from beside you, flicking the ash of his cigarette down onto the worn carpet beneath your bodies. "but what then? how are we supposed to actually get into the inner sect?"

there comes hums of agreeance from a few of the others, and you thread wiry fingers through the knots in your hair. the gates would only be open until all the trucks had come in, and after that they'd shut and the guards would be back on duty. entrance would be the same as it usually was; impossible.

you pause, and a silence blankets over the makeshift basement hideout. there's the heavy weight of expectant gazes on your back, and you huff in frustration as your mind comes up blank. taehyung was right, they could only wait by the gate for so long before they were spotted, and the bruises littered across their skin like paint on a canvas had yet to fade from their last encounter with the patrol.

two weeks in the cage was starting to seem less and less worth it.

a short huff escapes your lips, hands moving over taehyung's and snatching the cigarette from his fingers with a deft quickness as you bring it to your lips and take a deep drag. then, short and curt, "you know me, tae. i'll figure it out. i have to, don't i?"

the guards open the doors and exit the suv to check the back tire—a flat. as you hoped.

the rock you placed on the road was subtle, blending in with the rest of the gravel. the roads in the valley are rough, and no one here owns a car—patrols only come bi-weekly, so there’s no point in maintaining the roads. but it worked in your favor this time. the last of the suv’s wheels had rolled over the sharp edge of the stone, and now joining the patrolmen at their side were the guards, the gate left open and now only being watched by one instead of the usual three.

they'd need a new tire, you knew that for sure. and that gate would remain open until they had one.

there comes a hushed whisper from your side, and your eyes snap suddenly to the familiar figure on your left, his lips pulled into a boxy grin. "gate open," he affirms, gesturing with his head to the breakdown. "and bad guys distracted. that's act one. have we got an act two?"

you don’t answer right away. instead you tap taehyung on the back with an apologetic smile. "don't worry about it. just follow my lead."

a furrow of brows and a pursing of lips together in annoyance. taehyung's distaste with your ominous secrecy is evident. but he trusts you. "right. go when you say go. follow your step."

your fingers graze up the worn fabric of his jacket, a more genuine smile gracing your lips as the digits tangle into the hairs at the nape of his neck. "right. just do as i do, okay? and don't get mad at me."

there's a question on the tip of his tongue, his brows kissing the more they furrow, but whatever plagues his mind never has the chance to escape his thoughts, because suddenly there's even more of a commotion where the truck has broken down.

“hey, you!” one of the guards shouts, his gun raising. the other patrolmen follow suit, weapons drawn and pointed at the female figure drawing ever closer.

the woman doesn’t notice the threat. she stumbles forward, her eyes bleary and her hair a matted mess. her head swings around as if loose on a stick, laughing crazily. “you think you’re tough, huh? all of you scum—just ‘cause you’ve got money and cars?”

the guard behind the gate steps forward after her, and there's an opportunity offered in the slight venture. he's a little way out now; if you're careful you could graze past him and into the inner sect. the immediate choice is made. if you’re going, you need to go now.

your hand raises, fingers twisting in a signalling gesture. it's time.

but taehyung’s hand shoots out, grabbing at your wrist. “hey, isn’t that—” comes the start of a question, but your biting tone quickly cuts him off.

"we don't have time for this," you hiss, trying to tug him along. "we can talk once we're past the gate. come on."

and when taehyung realises that it's either come along or get left behind—and potentially caught—he moves with a frustrated grunt, slipping into place behind you as the others emerge from their hiding places.

and it's only once you're so close to the fence you pause, feeling a shiver running down the expanse of your spine. from a distance the gate in intimidating. it looms as tall as some of the buildings and is an ever present shadow over the valley. no one had ever doubted it's sheer size.

but now, next to it? it's like the wired skeleton of a giant looming over you, going on and on up into the sky to a point where it's almost dizzying to look at. it feels like you’re about to walk straight into the mouth of a beast. but you shouldn't hesitate, you need to break out of your stupor and go—

"see?" comes a slurred voice, and a sense of dread settles into your stomach once you see the intoxicated woman's finger pointing directly at you. "those kids think you ain't tough either. that's why there's so many of 'em."

shit.

your legs are moving all on their own, shooting up from their crouching position and propelling you forward, forward, forward. you hear a shout from behind, then the unmistakable click of a gun being cocked, and you don't need to look back to know that there's weapons pointing at the four of you.

shit, shit, shit, shit.

"hey you," comes the voice a guard, loud and angry. "stop right there!"

you can't stop. not now. stopping is accepting death, so you run. you don’t even look back, knowing the others are following behind you, mirroring your every step. you're almost there—just a few more meters to the gate. then you'll have done it, and this will all have been worth it.

a sharp crack rips through the air. a gunshot.

you don't look back to see if it's aimed at you or the woman. you just keep running. and you don't stop, even when you feel the overwhelming burn in your side where the bullet's barely grazed by you. you stumble but keep pushing forward. you're so close to the inner sect now.

right there—

and then, with one last push, you’re over the border.

but it’s not over yet.

the gunshots are still ringing, and the heavy footsteps behind you tell you that the chase has begun. you don’t stop running. you can’t. you allow yourself a quick moment to turn, to catch a final glimpse of home.

the last thing of the valley you see before you're bolting is the woman's crumpled body on the ground.

if there's one thing you're good for, it's athletics.

the adrenaline of crossing into the city keeps your legs moving even when your lungs begin to burn and your muscles begin to ache, long enough for you and the others to lose the group of men and stumble haphazardly into a small side alley between a restaurant and a small boutique.

venturing as far back into the shadows as you can, you collapse against the brick wall in a heap, breaths leaving your lungs in short, painful gasps. there's silence, for all but a moment, and then you're laughing. a bitter, frantic laugh that bursts from your throat, raw and desperate.

what the fuck was that? if they see us anywhere they're going to fucking kill us.

there's nothing funny about this at all. you've practically signed your death certificate and now you're fugitives in a city where you shouldn't be, law enforcement lurking at every corner, and yet you can't help your laughter.

it’s a burning feeling, tearing through your lungs and making liquid sting at the corners of your eyes, a sound almost desperate in it’s hysteria. if you don’t laugh, you know for sure you’ll start crying, head swimming with a myriad of emotions you don’t know how to even begin processing.

everything hurts really fucking bad. your muscles feel like they’re pulling each other in entirely opposite directions and there’s a migraine so sharp behind your eyes that you feel like you’re getting an astral lobotomy.

you feel almost high, everything in your body working at max.

“damn it,” taehyung growls from the corner, his anger cutting through your hysteria. “what the fuck was that?”

you purse your lips, kissing your teeth at the question. "what was what? the part where we got shot at or the part where we became possibly the most wanted people in valles?"

he’s having none of it.

“don’t act smart. what the fuck was she doing there?”

you really wish you had a cigarette. you'd need at least twenty and a pool full of alcohol to deal with taehyung and his moral compass.

at least with the rush of the chase you were granted a temporary moment’s reprieve from the fact that your actions had led to the death of a woman. a not very nice, nor a very well liked woman, but a member of the valley nonetheless. a neighbour. it had been three years since the last patrol–induced death. it was something that caused an excitement throughout the small town. a step forward is a step forward.

and now you’ve just forced a step back. you can only imagine the patrol’s fury, and the thought of picturing the result of their fury on the citizens of your sect makes you physically ill. so you don’t allow yourself to think about it.

instead, you try and think of an answer to tae’s question that doesn’t end with him absolutely blowing up on you.

