#He's your family and he could be dead for all you know

[silkycicada]

The Backwoods Saint

remmick x reader one shot.

Summary: You are a southern belle—adored, envied, and pursued. After a failed attempt to enter your family’s grand estate, an Irishman begins to pay you frequent visits, night after night. It's only a matter of time until you cave into his taunts.

wc: 6.1k

Smut warning: (18+) MDNI dom!remmick x female!reader. southern gothic, somewhat loss of virginity, fingering, slow-burn, he is a huge bully, second person pov, humiliation, manipulation, corruption, dirty talk, blood, biting, coercion, mentions of violence, mentions of death, some brief religious connotations, mentions of knives

a/n: just for clarification purposes, i love the idea of a big bad remmick corrupting someone expected to become a respectable girl in high society. she however does not live on a plantation though, forgot to mention that in the fic itself. her dad’s in the banking business and her family is wealthy, is all. happy reading!!

‿̩͙‿ ༺ ♰ ༻ ‿̩͙‿

August, 1932. Mississippi Delta

You hadn’t slept.

Not for days.

Was it the sweltering heat or the incessant thrum of cicadas that had been keeping you up?

You couldn't quite place your finger on which was worse. How your lush sheets of what was meant to be the finest quality of cotton stuck to your tepid skin, or how it was never completely quiet. Be it the buzzing ensemble coming from outside, or the creak of the varnished porch of your family's manor.

No. No, it wasn't any of those things.

It was him.

The quilts spilled from your body as you sat up, sluggishly wiping the beads of sweat that dribbled on your hairline, your thoughts racing.

There, in the midst of your moon-stricken bed chamber, you disdained yourself for letting him live within you so freely.

No matter how much you tossed and turned, he clung to your thoughts like the whirring cicadas in the shrubs outside — constant, grating, always there. Yet, instead of the relentless hum, it was a low, honeyed drawl that kissed your ears, the wicked smile of sin.

He was the warmth in your belly this late at night, and the buckle of your thighs.

Remmick. Remmick.

It was humiliating how intense the thought of him felt to you. How real your fingers could make it be, brushing over your body, pretending they weren’t your own.

And how disgusting it felt.

To fantasize over a man you know almost nothing about.

To fantasize over a dead man.

Remmick had been the subject of your nightmares since he first visited three weeks ago.

The parlourmaids weren't allowed to just let anyone in your family's estate without the approval of your father, or in his absence, your elder brother.

When they'd had gone to your aunt Carol's birthday party, you had remained bed-ridden with the grippe.

Joanne the maid had looked after you. When a strange man came knocking in the early hours of the evening, she hurried to you, rambling fiercely.

"Said he's a doctor and that your father called for him to come treat your fever." Jo had told you, shaking her head, "I ain't hear anythin' 'bout no doctor comin' to visit this late at night. Said to him: get off my porch before I sic the bulls on ya'. You shoulda' seen him. Handsome he was, and gosh did he give me the spooks."

You remember the intrigue, how it pulled you out of bed and to the cushioned seat under your bedroom window, your sickened face searching for him on the dimly lit pathway leading up to the manor.

You had watched him — lean in stature, clad in the rough clothes of the labouring-class, tresses of dark hair. Though it was the slow stride of his walk that unnerved you, as if he owned the soils beneath him, from the surface clear down to Hell itself.

You knew at once he'd been lying about who he was — no doctor carried himself like that. Like a man used to taking what wasn't freely given.

And before he was lost in the fields, he had turned back, as if he knew you had been watching. You remember the way your heart tumbled when he caught you.

And oh, how he revelled in it.

His triumph came in the form of a slow, devilish grin; the glint of what appeared to be a set of fangs in the moonlight, and the flash of red in his eye, so bright you saw it from the second floor.

He stared at you from the glade, drank in your face as it twisted into a look of sheer horror. The grin, as if to say, look what you damn almost got inta’.

Since then, you saw him every so often.

In the late hours, you'd cast a look through your bedroom window and there he was - sometimes, leaning against an oak tree, a banjo cradled in his hands, strumming a tune. Waiting. For what, you couldn't have known.

You knew he had gotten under your skin when you would deliberately peer out of your window on other nights, and he wasn't there.

He was toying with you.

So, on the nights he was there, you had begun to oblige.

It was always safe. You met him at the back door of the manor, the one the parlourmaids used, but you never stepped out, oh no. You were smart. You stayed inside, careful not to cross the threshold, not even by an inch, and Remmick stood on the other side, posted on the creaking porch that surrounded the manor.

Your meetings were always brief. He was never forceful or aggressive, but he was mean. He'd taunt you, throwing out words meant to rattle you, believing they'd somehow compel you to let him in — things suggestive enough to get your stomach all tight. He'd never met a girl so stubborn that each time you refused, he'd simply retreat, and leave with the same knowing smirk that said he'd be back to try again.

Recently, you avoided the window. You didn't know how much longer you could deny him.

But you were so lonely.

Tonight, you relinquished all that discipline you had built over the past few nights. A defeated groan escaped you as you rolled out of the canopy bed, your bare feet kissing the cool, polished floorboards. It sent a chill up your legs.

With two fingers, you pulled aside the lace curtains draping over the window and swallowed the hump in your throat.

You silently hoped he wouldn't be there - you wanted, oh so badly, to turn around and get back into bed where the night would continue to torment your sleep.

Yet there, cast under the deep shadow of one of the many oak trees lining the manor, stood the Devil, wearing the silhouette of man.

And you found yourself at the backdoor again.

When Remmick heard the door unlatch and creak open, he didn't shift from his place against the tree trunk. The upper half of his body remained in the shadows, unscathed by the moonlight. Deft fingers continued working the strings of that banjo, so tenderly. A melody unknown to your ears drifted all the way to the porch like a lover's call, and the night felt whole.

He paid no mind to you at all, standing in the doorway, a bare body adorn in a cotton dress that draped to your knees. As if it were you that was the uninvited, and not the other way around.

When Remmick plucked the last note, and the night fell silent again, you saw something flicker in the shadows. Twin red orbs shone in the darkness, unblinking, like some primal beast was out there, not a human being — something otherworldly.

And that's how you knew his eyes had finally settled on you.

A chill wriggled down your spine. The pressure to speak pressed hard against your chest. "That was beautiful," you managed, your voice thin, laced with a tremor of unease you hoped he wouldn’t notice.

He noticed, alright.

Remmick stared at you for a good moment, as if thinking of something savvy to say. All that came from the darkness was a low, unsettling chuckle.

Smoothly, he pushed himself off the tree trunk, letting the banjo fall from his hands, dangling in front of his body on a makeshift strap. Even from the doorway, you heard the crunch of leaves under his shoe as he emerged from the shadow of the oak tree.

The moonlight bent down to greet him. You never thought the Devil would reveal himself to you in a blue dress-shirt and a pair of suspenders hitched over shoulders, yet there he was, in the flesh.

You noticed sleeves rolled up lazily to his elbows, forearms shining in sweat and dust.

Stopping before the small set of stairs, one arm gripping the wooden handrail, Remmick looked up at you, a smile playing his lip.

"Why you always doin’ this to y’self, darlin’?" was all he said in his thick, candied drawl. As southern as it could get.

Naturally, your jaw tensed. "Doin' what?"

He ascended the porch steps slowly, eyes unmoving. Even in the soft glow of the moon, his eyes shone at you in red hues.

"Comin' out here." The wood squeaked under his feet. Stopping before you, his eyes fell down to your body, "Wearin' that."

There was something about the way he looked at you that made your breath deepen. Maybe it was the hunger in his eyes, or the slow, deliberate steps he made towards you, reminiscent of the way a hunter stalks its kill — gentle, slow, like he had all the time in the world.

And he did.

"I don't—“ you tried to answer, but Remmick didn’t let you finish.

"That…lace?" he murmured, tilting his head as his eyes lingered on your nightdress. His fingers drifted absentmindedly across his chest while his gaze traced the delicate embroidery at the hem of your bust. Heat rose to your cheeks beneath the sudden weight of his attention.