“she was high,” you start, voice low and calculated. and you weren’t lying—that much was obvious to any person with a working eye. “she probably stumbled out on her own and wandered too far. it probably wouldn’t be the first time. you saw her, didn’t you?”

but the narrow of taehyung’s eyes tells it all. he doesn’t believe you.

“look, tae,” you murmur, “you’re worked up on an adrenaline rush, i get it. but don’t take it out on me, okay?”

“don’t—” an incredulous sputter cuts off his words, and you watch for a moment as he grapples to keep his temper under check. “don't take it out on you? what the fuck? she’s dead because of you—”

“—it’s not my fault she ratted us out!—”

“— yet you’re talking like it’s not your fault!”

“yeah?” you challenge with a raise of brows, “well the sect is better off without her anyway! all she ever did was get high and harass the kids and schmooze up to the patrols. she threw people into the cage for a fucking carrot from the higher-ups. yeah, maybe she’s dead. so. fucking. what.”

for a second, it looks like taehyung’s about to hit you, but then his rage boils over into a scream of frustration. before you know it, his hands are at your throat, squeezing hard. your nails dig into his skin, and you fight with all the energy you have left, kicking him in the stomach until he’s forced to step back, groaning when his head hits the wall behind him.

he's lunging at you again, but this time you're prepared and meet him with a sharp fist to the face. you can feel the warm trickle of a few stray drops of blood dripping from his nose, but it doesn't deter you from delivering another blow.

but taehyung’s not done. his eyes are wild, and you know he’s not going to stop until something breaks.

"stop!" gyuri sobs, covering her face so she doesn't have to see the two of you fighting. "just fucking stop! we can't fight like this when we're so far from home. you two are the only ones with a semblance of an idea of what the fuck we're doing, so just stop!"

the fourth of you, nobu, nods in agreement, his arms crossed and a contemplative shadow draped over his features. "she's right, you know. we've made it too far to start infighting. that's gonna get us killed. we need to figure out what we're doing next."

with a sigh, your hands fall to your side, gaze flicking to taehyung to watch as he wipes at his bleeding nose. with an apologetic smile, you extend an arm towards him, an offer of an olive branch.

it stings when he slaps it away.

"whatever," he murmurs, not once letting his eyes move to where you are. "nobu's right. we need a move."

there's a myriad of different thoughts in your head right now, body slinking further into the shadows as you finally allow yourself to collapse and focus on something other than the tense edge in all of your muscles.

like the sight of the woman's lifeless eyes. or taehyung's fury. or what the fuck you're supposed to do now. you can't go home for a while, patrol cars will be roaming the streets like guard dogs, and it's only a matter of time before the guards will start hunting every street in the inner sect in search of the four of you.

you sigh, exhaustion seeping into your bones.

"first thing's first," you murmur, closing your eyes and trying to quell your growing headache. "we need to ditch what we're wearing. that's the first thing they'll recognise."

there's different sounds of approval, and a begrudging grunt from taehyung, and the decision is unanimous.

your clothing raid had been successful, you and the others managing to grab some things from a box behind one of the more high end boutiques after you'd roamed around a few of the back allies.

it's only now you realise how different the inner sect is from the valley, after the fog's cleared and your hands are shoved into the pockets of your dress pants.

the buildings were massive, for one.

where the valley had crumbling old bungalows and a few basement houses, the inner circle was filled with skyscraper after skyscraper. looking at any building had you straining your neck, the the glassed windows were so reflective, the sun practically blaring into your eyes from every angle.

it's better if you keep your head down, anyway. your clothing was innocuous enough for you to blend in with the crowd so long as your face isn't fully visible.

that's another thing. the clothing.

you'd seen suits of course. the patrol governed your city adorned in the black textile from head to toe. but to see everyone dressed so formally, women in long dark coats and men with vests and cuffed shirts, makes your skin crawl with discomfort.

you'd wear the same pair of tatted jeans for weeks at a time, the only wardrobe rotation being the communal clothes you and your crew would share and swap.

at some point, the four of you had split up. you'd all find a place to stay for the night, and meet back up at the alley in the morning to debrief and decide what to do next. another unanimous agreement.

finding a place to sleep for one would be easier than finding a place for four.

you know that's what you should've been doing, but something about the casino's bright lights and loud music has you almost immediately gravitating towards it.

there's a bouncer at the door, and for a moment your heart drops, but as you approach he simply gives you a nod and allows you in.

for the first time since your arrival in the inner sect, you feel yourself relax.

almost instinctively, your hand drifts to the back pocket of your borrowed pants, fingers brushing the fabric in search of a cigarette. when they come up empty, you huff in quiet frustration, the realization striking a little harder than you’d like. right. those were left behind—along with just about everything else that tied you to the valley.

you’re still caught in the thought when a hand extends toward you out of nowhere. the sudden movement sends a cold surge of panic through your veins, and you whirl around with wide eyes. The crowd blurs for a moment as your gaze locks on the figure in front of you—a dark haired man standing far too close.

his expression holds no malice. if anything, there’s amusement dancing in his eyes, as though startling you was an intentional act of mischief. the corner of his mouth lifts into a casual smirk, and he tilts his head slightly, like he’s trying to decide whether you’re a puzzle worth solving. his hand remains outstretched, unwavering. he gives it a slight shake, and only then do you notice what he’s holding.

it’s a silver cigarette case, polished enough that the casino’s lights shimmer across its surface.

for a brief moment, you see your own reflection in it—wide eyed and slightly on edge, a sharp contrast to the man's easy demeanour. he tilts the case open with one hand, revealing a neatly arranged row of cigarettes nestled inside. the gesture is smooth, practiced, like it’s something he’s done a thousand times before.

“need one?” he asks, his voice low and rich, carrying just enough charm to make you wonder if this interaction is as accidental as it seems.

no, thanks, you almost decline, but your hand moves on its own and picks up one of the cancer sticks with a familiarity all too strange considering the stranger you're taking them from.

"have you got a—"

"lighter?" the man interjects, and he retrieves the small metal tool from his breast pocket, yet again holding it out to you.

you take it with a grateful skepticism.

the man chuckles at your sidewards glances, his smile all to warm and all too charming. it's uncanny, and the weight of his gaze makes your skin almost crawl.

with the cigarette lit and placed lazily between your lips, you pass him back the lighter, and he takes it, eyes shifting from your hand to your face. "i don't think i've seen you in here before," he muses with a short hum. "you not from around here?"

you don't respond, taking a long drag of your cigarette and rushing for an answer that won't land you in deep shit.

"i uh... i'm from the other side of the city. i don't usually come out this far," you bluff with an exhale of smoke, hoping your voice doesn't sound as shaky as you feel. "it kinda of just drew me in."

another hum from the stranger, and he plucks the cigarette from your fingers to place it between his own, and a shiver runs down your spine at the intimate contact.

"could tell you're not from here. your pockets are probably emptier than your purse, hm?" he inhales a cloud of smoke, and you watch as it pours from his nose when the cigarette is passed back. "have you ever even been to a casino, miss?"

you answer honestly. "no."

the man exhales slowly, his smoke mingling with the flashing lights and hum of conversation around you. he studies you for a moment longer, his gaze lingering just enough to make you feel uncomfortably exposed. then, without a word, he slips a hand into his coat pocket.

when it reemerges, he’s holding a neat stack of bills, bound with a thin band. your stomach tightens at the sight of it. he peels off two crisp hundred-dollar notes and presses them into your hand.

"here," he says, his tone easy, like this is the most normal thing in the world. "consider it a welcome gift."

you stare at the money, blinking in confusion. it feels heavy in your hand, heavier than it should, and for a moment, you consider handing it back. "i—why?"

you've never seen so much money in your life. in the valley, all exchanges were done with rusty coins older than the houses themselves. seeing bills for the first time is an almost out of body experience.

you try to school your shock into a more nonchalant expression.

his smirk deepens, and he nods toward the rows of slot machines lining the casino floor. "because watching you wander around clueless is almost painful," he teases, a glint of amusement in his eye. "come on. i'll show you how to use one of these."

before you can protest, he lightly grips your elbow and steers you toward one of the machines. the screen glows bright, its colors shifting in hypnotic patterns. coins and lights jingle in unison, the allure of chance pulling at your senses.

the man stops in front of a sleek black-and-gold machine and gestures for you to sit. hesitant, you lower yourself onto the cushioned stool, the leather creaking faintly under your weight. he leans against the machine beside you, his posture loose, the picture of confidence.

"alright," he begins, sliding one of the bills into the machine’s slot with practiced ease. The screen comes alive, displaying an absurd number of credits. "this one’s simple. all you have to do is press the button."

you glance at him skeptically. "that’s it?"

"that's it," he confirms with a grin. "but don’t let the simplicity fool you. these things will eat your money faster than you can blink if you’re not careful."

you hover your finger over the glowing button, hesitant. "and if I win?"

he chuckles, the sound low and rich, as though the idea itself amuses him. "then you might just owe me a drink."

you scoff at that. as fucking if.

but against your better judgment, you press the button. the machine whirs to life, its reels spinning in a blur of bright symbols. your heart skips as you watch them slow, each one ticking into place.

the man watches too, his expression unreadable, and for a fleeting moment, you can’t tell if he’s helping you—or setting you up for something you can’t quite see.

the reels slow one by one, their bright symbols clinking into place like tiny bursts of fate being decided. a lemon, a cherry, a golden bar—your breath catches as the last reel spins just a little longer, teasing you. finally, it lands on another golden bar.

lights explode from the machine in a dazzling display, and an obnoxiously cheerful chime erupts, signaling a small but thrilling win. the credits on the screen climb higher, and for a moment, you’re caught between disbelief and elation.

the man beside you laughs softly, leaning in just enough for you to catch the faint scent of smoke and cologne. "beginner’s luck," he says with a smirk, but the glint in his eye makes you wonder if luck had anything to do with it.

he pauses for a moment, and you feel his eyes rake over you in a way that hard your skin crawling. then another drag of the cigarette—your cigarette, that he never gave back—before he clears his throat.

"you said you're not from this part of town, right?"

shit, shit, shit. you're fucked.

still, you give a polite nod, keeping your face as even as you can.

he leans in closer still, and you can feel the almost burning touch of his hands keeping him held up on your shoulders, his breath coming out in hot puffs against your ear.

what. the fuck.

"those clothes..." he whispers, lips barely ghosting the skin of your earlobe as one of his hands pull at your dress shirt's collar. "they're from a boutique downtown, can't be bought anywhere else."

you scoff. "my clothes are none of your business," you snap, body tense and your eyes trained forward. don't look at him.

the man chuckles again, but instead of leaning closer he finally pulls away. "quite the opposite," he muses, tapping his cigarette against the back of your chair. "those clothes are from my business."

oh, you're mega fucked.

your legs almost push up on instinct, your body filling with an overwhelming urge to just fucking run.

but a hand on your shoulder stops you. "relax, little miss," he reassures, but his tone of voice is anything but kind. "i won't tell if you won't. call it our little secret, hm?"

your breath stutters, and you try to gauge if he's lying, your hands gripping the edge of the stool so tightly your knuckles ache. "why would you care?" you mutter, staring at the floor to avoid his gaze.

you've stolen from this man. and he knows. and now he's holding it over your head.

he doesn’t answer immediately, taking his time with the cigarette before flicking the ash to the ground like he owns the place. he probably does. when he finally speaks, his tone has shifted, smooth and cool but with an edge that feels like a warning. "because I make it my business to know everything that happens in prometheus."

his hand slides off your shoulder, and he steps back just enough to let you breathe, though the weight of his presence remains. then, extending the hand not occupied by the cigarette, he offers a slow, deliberate smile. "min yoongi," he says, as if it’s a name you’re supposed to recognize. "emissary of the prometheus region. and you are?"

the introduction is almost casual, but the title lingers in the air like a dagger above your head. you blink, trying to mask the churn of your thoughts, and push the stool back slightly, standing up. "i don’t have a name," you say flatly, though your voice wavers just enough to betray you.

yoongi arches an eyebrow, his smirk deepening as if your defiance is more entertaining than offensive. "mysterious," he murmurs. "i’ll take that as a ‘you don’t trust me yet.’ fair enough."

he reaches into his jacket pocket, pulling out a sleek, black wallet. before you can say a word, he’s fished out another thick stack of bills, folding several into a neat pile. "here," he says, holding the money out to you. "enough to get you a room for the night. you look like you need it."

you stare at the money, blinking in confusion, and you stammer. "why?"

yoongi shrugs, already turning to leave. "let’s call it an investment," he says over his shoulder. "we’ll see if you pay it back someday."

the air feels heavier as yoongi's figure fades behind you, his casual farewell lingering like an aftertaste you can’t shake. the casino is alive with noise—coins clattering, glasses clinking, laughter rising above it all—but it’s muffled now, distant, as though you’re hearing it through water.

each step you take feels both too quick and agonizingly slow, your body moving on autopilot while your mind races.

you don’t look back. you can’t. you don’t need to confirm whether his eyes are still on you, though you can feel the weight of them, like an itch at the nape of your neck. were you too obvious? did you flinch? say too much? you replay the interaction in fragments, searching for cracks, for missteps, for anything that could have given you away.

the chill of his calm voice gnaws at you: “those clothes are from my business.”

how much did he notice? the question pounds in your head, over and over. what was he thinking?

the fluorescent lights of the restroom hit your face too suddenly, harsh and unforgiving. you stumble to the nearest sink, gripping the edge as if it might steady the turmoil inside you. you raise your eyes to the mirror but immediately regret it.

the reflection is foreign. your face looks ghostly, gaunt—like you’ve been pulled too tight and might snap at any second. you shake your head and lower your gaze. don’t think about that now. focus.

you’re fine. he didn’t do anything. if he knew, he would’ve said something.

but would he? he didn’t need to. the way he looked at you was enough to strip you bare, like he could see every secret, every stolen scrap.

you splash cold water on your face, letting the shock of it clear the static in your mind. the water drips down, leaving streaks across the stolen fabric you’re still wearing. you stare at it, swallowing hard.

you have to hold it together. you can’t afford to fall apart here.

forcing your breathing to slow, you take one last glance at the mirror. it’s not reassurance you’re looking for—it’s resolve. you’ve survived worse. you’ll survive this.

you turn, the tiled floor cold beneath your feet as you slink into a stall and lock the door. pulling down the seat, you collaps onto the closed toilet, letting out a shaky breath.

the money is still in your hand, crisp and alien, as though it belongs to another life entirely. you shove it into your pocket before leaning your head back against the wall, closing your eyes. for the first time since you entered the inner sect, the adrenaline begins to ebb, replaced by an exhaustion so deep it feels like it’s carved into your bones.

the distant hum of the casino fades as your body gives in, and before you know it, sleep pulls you under, the cold, hard memory of the day melting into a fitful, uneasy rest.