Then, with a soft, almost pitying click of his tongue, he frowned. "Oh, sweetheart..." he sighed.

As if he felt sorry for you.

You pressed your lips into a thin line and turned away from Remmick. Beauty had never been a question — you wore it like a birthright.

The parlour had long echoed with the voices of suitors, drawn in by your well-maintained looks, your practiced laughter, the way you upheld a demure gaze. You were a Southern belle through and through, bred for admiration and a life of glamour.

Your parents, ever practical beneath their genteel airs, had already secured your future with a steel tycoon who owned an empire of mines trailing northward to Michigan. You had everything.

So why did you feel insecure now?

The shift in your demeanour made the lines around Remmick's lips twist a little. He was good at breaking people down as much as he was at building them back up again.

He leaned back a little, hands resting lazily on the banjo in front of him as he watched your reaction.

"What do you want from me?" you breathed. Suddenly, the thought of shutting the door in his face and heading back to bed wasn't such a terrible idea.

Remmick stirred and let out an exaggerated scoff, "What do I want from ya'? I was jus' enjoyin' the fresh air, playin' a lil' somethin'..."

"Every night?"

"Now," his smile faded, feigning concern, as if what you said was deeply wrong. "I wouldn't go n' say every night... maybe every second night. Don't get ahead of yourself, darlin'. "

You felt a cool breeze rustle through the coils of your hair. The humidity of Mississippi was long gone, and dare you say you felt... cold?

When you didn't answer, Remmick took the banjo back in his hands and pulled it back over his head, then let it rest against the white-pillared balustrade. He turned back to you, his arms now hanging freely at his sides. He waited for you to say something.

But he only looked at you with that usual smug expression — the one where his eyebrows arched just so, creasing his forehead in that familiar way.

Remmick shook his head in mock disbelief, "You been lonely, lambkin? Is that it?" He teased, "Mommy and daddy don't wanna let y' out the playpen? That why you come out here like some lass in rut, blushin' and poutin', when you're nothin' but chicken?"

"I ain't chicken," You shot back.

"That a fact?”

"I know what your weaknesses are, so I'm playin' my cards right.” Your arms folded against your chest, “I'm the one in control here. Me. I'm bein’ smart."

“Well, standin' at the door like that makes me think you ain't so smart after all."

"And why's that?"

The corners of his lips quirked into a sly grin. He shifted his gaze down to your feet, and then swept slowly around the doorframe.

"Why's that, sweetheart? Well, for starters, you been bouncin' on your feet so much you ain't even realise you outside with me."

Your gaze snapped around.

He was right.

Somehow, without realising, you had edged past the threshold. It was more than enough for Remmick to just... grab your wrist and pull you out completely.

In a heartbeat, you stepped back into the doorway, stumbling so far back you hit the kitchen counter. The floor beneath you swayed, a sudden churning sensation in your stomach.

You watched Remmick peer inside the kitchen, head momentarily dipping back as he cackled at your skittishness. Even in the blue-ish overcast of the night, you could see his lip twitching up as he laughed, the tips of his fangs winking at you.

The look on your face did bits for him.

He wagged his forefinger at you. "Oh, I coulda' had you. Coulda' had you real good."

You let go of the counter in an attempt to compose yourself, your breathing irregular. You scolded yourself for being so thoughtless.

"You wanna know somethin', sugar?" He continued, "I was feelin' honourable today. Ain't nice to be layin' hold of girls like that, 'specially classy ladies, like you. An' believe me when I say — it took a whole damn lot not to.'"

Hands balling into fists, you slowly made your way back to the doorway once you had regained yourself.

Remmick seemed to beam at your reappearance, as if he found your defiance amusing.

"But, one of these nights, you gon' make the same mistake... gon' teeter a bit too forwards... and I won't be as honourable."

The threat rolled off his tongue so casually.

Yet, you couldn't shake the thought: he didn't do anything to you.

You shook your head in frustration, "There's plenty of girls in the city. And yet, you always come by here."

He sucked his teeth.

"Loose legs and loose blood," he said disdainfully, "You're right. It's a goldmine up there. But I ain't forcin' you to come down here and keep me company, little lamb. Aincha' tired of playin' at sainthood?"

"I ain't playin' at nothin'..."

"Then let me inside."

Your lips parted — only one word, and it'd be done.

But your silence hung loud. You were still afraid.

And in the lift of his brow, you could tell he knew it too.

Slow as a funeral march, Remmick dragged himself forward, until he was as close as he could muster. He leaned in, and raised one hand to rest against the door frame, his fingers curling around the wood.

You caught a whiff of his scent — mahogany, smoke, and something else you couldn't quite place.

Death.

Something shifted in his face. The usual smugness he wore like a second skin peeled away, leaving him looking almost… needy. There was a hunger in his eyes, deep and devouring.

His gaze fell to your chest.

Waves of heat swept over you as he undressed you in his mind, but not in the way you'd think.

It was not your breasts that appeased him, nor your hips or behind, like they had with other men.

Instead, he watched the dainty collarbones that writhed under your skin, bones fit for lips as sullied as his, and the way your lovely neck contorted with your breathing. That long, slender neck, gleaming with sheets of summer warmth, thrumming with life all over.

The little valley in your chest, carved for confession, trailing down in soft descent until it vanished beneath the hush of your night dress.

And the lace? Well, there was a reason it was one of the first things he noticed about you tonight. There was something so delightful about the the white meshwork against your skin, like a secret begging to be revealed.

His fingers itched with the thought of tearing it apart.

Because you were everything he wasn't — soft, untouched, and alive.

And God help him. He craved to feel the pulse of something alive again.

"You're...drooling." you gawked.

His eyes settled back onto yours. A thread of saliva clung to the corner of his lip, slipping down his chin.

He smiled.

Remmick leaned in a little more, just a little, the wood of the doorframe groaning under his weight, until his voice was low enough for your ear to catch.

“I know you ain’t been sleepin’ right.” He admitted.

You stilled. How could he know something like that? Momma had told you the other day you were growin’ bags under your eyes and that your soon-to-be-fiancé wouldn’t like his woman sleepin’ ‘till noon.

But it didn’t matter. Remmick’s voice sung into your ear like he were your lover:

“And… I know, deep in my heart… oh, that cunt stays wet thinkin’ about me.”

The slight buckle of your knees did not go unnoticed. Lips, parting with the ghost of an exhale as your heart sank to the stomach.

Another twitch in the corner of his lip, "Don't it, baby?"

He pulled back slightly, just so you could catch a glimpse of his teeth bared beneath a sharp grin. Watching your face carefully, following your eyes as they shifted away uneasily.

Remmick continued, his voice merely a rasp, "Them rich fellas'... they don't know what t' do with you..." he murmured lowly.

You felt beads of sweat roll down your temple. The cicadas were screaming, and your stomach was betraying you.

"...don't know how t' touch you."

Your heart slammed against your ribcage.

Those lines in his forehead were creasing as he looked at you, at all of you.

"But I do, darlin'."

You knew you had lost when his words settled into your core like poison. Tantalising and greedy and evil.

You looked up into the face of the Devil as a breathless 'oh' escaped him, as if the surrendering look on your face pleased him more than fucking you ever would.

Then, Remmick tilted his head, momentarily peering past you, as if he were looking inside the kitchen.

"Your folks asleep?" He asked softly.

You had forgotten all about your family. Upstairs, asleep, oblivious to the fact that their only daughter was downstairs caving into a stranger's sweet seduction.

Even through your flustered state, you managed a nod.

The lines around Remmick's lips seemed to deepen.

"Then best you come out then."

Thoughts came to you in muddy clusters and any form of reasoning went out the window. You were a mess. There, without him even laying a finger on you, he had managed to crack you just a little. It was only a matter of time until his hands would wedge in and split you apart completely.