A/N: i have never been to a casino so i have no idea how the machines actually work, but i tried my best!! there's a lot of things that need to be expanded on but i just wanted to get some worldbuilding done first :)

taglist: simply send an ask or reply if you want to be part of the taglist!! @wobblewobble822

[invega-sustenna]

Okay, so drabbles are one thing, but this is my first time writing smut, so be easy on me.

+18 MDNI

ii × female reader

P in V, unprotected (please only do this if you're trying), degradation, use of one singular BDSM apparatus, possessive sex, marking, a hint of praise kink if you really, really squint.

Big thanks to @365granitegirlx for proofreading this catastrophe <3

It was already November, the tour was starting, and ii was adamant that he leave with a memory to jerk it to. You always did like doggy style, so how could you deny your throbbing cunt and the smoldering Dom look in ii's eyes? ii didn't even wait to lead you up to your plush bed. He whined that he couldn't wait any longer and that he needed you now. He dragged you to the first room without windows and instructed you to strip. Your cheek pressed against the tiling, while your pussy was presented in the chilly kitchen air. As he gently placed ankle and ankle, wrist and wrist in the restraints connected to the spreader bar he brought home that he said he'd bought specifically for your pleasure, his coos and soft caresses turned into a harsh smack on your bottom. With a strong grip and twist of your hair, and with a force he had never used on you, he smashed your face into the kitchen tile as he yanked his joggers down. “You're gonna be a good slut, yeah? Just my little slut this time? I heard you were making eyes at the crew.” Before you could protest your innocence, you felt his cockhead glide ever so slowly between your folds as he breathlessly chuckled. Your juices were already running down your inner thighs and there was no way of hiding it. “So desperate to be fucked, love? I bet anyone would do.” ii stilled as a horrifying thought crossed his mind. “Don't bother visiting me while I'm on tour. Don't you dare, you fucking whore. You'll just end up fucking one of my bandmates. You'd fucking love that, wouldn't you, you fucking community cocksleeve!” Without further warning, ii thrust into your unprepared pussy. You shrieked as he laughed. “As long as I have you first, they can have my sloppy seconds,” he murmured darkly as he kept a pace of slowly drawing himself out of your already abused cunt, then gripping your hips hard enough to draw blood in crescent moons as he slammed himself back in. You mewled, you whined, and you panted every time he took a moment to bring himself back from the brink of filling up your pussy, once he found a steady rhythm of barely rubbing up against your G-spot to tease you; to make you pay for crimes you hadn't committed, it mostly just made you moan his name mixed with, “Don't stop, please don't fucking stop. Fuck, ii. Please.” 

No matter what mood ii was ever in, he was a sucker for your pleas. “Whatever my slut desires,” he whispered as he leaned in and placed a chaste kiss to the small of your back. ii didn't even need to leave that position to have you screaming his name as he rut into you like a wild animal. 

“Say it. Say it, kitten. Who do you belong to? Hmm?” Your head was pulled back this time by the same grip and twist of ii's hand while the other was wrapped around your throat, making you lightheaded and euphoric. A triumphant smirk plastered his face and he felt your cunt clench around his twitching cock. He slowed his thrusts. Even though he had slowed, looking at you in your fucked out state had him ready to blow. Your eyes glazed over with tears streaming down, how red and swollen your cheek was after being smashed against the marble and grout, and how throughout all of it, your hands had done nothing but reach for him, had his cock throbbing. It wouldn't be much longer. 

“Yours, Daddy. All yours.” Came a shaky voice barely above a whisper. ii shuddered and let out an involuntary groan. He didn't know how much longer he could stave off his orgasm, but he was certain he was giving his good girl one with him.

“Say it again, love.” He resumed his relentless pace, keeping one hand clutching your hip while the other snaked under you to rub messy circles on your sensitive nub. ii was no longer looking to punish, he just needed two things: he needed to hear those words from you again, and fuck, was he going to do his best to have you writhing on the floor; making a mess with him. 

“Say it!” ii jammed himself against your G-spot mercilessly, and you felt like all you could do was scream and cry in bliss.

“You, ii. Jus’ you. Always. Jus’ love you.”

ii sighed in relief. “Good girl.” 

White heat struck your core at the sound of his words of endearment as you chanted his name along with ramblings of I love you's as you fell apart. ii had withdrawn his cock and was pumping himself slowly, unwilling to cum until he watched you break before him, but when he knew he could no longer hold back he lunged forward. 

Mimicking your position above you except with his one hand planted on the ground with a fistful of your hair, yanking your head to the side, and the other stroking his cock. “Mine.” You had one second to feel him spasm above you and something hot and sticky being spurt on your back before you felt his teeth sink into the juncture between your neck and shoulder. The sounds you both released were nothing short of guttural. ii wanted nothing more than to continue to bite, suck, lick, and nibble his claim on you, but his body said otherwise and he had two seconds before he collapsed upon you instead of the floor beside you. Pants and sighs of satisfaction were all that filled the air. When he finally had the guts to look you in the eye, there was nothing but love. Both of you wore soft, worn out smiles. “I love you, and I'm sor-” 

“How about you unlock me and make it up to me by running me a lavender and calendula bath and then cuddles until we fall asleep, yeah?” 

ii chuckled, “Do I get to kiss you?” 

“Depends on how well you cuddle.”

[harlothane]

Theon and Fear - And at the end of fear...

George R R Martin’s ASOIAF focuses on the "human heart at war with itself". In doing so, it provides a compelling, complex and deeply touching exploration of human emotions. One of the dominant emotions the characters are faced with is fear.

I especially love how fear is shown in Theon's storyline. His backstory and the events unfolding in his six Clash of Kings chapters and seven Dance with Dragons chapters, taken alone, constitute a raw, emotional and unsettling account on the many faces of fear. What it does to people. How it changes them, motivates them, corrupts them and may regenerates them.

“Can a man still be brave if he’s afraid?”

“That is the only time a man can be brave.”

There is no need for a long look at Theon’s storyline to see in which ways Eddard Stark’s infamous moral lesson applies to his struggles. Here is a character that commits crimes in the beginning of his storyline, goes through hell because of his misguided choices (led by his fear), finds his courage as he faces true terror and accomplishes one of the most selfless and brave acts in the series to save a girl.

I do feel like I’m missing pieces of the puzzle writing that, aren’t I?

The misstep, I think, is to draw too hastily a parallel between Theon and the other Winterfell boys around his age – Robb and Jon (it's a common issue in fandom and actually had a negative impact on the reading of Theon's storyline, I think. Read : x).

Unlike them, at the beginning of the story, Theon already knows fear. Both Jon and Robb had a decent, secure childhood. While Jon surely has grounds to feel dissatisfied with what life has to offer a bastard like him, he did not grow up in fear. At the age of nine, he probably had faced rejection, loneliness and disdain. But not true, traumatizing fear like nine-year old Theon had to.

19 year-old Theon in Winterfell has already been scarred by fear. He is not a knight of summer in that regard, as his entire personality is a product of fear, to the point where it becomes hard to pinpoint what his true self consists of exactly (that becomes evident as we are invited to his internal monologue in Clash, which is full of inconsistencies, rewrites and contradictions related to the way he sees himself).

We know for certain that, as the story begins, Theon is already familiar with the fear of rejection and humiliation (inflicted by his brothers and felt as an outsider in the North), the fear of losing his loved ones and his home (inflicted by war and the soldiers fighting that war) and some repressed kind of fear related to Euron and possibly his magic. He’s been abused and is still suffering from the lingering fear of death, cultural isolation/exclusion and loneliness.

What fascinates me with this storyline especially is that there is never an easy answer. It is a feature of ASOIAF as a whole, to be frank. I suppose that as a horror genre lover, I am especially drawn to the way Theon's story deals with fear. How it corrupts, how it paralyzes, how it regenerates.

Fear as corruption.

Theon, a “shy” child, “in awe” of his brothers, has crafted a personality to guard himself against the threats most frightful to him (humiliation, being unloved and unwanted, abandonment).

A personality that existed to guard himself against the world and more precisely, the men in power who could use him. A personality tailored to please his captors and his father, the ones his life depended on. His clothes, in this regard, are another part of the armor. Their purpose is to please, seduce or appease the ones whose approval Theon needs at the moment (though I truly do believe he likes his velvelt and silks, he still immediately suggests his father that he would change it if it would please him).

Living with those fears of being unloved and unwanted changed him profoundly as harrowing experiences always do. Fear is the one constant in his early life. His personality developed around it.

Theon mimics Dagmer Cleftjaw’s smiles because the warrior was one of the bravest men he knew in his early days and a hostage far from home needs to channel that tough, invulnerable spirit.

Theon was a child who lived in awe of his violent brothers, so as a young man he acts accordingly, as if spilling blood makes you worthy, as if life were a game to win no matter the cost for the weak and innocent (no matter the price children and mothers pay, no matter the price he himself paid for his father’s ambition!).

I know the Theon we meet in Clash isn’t the most agreeable person ever. It’s the point.

In truth, he is a hardly a person. As in, a human entity with consistent memories to ground him (even before Dance, he represses memories, seems to have forgotten a great deal about the Iron Islands and I believe we may learn more about this in Winds), and autonomous desires and hopes (in spite of himself, he is constantly trying to fit the expectations of the men he fears/wants to emulate – Eddard and Balon).

Even the way he expresses his sexual/sensual desires feels at times as a performance meant to impress or prove a point… read : x or x).

He doesn’t even have a future, and he knows that deep down. As Robb is crowned though and devise a plan with him to ally himself with the Islands, Theon’s hopes rose up and that is how suddenly there was in the sky a comet that heralded his bright future.

He seems like a “closed book” to the world around him, but he was more of a blank page, really.

A mess of fears stitched together with a smile. Fear really is the constant.

What would you do, if you were constantly afraid? Cut from the rare people and places that gave you a sense of security?

What would you do, if – that’s the greatest irony – you were surrounded by people who thought of you as a thing to be feared, an animal to be tamed.

Interestingly, Theon is known to be brave in battle, perhaps even reckless. Robb states it plainly: “Theon has fought bravely for us.” Dagmer Cleftjaw knows Theon “is no craven”. In Winterfell, he is ready to die with the few men who stayed with him.

Being shaped by fear did not make him a coward. It made him desperate and unreasonable. For one, Theon knows fear intimately and there is no greater terror than the unknown, after all. He knows war. He knows death. He is still haunted by the battle of Pyke.

Still, he is eager to march with Robb’s army. Still, he wishes he could have faced Jaime Lannister on the battlefield. And still, he would have died for Robb, he would have died for his father.

He shouldn’t be so eager to march with an army led by the people who hurt his own family so deeply. War traumatized him already. It separated him from his family. It obliterated his future, destroyed his prospects. But his fear of humiliation, rejection, loneliness – it overtakes all. Then again, I understand that Theon in Clash can be difficult to empathize with to some, but if you read his reaction with the knowledge that this is a person who is constantly in a state of true, agonizing fear, I think it changes your perspective a little.

The horrible outcome of all this is that by trying so desperately not to be seen as a weak thing people can use for their political gain, Theon becomes it. For Ramsay and Roose. That is not karma. That is the definition of a tragedy.

It has been said before: Ramsay is a secondary-(tertiary) character, he exists to embody Theon’s worst sins and fears. That is his nightmare, breathing and living and flaying every piece of a carefully crafted personality Theon made in the North to stop being afraid, to reclaim power and control over his fate.

Fear didn’t allow him to be brave. It made him desperate, easy to manipulate. He takes Winterfell in a foolish attempt to be the person he thinks he must become. The self-made Prince. The heir who returned in glory. A worthy son of Balon Greyjoy.

That is the story he tells himself and others. In truth, it becomes apparent he took Winterfell in a desperate attempt to make his “almost-home” his at last.

In a desperate attempt to belong somewhere he could have everything – power and recognition and love. It is the type of extreme decision you make when you let fear overtake your reason. Any other choice would have been more reasonable. It wouldn’t have saved him from fear, though.

Most of Theon’s bad choices are a result of fear. It made him crave power with the same intensity as he secretly wanted love and recognition. In Clash, Winterfell itself, the castle, its people, embody his fear of rejection, of being unloved and unwanted. He represses it. Until he can't escape it even in his dreams.

The two desires, to have agency/power and love, clash violently in Winterfell, an arc in which Theon’s starts to completely unravel as he does everything in his power to be a hard man like his father, like Eddard (no matter how contradictory), while spying the tiniest hint of affection or gratefulness in his captives’ eyes.

After all, in his own experience, it is possible for a captive to admire and crave his captor’s love.

To want to help them. To be part of their family. And he seemed to expect the same from the people of Winterfell. Even in Dance (because torture doesn’t erase your past trauma!), he still believes he could have reasonably expected them to help him

His constant fear has twisted his view on loyalty (you cannot be loyal to someone who imprisons you), love and desire (he links lust and violence), power and justice (“hard men rule the world”).

It corrupts his desires, even. Of all the sexual encounters, or thoughts, he has, none seems genuine with the exception of Esgred, who is not a real person but the embodiment of the nonchalant, confidant attitude he wishes he could adopt as easily. She is everything he cannot be. She belongs. She commands respect. She has a family. And as she divulges her real identity to him, Asha becomes someone to fear. She is in his place. She is him, the heir, the son, while he is nothing and nobody.

Fear as a paralyzer

It is not surprising that Theon would smother from early on the parts of his personality that made him sensitive to fear.

His need to belong brings only fear (he will never be part of the Stark family, but he still dreams of it until he buries that dream as well).

His empathy brings only fear (he demonstrates in Dance his ability to connect with broken people used by the ones in power he could have shared experiences with but couldn’t because of his fear of humiliation).

It shows one limit to Eddard’s reasoning. Fear, sometimes, changes you in such a way that it hinders your ability to be brave (as in, to make the most moral choice against your own immediate interest).

Growing up with constant fear drove Theon to stifle his empathy, making it hard for him to protect other people, as you would expect from a prisoner whose life is a bargaining chip that hinges on his father’s and his captor’s will, from a man who cannot even help himself.

Growing up in constant fear jeopardized Theon’s ability to make long-term, realistic plans for his future, as he barely has any stable support to hold onto. His entire existence does not belong to him. NB: In this regard, it is logical that most characters he is paralleled with throughout his story (Jeyne P, Barbrey, the dead lady Hornwood, Holly who has the same cocky smile and arrogance as his old self, Alannys with her white hair and even Dany…) are women, who are more likely to be stripped of agency, must fight to claim autonomy and struggle to regain a semblance of control over their destiny.