Your sigh was a shaky one, filled with defeat. You looked into the red-tinged eyes of the man who had been haunting you these past few weeks and, willingly, you handed your life over to him.

Remmick pulled away from the doorway and allowed you enough room to step outside, your bare feet making contact with the wooden floorboards of the porch.

A breeze rattled your dress, your hair, and any ounce of self-restraint you had left. Through it all, you came to terms with one thing:

Loneliness doesn't keep you safe.

It hands you the blade.

"C'mere," Remmick beckoned you, "Come closer."

Anchored by his voice, you shifted further to him, until you were more than an arm's length from the door which was left ajar. He hummed in approval.

His hand reached out to stroke your face with the back of his fingers - his touch was cold as winter's breath, even in the Mississippi heat.

But he was oddly tender. Loving. Brushing your clean, porcelain cheek with dirtied fingers.

Then, in a heartbeat, Remmick grabbed you by your shoulder and spun you around with otherworldly force, pulling your back flush into his chest. His hands clamped down onto your hips — unyielding, possessive — as if he meant to brand that moment into your flesh.

You let out a small cry as he held you with an iron-grip.

You felt his breath on the side of your face, his other hand crawling up to your neck. He spoke into your ear.

"That little sound?" He crooned, "Ain't even close to what I want outta' you."

The hand that crept up your neck cupped you by the jaw and turned your face to the side, just enough to face him.

He peered down at you through lowered lashes, lips almost brushing against yours. You tried to move your face but his grip on your jaw tightened.

Then he leaned down and kissed you.

Rough.

Greedy.

Starved.

Remmick kissed like blasphemy. Meant to burn, meant to ruin. Teeth gnashing against each other, you felt his fang graze against your lip, drawing blood, and once he got a taste of that, he was feral. Growling and clawing at your hair as he held you, like you were water about to seep through his fingers.

You let out a moan, muffled by his mouth.

He sucked on your lip, drew it back between his teeth and let it go.

Pulling away, he looked at his handiwork with half-lidded eyes, seeing nothing but a panting, flustered mess before him. Your lip was red and bloody, and the pain began to slowly settle.

Sweat-slicked locks of dark hair stuck to Remmick's forehead, his lips wet with your blood.

He, too, was out of breath. Admiring you, at how you've fallen from grace, scruff and bruised, and wanting more.

You tried to lean in, tried to catch his lips again, but that coarse hand was still clamped on your jaw. He yanked you back, restraining you, holding you like a dog on a short leash.

He made an 'o' shape with his mouth, his brows knitting in mock sympathy.

"What was that you said? Somethin' about bein' in control?" He reminded you, those fingers pressing into your skin, as if to keep you anchored and compliant. "Playin' your cards right, wasn't it? Ahh..."

You gaped at him, the familiar rush of humiliation at your cheeks.

“I...I didn't...”

The words were lost, and you looked a fool. He waited for you, amused you couldn't even string together a sentence.

“All that bark, sugar, but you come undone mighty easy..."

Then, he scooped you up in his arms, forcing your legs to wrap around his waist, your chin buried in his shoulder, the scent of sweat and smoke ever so strong as he headed towards the white pillared railing surrounding the porch.

As he did so, Remmick felt your heartbeat against his chest, humming in anticipation. God, your life was singing for him.

Lowering you down on the top of the wooden railing, the hem of your nightdress hiked up your legs as Remmick positioned himself beneath them. His fingers fumbled with the sleeves of his dress shirt, rolling them up his forearms further.

A hand dropped down between your legs, trailing up your inner thigh, ever so slowly.

You felt yourself lean back a little, shaking in need.

He watched you intently as he reached for the the soft fabric of your panties, upper body leaning in to steal the breath straight from your lips. And once he felt you....

"Ah, sweet Jesus..." a low rumble came from his throat, "Soaked to the bone, are ya'?"

He massaged you a little, that delightful cotton hiding what was his.

A thick digit curled over the edge of your panties and peeled it to the side. He ran it firmly across your folds, feeling the sweet nectar brimming your slit, his thoughts spinning with all the ways he wanted to fuck you stupid.

Naturally, your legs nestled deeper into him, a cry hidden in your throat as you forced yourself to be good for him. Remmick's lips parted as he groaned, his warm breath crashing against your face.

Then, without any warning, that same finger pushed itself inside of you, firmly, eliciting a jolt from your body.

You nearly toppled over, your balance slipping on the railing—until Remmick’s free hand shot out, catching you before you could fall, pulling you rough towards him with his middle finger still thrusting inside of your cunt.

"I gotcha', angel." He murmured softly in your ear.

As he worked you, he watched you struggle, your hands flying up to his broad shoulders as you steadied yourself.

In the soft overcast of the night, you watched the gold chain around Remmick's broad neck, glossy with summer sweat. It shifted slightly with each thrust of his arm, and even amidst the carnal surrender, you couldn't help but wonder how something so delicate was tethered to someone so wicked.

Keeping a steady rhythm, Remmick gave a pleased hum as you mewled, his thick finger breaking you in nicely.

Your head lolled back, teeth sinking into your lip still throbbing with the bruising kiss Remmick had left there to fester. His face was inches away from yours, watching you steadily.

He added a second digit, his ring finger, stretching you out even more, and you felt the presence of a cold object plugging in and out of you alongside his digit, something resembling metal.

There was an actual ring on his ring finger.

And it was inside of you.

God, you wanted to scream.

You buried your face in his shoulder, the rough fabric of his dress-shirt against your cheek.

Naturally, it thrilled him. Watching you unravel, after weeks of hanging around your porch, haunting your sleep - a catch o' the season, he'd triumphantly think.

"Ever wonder somethin'?" Remmick began with a mischievous lilt, the grin in his voice unmistakable.

That hand kept working your pussy. You couldn't focus on his words. You couldn't focus on anything, really.

"Ever wonder how I came 'bout this big ol' house that night? You, up in that window… well, you were a vision, weren’t ya’?”

He spoke in your ear, the faint scrape of his stubble grazing your face like a warning. Your thighs began to tremble, the squelching sound of your cunt growing louder by the minute. You'd never heard yourself like that.

“And I ain’t sentimental. I don’t show up without a reason, sweetheart,” He added his forefinger, ��Y’see… your daddy likes to run his mouth, talkin’ all ‘bout his beautiful darlin’ daughter, ‘specially at your auntie Carol’s party. What was it he said? Mm, a nice dowry. Yeah. The sumbitches loved that.”

You dug your teeth into your lower lip, stifling a cry. You couldn’t wake your family—not like this, not with you straddling the porch railing, the devil's hands lost between your thighs.

“Know what else? Well, your aunt Carol told me the darndest thing. Said her sweet niece was stuck in her fancy house on Cypress Creek, in bed, sick as a dog. Oh, quit tryna’ hold it in baby, go on and make those pretty sounds—“

He picked up on your heavy breaths, and how you held yourself back from moaning. But that hand just kept going.

“—yeah. Mm, so I had to, uh… had to pay you a visit. See what this southern belle is all about.” Remmick continued, momentarily peering down to catch a glimpse of his fingers coated in your residue. “Jus’ a shame your maid wasn’t so nice.”

Your thighs were wet and shaking. A certain knot coiling inside of you. You felt... you felt it simmering in your belly, and Remmick was slowly undoing it.

“But maybe you was jus’ lucky. Thank… thank God for her, right? Y’see, angel… I was gon' kill you.”

Even amidst the newfound bliss, you lifted your head from his shoulder.

"Wha...?"

"Now don't go givin' me that face," He added, catching your expression, "Y'know damn well—"

Remmick felt your insides clench around his fingers, your hips twitching. He slowed his pace down, careful not to tip you over the edge just yet. It had been weeks since he had first caught sight of you, and now your cunt was just there, served on silver. He was taking his fucking time.

He continued, "Y'know damn well what I am, darlin’. I ain’t one o’ your silk-wearin’ gentlemen. That night... I was fixin’ to have my way with you. Willin’? Sure. But if you weren’t… well, that’d just make it a dull way for you to go. ‘Cause, I was gonna tear you apart like meat off the bone jus’ the same."