He has many faults, though it cannot be said in my opinion that he did have a good choice to make and that he simply chose wrong by trying to please his father. There were only bad roads that led to imprisonment, death or ruin for him. Theon realizes this in Dance: he cannot bring himself to imagine a bright future. No, he regrets not to have died with Robb. He knows his path was filled with fear either way.

Fear is a paralyzer. It does, in a sense, alter Theon’s capacity to grow and evolve.

Fear makes him an apt survivor (he’d survive a horror movie in messy “final girl” fashion), with a great potential for adaptation. But it corrupted him in the process. Led him to embrace a (faux) cynical attitude, to be over-zealous with his own captors to the point of risking his life for them and most of all, to opt for cruelty over mercy contrary to his own (sometimes contradictory) values – in Winterfell, he hurt others, and it haunts him, but he stands by his choices.

His fear of being mocked, used and humiliated drowns every other motivator.

He is so afraid to be seen as he thinks the men of the world want to paint him: a weak creature to be used. Someone who needs to bargain and submit to keep his life. It is rather in line with his way of thinking that he would consider himself a whore after Ramsay subjected him to his power and abuse in Dance.

“Only a fool humbles himself when the world is so full of men eager to do that job for him.”

That’s it, that’s the philosophy. Theon has his moments of incredible self-awareness, and this is one, hidden beneath some moral lesson as a pretext.

It shows that:

He has a bleak, but rather realistic view relating to most men in power. They will abuse it. They will humiliate the weakest. They will do so eagerly.

He hasn’t met Ramsay at that point. He may instead be thinking of his brothers, of the lords who humiliated his defeated father, of his own father maybe, or perhaps (in my opinion) Euron.

His arrogance is a deliberate strategy designed to avoid the fate reserved to the most fragile people.

He doesn’t judge the men who abuse their power but doesn’t seem to view them in a positive light. Still, consciously or not, Theon sometimes acts like those men. Since he is mostly deprived of real political or military power, he does it in the context of his sexual relationships (that deserves an analysis, especially regarding how sexuality in his chapters is so often if not always depicted in a negative, degrading manner.). It’s a “eat or be eaten” kind of mentality he is struggling with during his Clash arc.

Fear instructs him to repress the slightest sign of weakness. There cannot be true loyalty, love or desire in such a state. You survive. You are barely living. You just survive.

The rare sincere relationships he forms are short-lived – Patrek Mallister is the son of an enemy family; Robb Stark cannot ever be his equal; his bond with Asha is poisoned by envy and fear, again, of his place being stolen by her.

Theon’s mind favors denial/dissociation and repression as a defense mechanism. It doesn't exactly help him to form sincere relationships with people. It’s a motif throughout his storyline that echoes the stakes relating to Ironborn culture in the story (they must remember their history or they’re condemned to repeat it – that’s the symbolic role of Rodrik the Reader in Asha’s storyline).

Most times, he tends to rewrite reality - consciously or not. Of course, he will be welcomed by Balon Greyjoy! Of course, his traditionalist father will agree to submit to Robb Stark! Of course, he, the hostage, will be given Asha's place that she (of course!) stole from him! Of course, he is destined to be one of those hard men who rule the world, not an eternal victim! Of course, he is not afraid, and even if he is, even brave men feel agonizing fear about other men seeing their weaknesses!

We soon discover how fragile this mechanism really is. The façade cracks more often than Theon would like. There are many instances of this, especially in his conversation with Dagmer ("I know you are no craven" "Does my father?") and Rodrik Cassel ("The noose I wore was not made of hempen rope but it chafed, it chafed me raw"). Worst of all, he allows Reek/Ramsay to amplify his fear. When I write "allow", I do not mean he did it on purpose naturally. But he is the one who freed Reek/Ramsay. He opened the door to a living nightmare. Reek/Ramsay quite literally haunts him in his Clash chapters.

What he cannot rewrite, Theon represses. It does not seem like it at first glance because he is prone to reckless decisions. It can lead one to categorize him as a vain egomaniac, not as a repressed person. His promiscuity doesn’t help, since we are wired to associate repression and modesty.

It is true terror that he is obligated to repress - and it is what comes flowing unbridled as he loses his armor in Dance. This kind of dread is mostly associated with Ramsay (there are so many instances I won't even go into it) and, well, Euron (the slight unease Theon felt about his uncle during ACOK can - and must - certainly be revisited with our current knowledge about him, the fact that in ASOS it is established that Theon revealed awful details about his uncle to Robb, and the now evident parallels between Aeron and Theon).

Fear as a regenerative force

In Dance, the "dread" Theon feels in the crypt of Winterfell is "familiar". And I think you can see it as his fear of being unwanted. Of belonging nowhere.

It makes sense: Theon fears what he truly is. A prisoner, a scared child and a pawn for men to use in their plans. It is the truth he can never escape, no matter how perfectly he plays the Hard Powerful Masculine Man.

Fear pursues him all his life. It is only when he has no fear left to feel (it was all spent in a cell of the Dreadfort; all his fear is caught by Ramsay, who is the embodiment of Theon’s insecurities) that he shows his more empathetic and gentle nature – although he still feels anger, bitterness and the occasional dread, of course.

Still, it is not a bed of roses. Theon is certainly more sincere. He is not putting on a performance for himself. When he lies, he is terribly conscious of it. He doesn’t manage to repress his traumatic memories anymore. It all comes back, flooding. Even such buried memories as the ones related to Euron.

In a way, Winterfell acts in his story as the theatre scene, the place where you can finally be yourself. I wrote a bit about this here. It serves as a catharsis for Theon. In Winterfell, he is able to find pieces of himself. Pieces he had forgotten. He starts to remember the childhood he had buried ("A son of the Islands" / the Euron related reaction in Winds).

Fear had been eating away at him. Fear had been controlling him, at times. Not that he wasn't responsible, but he certainly let himself be overcome by his crippling fear of humiliation (which, sidenote, I don't believe stems only from his status as a hostage but that is another story).

Fear had been breaking him piece by piece since childhood. Just like the rat he eats at the start of Dance - it had been eating him first! He had to defend himself against the threats even if it meant hurting and killing in the process.

It is in Winterfell that he finally confront his fears - that he meets the one essential fear he had been trying to escape: himself.

The lies become a motif, even. “False is all you were.” Theon never lied as a manipulator would, though. Most times, he does not seem to understand the coherence (or lack thereof) of his own actions – which is also a side effect of fear (or to be precise, the fear caused by childhood mistreatment). It causes confusion, alters your awareness and hinders such abilities as analysis and planning.

However flawed Theon was, he was a prince, he was a warrior and a friend, he was handsome, he took care of his clothes and weapons, he saw a comet and decided it shone for him. He wasn’t much of a real, sincere, coherent person, but it was the most functional version of himself he managed to be in his situation.

The man he pretended to be could never have survived the Dreadfort, though. He had to disappear. Was he even real? The façade barely made it through his Prince of Winterfell era. Chances are, had he escaped Ramsay, Theon would still have been forced to confront his true self one way or another.

He is stripped from all his usual defense mechanisms in a horrific torture labyrinth. He becomes the weak thing he always feared he’d be seen as. He cannot hide. He cannot lie. He cannot even smile.

Every single fear he ever had becomes his new reality.

Humiliation: check.

Being controlled and used as a thing: check.

Mockery and disregard: check.