Your heart sunk down to your belly. There you were, body twitchin' and shakin', but the fear swept over you once again.

You knew what he was — night devil, neck nibbler, vampire. You grew up with those stories, you grew up with your nana telling you all about haints and marsh crawlers and the like.

And there you were, with your trembling legs wrapped around one.

"I was real hungry that night, and you were somethin’ nice to look at. Not a lotta' girls these days... so clean...”

But he wasn't talking about your scent, or how well-bathed and kept you were.

He glanced at your chest. At your heart.

You saw him frothing at the mouth, strings of glistening drool trickling down the corner of his lip, still red with your blood, and the most feral eyes you had seen in something most would mistaken as man.

Somehow, reality found its way back to you. You gave him a sudden shove and hopped off the porch railing, the night dress falling over your legs once again.

Beads of sweat dribbled on your hairline, your chest still bobbing for air.

You needed to get back inside.

But Remmick didn't fight you. He let you pull away from him, sure enough, his hand falling back to his side. He didn't step away, nor did those red-hued eyes falter.

He simply angled his head slightly to the left, just enough to study you anew.

“That pretty head of yours finally catchin’ up?”

The ghost of his fingers playing you like his banjo was still between your legs, a shiver still dancing on your spine, all macabre.

"You want me afraid," Your voice came out in a whisper, "Is that it?"

He gave a little tsk, head still tilted, like you’d disappointed him somehow.

"No. No, that ain’t what this is, darlin'." He muttered, "I know you're afraid, can hear your heart doin' laps."

But something in his face softened a little. Like he was trying to be sympathetic, trying to understand whatever human-driven-emotional-logic you had.

And honestly, you actually would have believed that he was capable of feeling, had you not known he was a vampire. There was something unnerving about the way the creases in his forehead deepened, and how sharp those fangs appeared under his frowning mouth.

What kinda' games are you playin'?

And then he stepped aside, hands in view.

“Go on then,” he drawled, voice low and thick as molasses, “Ain’t stoppin’ you. Door’s right there if that’s what you want.”

And it was. Lower back pressed against the porch railing where you once sat atop of, your eyes shifted to the door left half ajar.

Remmick, who held his hands defensively, coaxed you with a look of innocence so human-like you briefly forgot what he was.

"Go on." he repeated, the soft hue of the moonlight was painting him like some backwoods saint.

It was quiet for a while.

Because you didn't move.

The moonlight flickered over his face and suddenly, all traces of sainthood fled him. A slow smile spread over his lips, like he knew—

"Oh... you ain't goin’ nowhere, are ya'." he mused under his breath.

Your hands curled into fists. He was shaming you.

You scoffed. "Don't flatter yourself."

"I could break you in half ‘fore you even take your next breath." Remmick once again closed the gap between you two, "Could snap your neck like a twig, drain you dry, leave your body rockin’ in that porch swing ‘til sunrise. Easy.”

"I know."

Licking his bloody lips, "You know?"

"Yes."

A pang of silence.

Remmick looked at you differently. No longer in hunger, or greed, but with something quieter. Something dangerously close to reverence.

His eyes flicked over your face like he was trying to memorize it — the way your jaw tightened despite the fear, how your chin lifted just so. Proud. Defiant. Still trembling, but standing.

“Well, I’ll be,” he murmured, almost to himself, “Ain’t that somethin’.”

The porch creaked beneath his shoes as he leaned in to you, a finger slowly tracing the side of your neck in a way that was almost loving. His other hand came around to settle on the railing behind you, trapping you in.

You didn’t know the dead could breathe. Not until his face lowered to meet yours, and your eyes swam in the pools of oil and ember that coaxed you deeper.

The warm air you breathed in. His breath.

It wasn’t life, you thought, his breath was empty and cruel and you were intoxicated.

You gave your life to him. You gave yourself to the banjo-playing devil at your door. Spread your legs for him when other men had adorned you with gems and jewels, fed you, loved you forever in your waiting grace. And he had only whispered in your ear what others could not do to you.

You had been so lonely. How good does the blade feel when wielded by a man who knows precisely where your skin is the thickest? You needed him.

You needed him.

You needed him.

As if reading your thoughts, Remmick tutted. His lips momentarily hovered over your face before he pressed a kiss onto your temple.

He saw it. Everything. Remmick drooled from his mouth, but oh you drooled from your eyes. Wet and wide like a doe’s, he saw everything from the sadness in them to the desperation and the innocence — he wanted to take it all away.

He straightened up, his face now burying itself in your hair. You smelled like forsakenness and macadamia nuts.

Gently, he murmured, lips moving against the coils of your hair.

"You need me, baby... oh, yes you do..."

You gave a soft hum of acceptance. Of truth.

You felt the same hand on your neck slide up past your chin and to your swollen lip. His thumb gently caressed the padding of it.

"... need me to give it to you. Fuck you real nice, like you was made for it.”

The tip of his thumb pushed through your lips.

“Say the word, lambkin...” You heard him say as that thumb felt up your tongue, “...and I'll break you in jus' right.”

There was a croon to his voice, lulling you as your mouth parted further by the second, making space for his digit wedging further inside, a soft choke etched at the end of your throat.

With his fangs tucked behind open lips, he leaned in and let his mouth graze your skin. He watched you struggle to take his thumb, your lips around him like you were sucking honey off a spoon.

His other hand found itself on the thick of your hair. He pulled it aside like a curtain, brought it back behind your shoulder.

Seeing you like this: trembling, and undone.

Lord help you.

Remmick pulled his thumb out of your mouth slowly, wiping the excess spit on your lower lip.

"Please." the word came from you like surrender and confession.

With charcoal eyes ablaze, you felt Remmick shift. He, who carried himself with a lethal suave, and a careful restraint — it was never about inviting him in your family's estate, the ever so glorious Cypress Creek manor.

You’d already let him in.

You’d invited him into your soul.

A deep, guttural sound came from Remmick's throat as he kissed you whole, wet and wanton. Across your jaw he went, down your neck to its nape, licking the hollow of your collarbone.

He grabbed your hips, that cotton dress tearing gracefully in his hands as he tasted your skin, warm and bustling with life. He clawed at you, your flesh caught in his nails.

Your head tipped back in bliss.

You felt him press up against your side, his cock hard under his slacks — a vampire he may have been, but the appetite of man always remained.

A low, bone-rattling chuckle. A grin against your nape, "Oh, we gon' have some real fun, darlin'."

You exhaled. There was something else in the air. Something you had never tasted before.

And then you felt it — the clean, searing puncture of his fangs splitting your skin like silk.

[moon-fics]

Some Nights

Pairing: Bob Reynolds x Reader

Summary: During the day, the tower is filled with laughter and banter. It's a warm feeling. Until night comes and the silence is too much.

Warnings: none

A/N: This came to me during a class lecture. I physically cannot make myself write angst for him. I've tried and I just can't.

There's never a quiet moment during the day. Everyone has gotten close enough to talk regularly. There are conversations started on complete nonsense, and then there are ones about past traumas. Over time, it became natural to hear laughter or yelling every once in a while.

There'd be banging of pots and pans while Walker tried cooking. Alexei would be trying to start a dance party while everyone rolled their eyes. There were too many examples, and yet you treasured them all. It was a family you never thought you could have.

It's almost perfect. Until the night comes crawling, and suddenly the tower is dead silent. Everyone is asleep way before you. It's impossible to sleep when you're now being watched by media outlets and citizens. It's nerve-wracking to not know whether they'll accept you as Earth's heroes.

Sometimes it's unbearable to be left alone with your thoughts. However, you eventually find a solution.

-

One night, you're sneaking out of your room for some food. It's nearly 4am, and you know you should be sleeping. You convince yourself that one snack will be enough and then you can go back to bed.

You slowly open your door, and you almost expect a comically loud creak. Instead, you're met with Bob standing outside the door. His hands are playing with the hem of his shirt, and he looks like he's about to say something.

"I wasn't trying to be weird. I just saw the light under your door," He says while nodding. He has that goofy, closed smile on his lips as if that explains everything. The way your heart skips a beat is almost enough of an answer. "I was trying to gather the courage to knock."

"So, you just stood outside my door in hopes I wouldn't open it?" You ask. You raise an eyebrow at him and wonder how long he's been standing here. You didn't even hear him approach your door.

"Well, no," He starts, but cuts himself off. "Yeah. Yeah, I was just standing here." He admits with a nervous chuckle.

"Do you need something, or were you just paying a late-night visit?" You ask in hopes he'll give a better explanation. Bob isn't the best at giving details or talking about how he's feeling. It's why you often have to ask multiple questions to form a full story.

"Oh, right! I was going to ask if you wanted to hang out!" He perks up.

"It's like 4 in the morning, Bob." You say with confusion. Why was he asking to hang out this late? There's nothing they could do besides sit in her room. "You should be in bed."

You don't mean to sound harsh. You'd honestly love to spend time with him, but it's at an ungodly hour. You aren't sure if pulling an all-nighter is smart. However, you see the way his eyes soften and the corner of his lips dip down for just a second. Your snack will have to wait because he's in no state to be alone.

"Get in here," You sigh. You grab his arm and practically drag him into your room. There's not much to look at, but he still examines it as if there is. "I found an old projector that we can watch a movie on."

You were planning on watching romcoms on it, but maybe it'll have a better use with him. You carefully aim the lens at your ceiling in the center of your bed. It gives a large projection of whatever it's hooked up to. Luckily for you, you know how to get free movies and shows on your laptop.

That's how you two spend the night. Watching movies that he's never seen or comfort movies you enjoy. It becomes a regular thing, and after a few nights, you two end up falling asleep tangled in each other. It was an accident at first. You woke up with his arms around you and didn't have the heart or willpower to pull away. Eventually, you two just accepted that it was inevitable.

You have to admit, you enjoyed feeling his breathing and hearing his body. His skin was soft and lacked the scars most of the others had. It was refreshing to hold someone and understand them completely.

-

It's the second time you've chosen to watch your favorite movie. It brings a deep comfort inside you that you cannot explain. Watching it next to Bob is even better.

You're both lying on your backs while staring at the projected movie on the ceiling. There's a calm silence between you two that creates a tension that you cannot deny. Every once in a while, you'll glance over at him. His eyes are lit up by the movie, and it makes your heart swell.

At some point, he catches you staring and immediately assumes something is on his face. After clarifying that there isn't he asks why you're staring.

"I don't know. You just look happy," You explain. It's the truth, he's been looking happier. Ever since you've invited him to stay the night and relax with you, he's been brighter. The nights are no longer as hard. "I like seeing you like that."

"You make me happy." He blurts out. It's sudden, and his eyes widen. He sits up and turns from you as if he's just spilled a dirty secret. You're frozen in place, wondering what that truly meant.

"Hey, don't shy away from me." You sit up and turn to him. You can't help but let out a laugh at how he's practically shunned himself. You place your hand on his shoulder and pull him towards you. "Come on." You coo.

When he finally faces you, he's beet red. You have another round of laughter before composing yourself. Your eyes land on him, and he's frowning. He looks humiliated, and it crushes you.

"You don't need to laugh. It was stupid of me to say," He mumbles while unable to hold eye contact. His words make your skin crawl at the idea of hurting him. He thinks you're rejecting him or mocking him at least.

"No, no, I'm glad you said it." You grab his chin to force him to look at you. "You make me happy, too." You keep your voice down. It feels more intimate to say in softly than to rush it out.

His eyes brighten once again. There's uncertainty within him because for all he knows, this could mean two different things.

"Yeah, but, uhm, I feel a 'I want to kiss you' happy," He stumbles over his words while trying to explain himself. "N-not like a 'I enjoy your friendship' happy." He speaks quickly as if he's running out of time. Your hand moves from his chin to cup his cheek.

"So, kiss me," You suggest. You try to play it cool, but deep down your heart is pounding. You want more than anything for him to actually kiss you, but when he pulls away an inch, that hope flies away. "Or not. I mean, it's whatever you're comfortable with-"

You're cut off by the harsh crash of his lips against yours. It's sloppy at first, and it feels like kissing for the first time. After a few seconds, it slows down and softens. It becomes natural, and you don't want to pull away. His hands wrap around the top of your neck and reach your jaw. His fingers curl around the base of your hair as he pulls you in closer.

His lips are chapped, but they aren't rough. You can sense his need to be closer, and it's intoxicating.

He's the first to end the kiss to get air. His hands never leave their place.

"Like that?" He asks nervously. His puppy eyes are too much to bear. He's so anxious about doing it right that it only makes the moment more special.

"That was perfect." You assure him. Right after you pull him back into another kiss.

[erindrinkstea]

You're dead to me

Fully Masked! Mark "Invincible" Grayson x F! Reader

TW: Violence, Death, Murder, and Mental Health Themes.

Description:

When Angstrom sent those variants of Invincible through a portal to a wasteland, he accidentally sends Fully Masked! Mark Grayson to a different world.

A world where Mark Grayson dies but you still live.

Main Masterlist | Invincible Masterlist

Note: Don't worry Mark, I love your Mom too.

"We'll just torture you instead. Duh."

"..."

Seeing all these twisted versions of himself made him sick to his stomach. But he understood. He truly did. They didn’t have you. They didn’t have her. And without his mom… without you by his side, he could’ve ended up the exact same way.

That’s why he had done the terrible things in this world. Why he’d committed atrocities he never thought himself capable of. Because he was alone. Because the two people who grounded him—his mom and you—weren’t there.

He didn’t care about the crown.

He didn’t want a throne.

The Viltrum Empire meant nothing to him.

All he wanted was his family.

The only two constants that ever made him feel human. Made him better. Happy.

So when Angstrom came to him and whispered about another world—one where his mom was alive, and you were too—how could he not listen?

But it was a lie. A cruel, soul-crushing lie.

His mom was nowhere to be found. And you… you were dead. Crushed. Torn apart. Just like in that nightmare he could never wake up from. Just blood and broken pieces of the only person he loved.

Tracking down the version of himself responsible was easy. Killing him was even easier.

Painfully so.

"What…?!"

He recoiled, startled as multiple green portals suddenly bloomed in front of them. His jaw clenched as Angstrom's devices flared and sucked each of them into their own vortex.

When he blinked next, he wasn’t in his world anymore.

But he wasn’t with the others either.

Wherever he landed, he doubted this was part of Angstrom’s plan.

──────⊹⊱☕︎︎⊰⊹──────

"Sweetheart, are you sure you're going to be okay?"

Today marked three years since Mark Grayson died.

You gave Debbie a soft smile. “I’m fine. Really.”

She had always been so kind to you, even with everything she’d suffered.

“How are you doing? And how’s Oliver?”

It hadn’t been easy—Omni-Man going rogue. Nolan killing his own son. And then, months later, coming back with a baby in his arms, begging for forgiveness.

Debbie hadn’t forgiven him. But she had agreed to raise Oliver. Because the boy had no one else. His mother was gone, and Nolan couldn’t stay.

Debbie had hesitated. But the moment that baby reached out with curious little hands and cooed at her, she melted. He reminded her too much of her own son—the one she lost too soon.

“Oliver’s growing so fast. Just yesterday, I could still carry him. Now he’s already got friends at school.” She sighed, tired but proud.

“Mom! Is that sis?”

Oliver’s voice rang out as he raced into the room. He had started calling you ‘sister’ after all the time you spent caring for him. You never minded.

“Oliver,” you smiled, catching him in a hug as he tackled your waist.

“I CAN FLY!” he announced, eyes wide. “I tripped on the stairs yesterday and floated instead of falling!”