Friendless and abandoned: check.

To escape from fear, he can only repeat the partition he learnt as a child hostage: apply the rules of the people who can cut off your head at any time, and be the well-behaved prisoner so you can rise again later and impress every the ones in power who can share their power with you (a very Ironborn strategy, actually).

Except, there is no escape this time. The flaying knife has cut through the armor Theon had crafted for himself. He has no way out (another motif throughout his storyline). He has no secrets left and no smile to hide behind. He cannot forget his status as Ramsay’s pet by exerting power onto others. He is the very last creature on the food chain this time.

And so, there is nothing to fear anymore.

The Dance chapters are filled with terror and dread, until Theon pieces himself together. Then he regains some composure, purpose and faith, even. He finds his courage within himself, where it always existed, in truth. And, in Jeyne, he finds a motivation. Saving her, a child prisoner, abused and terrorized, he also saves what little of himself he can.

The only time he can truly be brave is when he doesn’t have to fear becoming fully himself at last. Whatever that means, in the end. At the end of fear, something must remain. Something must be rebuilt. Piece by piece.

[moon-lit-petal]

From Chaos to Comfort Pt3

George Weasley x Fem!Hufflepuff!Reader

Summery: George becomes acutely awear that sometimes, people aren't the biggest fans of his and Freds pranks.

Warning: enemies to lovers(?) Angst, George fell hard and fast. I tried to do a slow burn but you can tell I gave up lol. Also, Y/N is a little mean to George Ngl

Word count: 2.7k

Notes: this is a bit of a rougher chapter, I'm aware, this was so hard to write for some reason

Part 1 Part 2 Part 4

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The Gryffindor common room buzzed with laughter, loud conversations, and the aftermath of another successful Quidditch match. At the center of it all was Fred, standing on a chair, reliving the moment of Y/N's humiliation as if it were the highlight of the day. His boisterous voice echoed, the exaggerated retelling drawing cheers and more laughter from their friends.

But George sat in the corner, every word hitting him like a punch. His jaw clenched, muscles tense, his eyes fixed on his twin brother. The laughter that usually felt like home now grated on his nerves, an ugly reminder of what Fred had done. George couldn’t take it anymore.

Slamming his hands on the arms of the chair, George shot up, his heart pounding in his chest. Without thinking, he stormed across the room, each step fueled by his growing anger.

“Fred!” George barked, cutting through the noise. The common room fell into a sudden, uncomfortable silence.

Fred, still standing on the chair, looked down at George, eyebrows raised. “What? You finally wanna join in? It was legendary, wasn’t it? Y/N’s face was—"

“Legendary?” George cut him off, his voice sharp, full of venom. “You think that was legendary? Humiliating her in front of the whole school?” His fists balled at his sides, the anger spilling out before he could stop himself.

Fred’s grin faltered, confusion spreading across his face. “Come on, George. It was just a prank—what’s gotten into you?”

George let out a harsh, bitter laugh. “What’s gotten into me? Fred, you’ve gone too far this time! Y/N’s not just some target for your stupid pranks!” His voice rose, filling the room. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

Fred hopped off the chair, his own frustration bubbling up. “George, it’s just for a laugh! Everyone here thinks it’s funny—why are you so bent out of shape over this?”

“Because it’s not funny to humiliate someone, Fred!” George snapped, stepping closer, his voice shaking with intensity. “It’s cruel! And you don’t even see it! You keep going on like everything’s a joke, but it’s not! Not to me, and definitely not to her.”

Fred’s eyes narrowed, defensive now. “Mate, we’ve always done this! You’re acting like I committed some crime! Y/N can handle it, she’s tough.”

“She shouldn’t have to handle it!” George nearly shouted, his patience fraying. “Do you know how much she hates us now? How much she hates me because she thinks I’m just like you?”

Fred blinked, thrown by the sudden intensity. “Wait, hates you? I don’t understand—why are you so worked up over this?”

George exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair as if trying to keep himself from exploding. His next words were thick with emotion. “Because, Fred… I care about her. More than I’ve ever cared about anyone. And you… you’re ruining everything.”

For a moment, Fred stood frozen, the weight of George’s confession hitting him like a hex. “You care about her?” he repeated, slowly, like the words didn’t make sense.

George took a step back, hands trembling with the force of what he’d just admitted. “Yeah. I do. And every time you pull these pranks, you push her further away. She thinks I’m just another part of your game.”

Fred shook his head, still not fully grasping the situation. “But… it’s just us having a laugh. I didn’t think it was a big deal.”

“A big deal?” George’s voice cracked. “Fred, I’m not you. I don’t want to spend my life making jokes at other people’s expense. I want her to see me for who I am, not who she thinks I am because of you.”

Fred stared at George, his smile long gone, replaced with something closer to guilt. “I didn’t know…” he muttered, finally starting to understand. “I didn’t mean to mess things up for you, George. I thought she… well, you know, I thought she could take it.”

“Well, she can’t!” George snapped. “And even if she could, it doesn’t make it right.”

Fred stood there, his shoulders slumping slightly, the reality of what George was saying settling in. “I didn’t realize you felt that way,” he said quietly. “I didn’t mean to hurt her, or you.”

George shook his head, the anger simmering down but not fully gone. “Just… stop, Fred. Stop with the pranks. Give her some space. I need to figure out how to fix this, and I can’t do that if you keep pulling this crap.”

Fred nodded, finally backing down, his usual humor replaced by a rare moment of sincerity. “Alright. I’ll back off. I didn’t mean to make things worse for you, George. I swear.”

George took a deep breath, the tension slowly easing from his shoulders. “I know,” he muttered, his voice softer now. “But this isn’t just about me. It’s about her. And I’m not going to stand by and watch you hurt her anymore.”

As Fred nodded again, George turned away, the weight of their conversation pressing down on him. He knew this was only the beginning—now came the harder part. Finding a way to show Y/N that he was different.

But for the first time in days, George felt like he could finally breathe.

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The Black Lake shimmered in the moonlight, its surface calm and quiet, a stark contrast to the whirlwind of emotions that had been swirling inside Y/N for hours. She sat on the edge of the dock, her arms wrapped around her knees as she stared out at the water, hoping for a moment of peace.

But peace had been elusive. The whispers and stares that followed her around the castle since the Quidditch match had made sure of that. Everywhere she went, people were talking about Fred’s prank, about her humiliation, and the confrontation between the twins that had somehow made things even worse. No matter where she turned, she couldn’t escape the gossip.

And then there was George.

The entire rest of the day, he had tried to approach her, to explain himself, but each time, she’d walked away. She didn’t want to hear any more excuses. The anger, the embarrassment, and the sting of betrayal still burned too deeply. She had avoided him at every opportunity, until now.

Footsteps crunched on the grass behind her, and she didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. Her heart quickened, and she immediately moved to stand, ready to walk away like she had every other time.

“Y/N, wait,” George’s voice called out, firm but pleading.

“I don’t want to hear it, George,” she snapped, not turning around. She stood up, preparing to leave, but then she realized the dock led to nowhere. Her escape route was cut off by the lake, and the only way back was through him.

She hesitated, torn between the urge to flee and the exhaustion of avoiding him for days. She took a step forward, determined to leave, but George reached out, his hand gently grasping her arm.

“Please,” he said softly, his grip firm but not forceful, just enough to stop her in her tracks. “Just hear me out.”