Your breath caught. “Really?” You looked up at Debbie, who nodded with a small smile.

Just like his brother.

You remembered the first time Mark floated instead of falling—he’d looked so proud, so thrilled. That memory felt sacred now.

“That’s amazing,” you told Oliver.

“I know, right?” he grinned, puffing up with pride. So much like Mark.

You swallowed the ache in your chest. God, please don’t let him turn out like Nolan.

“How about you help your mom clean the house with your powers? I’m just going to take a quick walk.”

A lie, of course. You just didn’t want to cry in front of him.

“Okay!” he chirped, bouncing off with Debbie, who caught your eye and gave a subtle nod. She understood.

──────⊹⊱☕︎︎⊰⊹──────

Mark drifted above the unfamiliar skyline.

This wasn’t his world.

It wasn’t the one from before, either. Somewhere new entirely.

Strangely, no one tried to stop him. No heroes. No threats. Just… wide-eyed stares and hushed gasps as he flew overhead.

People weren’t afraid. Just surprised.

He wasn’t a villain here, it seemed. Not yet.

Maybe this version of him had done something right for once.

He stayed in the air, keeping low, keeping quiet. He was tired—sick of the bloodshed, of the failures, of chasing ghosts.

He just wanted to go home.

But this world… something about it felt different. Warmer.

And he had a gut feeling he wasn’t here by accident after all. Maybe it was fate.

He could’ve missed it. Could’ve flown right past, too focused on his goal—too desperate to find a way back home.

But then, in a split second, his eyes caught something. Someone.

A figure.

Familiar.

Too familiar.

It couldn’t be.

But it was.

“...Darling?” he breathed, voice soft, disbelieving. His body stopped mid-air, frozen. He just hovered there, staring at the figure walking below.

God. It was you.

You were alive.

“Darling,” he whispered again—and this time, he didn’t hesitate. His direction shifted instantly, diving toward the one person he had torn worlds apart for.

You didn’t see him coming. You were too caught up in your grief, still walking slowly down the sidewalk, tears silently streaming down your face.

You were wiping at them, frustrated, exhausted.

"My love?"

That voice.

You froze in place.

Not again. You thought the hallucinations had stopped. Thought you were healing.

But here you were, hearing him again—hearing that voice you would have given anything to hear just one more time.

You didn’t turn around.

You couldn’t handle the disappointment.

“I can’t do this,” you muttered, voice cracking as more tears welled up. “Not today.”

Your hands went back to your face, desperate to rub away the hurt.

“Easy there,” a voice said gently, a presence stepping in. “Stop rubbing so hard. Geez, your eyes are all red. What made my lovely girl cry so much?”

You froze again.

Hands—not yours—brushed against your cheeks, careful and warm. Soft thumbs wiped away your tears like they had all the time in the world.

It felt so real.

Too real.

“You, you idiot,” you hiccupped, unable to hold it in. “It’s your stupid death anniversary. You couldn’t even give me one day of peace.”

Your sobs were broken, helpless.

The man—Mark—blinked at you like that was news.

“So… I’m dead here, huh? he murmured, more to himself than to you. “Makes things a bit easier.”

You cried harder. “You’re not real. And it hurts. It’s not fair.”

“But I am,” he said softly. “I’m real. And so are you.”

His hands were still cupping your face with that same gentle care he always had. His eyes searched yours with aching tenderness.

He looked… different.

Worn. Tired.

Hair a little longer. Shoulders a bit heavier.

But still him. Still your Mark.

The warmth. The love.

That unmistakable feeling that wrapped around you like a blanket in winter.

“You’re dead,” you said again, as if reminding yourself.

He hummed, nonchalant. “Not anymore. You were dead too, remember? But now you’re alive.” A dark glint passed through his eyes. “And I’ll make sure it stays that way. No matter what.”

His voice was calm, certain. Steady in a way that was both comforting and unnerving.

“Now,” he said, lips curling into a half-smile, “how about we go see Mom? It’s going to be one hell of a reunion, don’t you think?”

You blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Was this real?

It had to be.

“Mark…?”

──────⊹⊱☕︎︎⊰⊹──────

[word-woven]

After the Mold

18 Plus+ 🔞

Ethan Winters x Male!Reader

After surviving the worst days of his life, Ethan Winters finds quiet solace in the arms of someone who sees him for more than what he’s lost—someone who holds him like he still belongs to the world.

I just think Ethan deserves to be kissed stupid, held like a lifeline, and railed lovingly by a very patient man, okay? I don’t make the rules—I just write the smut

You met Ethan in the kind of silence that followed horror. Not the peaceful kind. The ringing kind—the kind that lives in your bones long after the screaming stops.

He was already back from Louisiana when you found him, if “back” was even the right word. He looked like he’d crawled out of hell on his hands and knees and didn’t trust the light anymore.

And who could blame him?

He didn’t talk about what happened at first. You knew the headlines. You knew what wasn’t in the reports too—the rumors, the whispers about a girl and a swamp and something that shouldn’t have existed. The mold. The Baker family. His wife. All dead, except her.

You never asked.

At first, you just fixed his injuries. Cleaned up the places no one else would. The scar across his hand that never quite healed, even with REACT tech. The jagged shrapnel wound near his ribs. The nightmares he tried to pretend didn’t happen.

“I’m fine,” he’d say, voice hoarse.

“You’re not,” you’d reply.

But you never pushed harder than that.

You learned to recognise the signs—when he needed space, when he needed silence, when he needed you to sit on the floor beside him and just be there. Sometimes he’d press the heel of his palm to his eye like he was trying to wipe something out from behind it. Sometimes he’d flinch at the creak of a floorboard, reaching for a weapon that wasn’t there anymore.

He moved in with you after two months. Said it was temporary. Said he couldn’t be in that empty apartment. Too clean. Too sterile.

He slept on the couch. Then on your bed. Then beside you.

Neither of you talked about that either.

Until the night you found him on the bathroom floor, his back against the tub, sweat-soaked and shaking. Eyes blown wide. Breathing like the air was drowning him.

He didn’t say your name. Just, “She was there.”

You crouched beside him. Pressed a hand to his chest, over his racing heart. “Who?”

“Eveline. The girl.” His voice cracked. “But not really. I know she’s dead. I know she’s—I know—” His hands curled into his hair. “But it’s like I feel her sometimes. Like she’s still in my goddamn head.”

You didn’t say it would be okay. You knew better. Instead, you leaned forward, resting your forehead to his. “You’re not alone.”

He started crying.

He didn’t sob. Just went so quiet that you almost missed it—the way his breath hitched, the tears falling soundlessly onto your collarbone as you pulled him into your arms. He clung like a man broken open, like your touch was the only thing keeping him from dissolving back into the mold.

“I’m so tired,” he whispered, and it gutted you. “I don’t know how to be human anymore.”

“You don’t have to be,” you told him, voice low and fierce. “You just have to be. And I’ll be here.”

That was the first time he kissed you.

It was clumsy. Desperate. Teeth clacking and fingers trembling. But it was real. You kissed him back with everything you had—because he needed it, and because you wanted it. Wanted him. Not as a broken man or a haunted survivor, but as Ethan. The man who still carried groceries with both hands even if one of them ached. The man who told awful jokes at 3am and cooked breakfast like it was the only sacred act left in the world.

The man who finally let himself live.

That night, you didn’t fuck. You just held each other. You undressed slowly, reverently—like every scar he’d earned was holy, like every piece of him was something to worship. You kissed his wrists. His stomach. His throat. You laid him out across the sheets and laid your hands across his heart like a benediction.

“Do you want this?” you asked him, breath shaking.

He nodded. “More than anything.”

And so you gave him everything.

He moaned under your touch—soft, needy, unguarded. Every sound he made was real. No performance. No walls. Just Ethan, raw and open, letting himself feel. You took your time. You didn’t rush. You ran your tongue along the curve of his hip and watched him fall apart, whispering your name like it was the only thing grounding him.

When you were finally inside him—slow, deep, tender—he clung to you like you were salvation. His legs wrapped around your waist. His arms wound around your shoulders. His mouth on yours, again and again, as if kissing you could save him.

And maybe it did. A little.

After, he cried again. Quieter this time. You kissed the tears from his cheeks and held him until he fell asleep, his head over your heart.

In the morning, he reached for your hand under the covers and laced your fingers together.

“I don’t think I’ll ever be okay,” he said.

You pressed a kiss to his temple. “That’s fine. You don’t have to be okay. You just have to be here.”

He turned to face you. Eyes red. Voice steady. “Then I’ll stay.”

[ballsandbabes]

The Firelight Between Us: Geum Seong-jae x Reader

Authors Note: I normally dont write about other things than Sports, BUT...I started with Weak Hero and find the story really exciting. While reading, I found Geum Seong-ja's character very interesting. So i thought i try my take on his character// Y/n = your name// not proof read// GIF not mine // Have fun <3

Summary: What if Seong-jae gets too close to Baekjin's good friend because he finds her interesting. But what no one knows is that no one dares to approach the boss's crush, you.

Genre: Universe of Weak Hero, Romance, Action , Angst, Drama, Gang AU

You always told yourself one thing: Don't get involved with the gangs. Your school, Ganghak High School, was not in a good area. The other schools were no better than yours either: ruled by the terror of the gangs, defended with bloody fists, going to extreme lengths if necessary. A friend of your brother was once saved from a fight by a boy named Yeon Sieun.

Ever since he came home with one less tooth and one cheek covered in blood, you had been sure of one thing: these gangs were scum. People who wanted to exercise their power fantasies or who had a psychological problem.

You werent a sensible person, but because you knew exactly how dark and bloody that their world was. Your mother was friends with Tiffany Na, a rich boss of a jewelry company. Your mother was looking for work at the time and Ms. Na was the only one who hired your mother. That's why it was important to your mother that everyone got along well. Above all, it was important to her that you and Baekjin got along well. While was Baekjin, was considered family by your mom, for you, he was also the walking embodiment of danger—sharp-edged, unreadable, with a temper as quick as his fists. You loved him in that complicated way people love a reckless sibling, but you'd learned how to keep your distance.

You had known each other since you were children, but you had made one important rule. No involvement in his gang stuff. Never!

Which made your growing crush on Geum Seong-jae particularly inconvenient. You kind of liked him. How his arrogant nature allowed him to believe he could do anything, like he owned the world. His unshakable self-confidence. His good, bad boy look. And certainly also the fascination with evil that emanated from him.

With the connection to Baeckjin, however, that was a recipe for disaster. Which is why you decided you'd just forget about it. Soon everything would be normal again. One last nice school year, well as nice as it was possible at your school.

For you Seong-jae wasn’t like Baekjin—at least not on the surface. Seong-jae was chaos incarnate, sure, but there was a warmth to him. That crooked grin, the way he’d swagger through a storm like it was a dance floor, how he fought with a fire that looked more like art than violence. You noticed him too often. In the same alleyways. At the wrong parties. Across crowded streets where sirens howled.

But he never noticed you. To him you were probably just nobody. A classmate, a person to fill this human hell with extras. Same today, you sat in the classroom and waited with your friends for the last lesson to start. You had stopped listening to your friends whispering, totally lost in your own world of thoughts. Your gaze wandered around the room, past the window, the dead plant next to the window handle and in the distance the boys' sports class.

The teacher was completely overwhelmed when it came to taming the chaos troops. Not to mention that most of the boys were in one of the local gangs and were therefore very strong for their age. it was just before a fight. And there he was, in his maroon shorts and white shirt, cigarette on his lips: Seong-jae. His hair fell effortlessly over his face, uninterested in the fight. You knew that he only wanted to fight "real" opponents, people on his level. This was nothing more than a joke to him. And with that bored expression and casual body language, he's never looked better.

The bell for class woke you up to your thoughts, class was starting. As always, you did your best. It was part of the path to achieving your dreams. Good grades meant a scholarship, an therefor was a ticket to be accepted at a good sports academy. For a girl you were strong but above all fast. A true track athlete. It was getting late again at training and you had just stuffed your shoes in your bag trying to catch the last bus. But it ran away from you. shit! You just regretted not changing. It was warm, but the cycling shorts with the sports bra and the zip jacket from school weren't a particularly good outfit. In this area you could also be mistaken for a prostitute.

So you were walking home —hood up, headphones in, heart set on a cup of ramen and solitude—when you saw it. Seven guys, iron rods in hand, circling someone like vultures. Like the boy in the middle was prey. You didn't actually want to get involved, but the narrow light from the street lights made the edges of a pair of glasses flash. Seong-jae? Was that Seong-jae?

You had stopped, hiding behind a garbage can in the dark. He could fight, very well in fact. Not to say he enjoyed it. But even he couldn't do these guys alone. Did he have reinforcements?

At first, you wanted to turn and walk away. Rules were rules. Stay out of it. But then one of them swung—blunt and brutal—and Seong-jae faltered, blood trailing from his lip.

Your body moved before your brain could stop it. Revealing yourself from behind the trash bins. You grabbed a trash can lid and threw it like some deranged Captain America. It smacked one of the guys clean in the back of the head. “HEY!” you shouted. “Your mom know you fight like cowards?”

All of them turned. Seong-jae blinked at you like you were a hallucination. He knew you, you were the girl who always looked at him, when he had gym lessons. The first time he noticed it was because your voice came to him from above the classroom. You had music lessons. Your voice sounded like that of a goddess, sweet, tender and yet full of pride and strength. After that, he became more and more bothered. And then there was that one Friday afternoon. Nobody wanted to spend any longer in the musty rooms of the school; there was a rush everywhere to get out of the building. In all the chaos, there was you, your elbow resting on the window ledge, your long hair draping your pretty face perfectly. The wind made it dance softly and the cherry blossoms made the scenery look like a romance manga.

“What the hell are you doing?” he growled.

“Saving your impulsive stupid gang ass,” you muttered, picking up a metal pipe from the ground.

He grinned then—bloody, amused, a little amazed. “Okay crazy princess, I like it.”

You didn’t have time to answer before the fight resumed. You weren’t a fighter, but desperation made you resourceful. A kick here, a smack there, some well-placed distractions. Somehow you and Seong-jae moved like they’d fought together for years—his punches flowed into you smart distractions, a seamless, messy ballet of survival. When you ducked a swing and he caught the attacker’s arm mid-air, your eyes met for a split second, breathless, wild, and grinning. You somehow enjoyed the feeling, this madness gave you. You felt powerful.

"Left!" she shouted, and without hesitation, Seong-jae spun and took the guy down with a knee to the ribs, trusting you completely. Back-to-back, bruised and bloodied, you two held your ground like twin storms refusing to break. As the final guy ran off, Seong-jae looked at you with laughter in his voice and blood on his lip: “Damn, you sure you’re not in a gang?”

When it was over, the street was littered with groaning bodies, and Seong-jae was looking at you like you’d just rewritten gravity,“You always throw trash lids for fun, or was tonight special?”

“Shut up,” you muttered, breathless. “I’m going to blame adrenaline for everything that just happened.”

He chuckled—loud and bright. “You got a name, adrenaline girl?”

It should perhaps be mentioned here that he already knew your name. He had wanted to know who the cherry blossom girl from the window of class 3-1 was. You didnt know and gave it to him.

“Im Seong-jae,” he said, shaking your hand like it was a pact. “I owe you.” You thought that would be it. One night, one fight. But he had diffrent plants, kept showing up. Once with ramen. Other times with random questions. With that wild spark in his eyes whenever you talked about things like stars and books and music he pretended not to like but secretly did.

You tried to keep it platonic. Tried. But he’d smile, and you’d forget. He’d laugh, and you’d fall a little more. Since he now knew how badass you actually were, he started giving you boxing and fighting lessons, in return you took him to the track to improve his fitness. A perfect symbiosis.