Y/N tensed, her body rigid as she kept her back to him. “Why should I? I’ve heard enough from everyone else. You, Fred—this whole school can’t stop talking about it. I don’t need to hear anything more.”

“Y/N…” George’s voice was low, pained, and for the first time, she heard something in it that made her pause—something raw, something that didn’t sound like the George she thought she knew. “This isn’t about what everyone else is saying. It’s about you and me.”

She clenched her jaw, trying to keep her walls up, but the gentle touch of his hand on her arm grounded her. Reluctantly, she turned to face him, though she kept her distance. His face was cast in the soft glow of the moon, and there was none of the usual mischief in his eyes. They were serious, filled with a vulnerability that caught her off guard.

“I’ve been trying to talk to you all day,” George began, his voice steady but laced with regret. “I know what Fred did was awful. I know you hate us both for it. But I need you to understand that I didn’t want this to happen. I never wanted to see you hurt like that.”

Y/N folded her arms over her chest, her expression guarded. “Then why didn’t you stop him? You’re his brother. You knew what he was planning, didn’t you?”

George shook his head, a frustrated sigh escaping his lips. “I didn’t know it would be that bad. Fred… he doesn’t always think about the consequences. And I should have stopped him. I should’ve done something sooner. But by the time I realized how much it was hurting you, it was too late.”

She looked away, her throat tightening with the memory of the laughter, the banner, the humiliation that had swallowed her whole. “Everyone’s talking about your little confrontation,” she muttered bitterly. “Like it’s some big story, as if it makes a difference.”

“It wasn’t about making a scene,” George said quietly, taking a cautious step closer. “I told Fred off because I couldn’t stand what he did to you. I care about you, Y/N. I’ve been a fool for letting things get this far. But I’m not him. I’m not part of those pranks anymore.”

Y/N’s heart raced, torn between the lingering hurt and the sincerity she saw in his eyes. She hated that she wanted to believe him, hated the way his words tugged at something deep inside her. “Why should I trust you now?” she asked, her voice shaking with the effort of holding back her emotions.

“Because I’m here,” George replied softly, his gaze unwavering. “I’m not running away or hiding behind jokes. I’m here, asking you to give me a chance to make things right. No more pranks, no more tricks—just me. The real me.”

Y/N stared at him, her defenses crumbling, but fear still clung to her. She didn’t know if she could let herself trust him, not after everything. But there was something in his eyes, something honest and vulnerable, that made her want to believe him.

“I don’t know if I can trust you,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the gentle lapping of the water.

George’s hand slid from her arm, and he took a step back, giving her space. “I understand,” he said softly. “But I’ll wait. I’ll be here whenever you’re ready.”

With that, he turned and began to walk away, leaving Y/N standing by the lake, her heart a tangled mess of emotions. As he disappeared into the night, she realized that for the first time in days, she didn’t feel the urge to run. Instead, she stood there, watching him go, her heart caught between the lingering pain and the faint flicker of hope.

---------

Y/N lay awake in her Hufflepuff dormitory, staring up at the ceiling as thoughts swirled around her like leaves caught in a gust of wind. The warmth and coziness of the room, usually a comfort, felt stifling tonight. Her roommates were asleep, but even surrounded by peers, she felt isolated, trapped in her own thoughts.

Her mind kept drifting back to the conversation by the Black Lake. George’s face, the raw sincerity in his eyes, and his words replayed on a loop, tangled with feelings she’d been trying to bury. she had been avoiding him, letting her anger and hurt take charge, and it had been exhausting. She was tired of running, but more than that, she was tired of feeling betrayed.

The prank had shattered her trust, and the embarrassment had made her want to hide. It wasn’t just the laughter that echoed in her mind; it was the betrayal, the way she had thought they were ‘kinda friends’ who would never cross that line. The realization that Fred had humiliated her while George had stood by made her question everything.

Y/N turned over in bed, clutching her pillow to her chest, her thoughts spiraling. Could she really trust George again?

He had seemed so sincere by the lake, different from the prankster she’d always known. The way he had looked at her—like she mattered, like he truly regretted what had happened—had stirred something in her, but the hurt still lingered. She hated that she wanted to believe him, but fear kept her from letting go of the past.

George had said he wasn’t part of the pranks anymore, that he was done with tricks, but how could she be sure? How could she let herself trust someone who had watched her hurt without stepping in?

“I care about you, Y/N.”

His words echoed in her mind, tugging at her heart. He had said he would wait, and that felt like a small comfort. But how long would she keep him waiting? She needed time to figure out if she could let go of the hurt, if she could open her heart again and let him prove he wasn’t just another prankster looking for laughs.

Deep down, she wanted to believe in second chances. But trust, once broken, wasn’t easy to rebuild. As she finally closed her eyes, the soft light from the enchanted lamps flickering like her uncertain thoughts, Y/N knew that this decision wouldn’t come easily. She would see where her heart led her, and tomorrow, she would take the first step toward deciding whether to confront George again or keep her distance. For now, she would let herself rest, knowing that the path forward was still unclear.

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Days have passed since the Quidditch match, and the atmosphere in the library is thick with unspoken words. Y/N sits at a table near the window, surrounded by stacks of books, but her focus drifts as sunlight dances across the pages. She tries to lose herself in her studies, but her mind is a tangled web of confusion and hurt.

George walks in, his usual confidence tempered by uncertainty. He scans the room until his eyes land on Y/N. Taking a deep breath, he approaches her table.

“Mind if I sit?” he asks, trying to sound casual.

Y/N glances up, surprised to see him so close. She hesitates, her heart pounding. Instead of speaking, she quietly nods, her throat too tight to form words.

George takes the seat beside her instead of across from her like usual, and Y/N feels a flutter of nerves at the sudden closeness. He’s never been this near before, and it throws her off balance. The space between them feels charged, filled with the weight of their unspoken feelings.

The silence stretches on, heavy and thick. George tries to look at the book in front of him, but his attention keeps drifting to Y/N. She avoids eye contact, staring intently at the pages, a flush creeping up her cheeks.

Suddenly, the calm is shattered when a group of first-years nearby accidentally knocks over a stack of books. The loud clatter echoes through the library, causing both George and Y/N to jump in surprise.

“Sorry!” one of the first-years squeaks, scrambling to pick up the fallen books.

Y/N steals a glance at George, and for a brief moment, their eyes connect, holding each other’s gaze longer than either of them intended. The world around them fades, the chaos of the library becoming a distant hum. It’s as if they are the only two people left, suspended in a trance that begs for connection.

George’s heart races as he sees something shift in her expression, a flicker of vulnerability. In that moment of connection, he leans in slightly, and Y/N mirrors his movement, as if pulled by an invisible force.

Before they know it, they share a soft kiss, tentative and filled with unspoken emotions, a culmination of all the tension between them.

When they pull apart, Y/N’s cheeks flush crimson, and she hastily lifts the book in front of her, hiding her face behind it like a shield. “I—I’m sorry,” she stammers, ”Icant-” the words barely escaping her lips before she bolts from the table, her heart racing in a mix of exhilaration and panic.

George watches her go, bewildered and exhilarated, the kiss lingering on his lips. The rush of emotions fills him with hope, but as she disappears down the corridor, he feels a surge of worry.

As Y/N rushes away, clutching the book to her chest, her mind spins. She realizes how much she truly felt for George in that brief moment, and she knows she must confront her feelings. The questions swirl around her like leaves in the wind: How much does she care for him? And is she ready to take the leap of faith that love requires?

Part 1 Part 2 Part 4