“Ey Y/, you keep dropping your shoulder,” Seong-jae said, stepping behind you to adjust your stance, his hands firm but careful on your arms. “I know,” you muttered, flustered by the sudden touch, as his chest brushed your back—close enough to feel his breath on your neck. “Relax,” he chuckled, voice low, guiding your fist up with his hand over yours, slow and steady like you might break if he moved too fast. “It’s not about strength, it’s timing—wait, here,” he murmured, repositioning your legs, one knee between yours, and you forgot how to breathe. You threw a punch, and he caught it with ease, his fingers curling gently around your wrist. “Better,” he said, eyes lingering on yours longer than they should, smiling cheekily, something electric in the quiet tension between you. “If you keep touching me like that, I’m going to forget we’re training,” you blurted out, half-teasing, half-desperate to defuse the heat crawling up your spine and certainly surprised of what you just said, cheeks burning red. He smirked, leaning in just enough to make your pulse stutter, “Then maybe we should stop calling it training.”

And thats when Baekjin found out. When he found out his favorite girl, had a favorite boy, and it wasn't him.

As usual, it was late again in the library. The night watchman, who knew you well, had once again asked you sternly but kindly to leave the school grounds. When you noticed that your bag was still in the classroom, he offered to open it again for you. So you walked through the hallway on the way to the school gate. He cornered you in said hallway this night, eyes dark and jaw tight. “You’re hanging out with him now?,” Baekjin asked coldly. You crossed your arms, not liking the tone of his voice. “What? I don't know why that concerns you...aside from that he’s not like you,” you tried to say as calmly as possible. “That’s exactly the problem,” Baekjin snapped. “He’s not like me. He’s reckless. He’s stupid. And he’s in deeper shit than you know.”

“You think I don’t know how deep this gang bullshit goes?” you hissed. “I’ve lived in the shadow of your messes my whole life. The bloody evenings in which my mother treats all sorts of wounds and says nothing to your mother. I chose to stay away. I dont want to be a part of your world. But I couldnt stay silent when—”

“When what?” His voice dropped, sharp and angry. “Until he smiled at you?”

There was something strange in his voice. Almost... hurt. He had always protected you with all his means. You always thought it was because of your rule, never ever get involved. But now….it clicked. “Hey Baekjin, what is your fucking problem...you like me or something,” you snapped at him.

Baekjin’s silence was the loudest confirmation. “I never said anything,” he muttered. “Because I knew you'd never—”

You stepped back. “You're right.” Baekjin looked at you angrily in hurt.

Seong-jae found you later that evening, pacing on the rooftop of a nearby building, wind howling around you both. He didn’t say anything at first. Just offered you a drink and sat beside you.

“You okay?,” he asked while opening the can. “No,” you said looking to the ground. He looked over, worried. “Was it something I—”

“No,...No you didnt do anything” you said, meeting his eyes. “It’s just... I knew this would be...messy. And now it certainly is.”

He reached out slowly, fingers brushing yours. “I dont know why its messy, but if it is, let it be messy.”

You stared.

“I don’t know what I’m doing most of the time,” he said. “I fight too much. I don’t think enough. I’m not safe. But with you... I want to be.”

Your heart clenched.

“So,” he said, voice soft, “let it be dangerous. Let it be chaotic. Just don’t walk away yet. I will protect you, you know?”

And somehow, despite the warning bells in your head, you nodded. Because falling for Geum Seong-jae wasn’t safe., it probably never be. But it was so real. And in a world full of lies, blood and broken loyalties, real mattered the most.

Weeks full of beautiful moments passed, your love for Seong-jae grew stronger and so did his. He would do anything to protect you from his world. He loved lounging around on the field and watching you train. You were incredible to him.

Baekjin didn’t come with a warning. Just fists. It happened in the back alley of a closed noodle shop, right as Seong-jae was lighting a cigarette, thinking about your cute victory smile from the tournament, this afternoon.

“You couldn’t just stay away, huh? I told everyone, keep your hands off Y/n!” Baekjin’s voice was low and bitter, already angry, already pacing like a predator. Seong-jae turned, casually, like he didn’t feel the danger creeping in behind the syllables. “Didn’t realize I needed your permission to fall for someone.”

That was the last sentence before the fight broke out. Baekjin wasn’t sloppy. He hit like a ghost—fast, calculated, and personal. Seong-jae fought back, of course. He was scrappy and stubborn and too proud to back down, but Baekjin fought like a man with something to lose. Something to prove. By the end of it, Seong-jae was on the ground, bleeding from his lip, knuckles split, ribs aching like hell. And Baekjin? Gone. Leaving behind the message in bruises.

You found him by chance—half-stumbling, half-leaning against a telephone pole two blocks from your dorm. Your breath caught in your throat.

“Seong-jae?!,” you cried out loud at the sight. He looked up, eyes hazy but still managing that crooked, stupidly charming grin. “Hey, crazy Angel. You should see the other guy.”

“Ugh you idiot,” you whispered, rushing to his side. Your dorm room was small, but it felt like sanctuary as you sat him down and grabbed a first-aid kit with trembling hands. That you had never needed it as much as you did with him. Ever since you two knew each other, you always had it in your school bag or purse.

“What....what happened, Jae?” you asked, dabbing gently at the blood on his lip. Dried and stubborn to remove. He winced but didn’t pull away. “You know...jealousy’s a hell of a drug.”

You paused. “Oh...Baekjin. I am so sorry Jae...”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. When you reached for the hem of his shirt to check the bruising along his side, he raised an eyebrow. “You dont need to be sorry for loving me, angle....but you should be sorry for undressing me...already?”

“Shut...shut up,” you snapped, cheeks burning with heat. But your voice softened when you saw the angry red across his ribs. “God, Seong-jae…”

He let you touch him—your fingers tracing along bruises, your breath catching at the intimacy of it, ever so soft. And then, the moment shifted. Tilted. Your hand lingered too long. His gaze dropped to your lips.

“You should’ve stayed away,” you whispered. “Couldn’t,” he murmured. “You’re the only thing that makes this madness worth it. Understands the crazy light in my eyes.”

Then he kissed you. Not soft. Not slow. It was heat and want and aching relief. Like he waited his lifetime to do so. Your hands slid into his messy hair, his over your waist, pulling you into his lap as if he couldn’t get close enough. He groaned against your lips when your hips shifted, giving traction to his lower parts, mouths moving hungrily, desperately, like the world outside didn’t exist anymore.

You didn’t stop when your hands moved over his bare skin. You didn’t think about Baekjin, or the gangs, or the mess. Just the way Seong-jae’s breath stuttered under your touch. He pulled back just enough to look at you, forehead pressed to yours, pupils blown wide.

“Tell me to stop,” he breathed.You didn’t.

The kiss deepened like a storm building in silence, and your hands were in his hair, pulling, needing, as Seong-jae held you like he was scared you'd disappear. His shirt layed forgotten on the floor, and your fingers explored the heat of his skin—marked, bruised, but alive. You felt every shiver under your touch, every sharp inhale as he let his walls fall just for you. He kissed you like he needed to remember what it was to feel something that wasn't pain.

"You're sure?" he whispered against your neck, voice low, hoarse, reverent. You nodded, forehead to his, breath trembling. “Only if it’s with you.”

That was all he needed. He carried you gently—arms around you like you were sacred—and laid you down like the world outside didn’t matter. The streetlights cast silver slashes through the window, catching on your skin as he undressed you slowly, like a secret being unwrapped one breath at a time.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t careless. It was chaos and care, lips and whispers, bruised hands worshipping soft skin. Seong-jae touched you like he was memorizing you—each kiss on your collarbone, your shoulder, your spine, etched into you like fire and silk. He whispered your name between gasps and promises, over and over like it meant something more than it ever had before.

And you returned it—touched him like he wasn’t broken, like he wasn’t bruised, like he was yours. That night, you didn’t just fall together.

You loved each other. Through the quiet moans, the tangled sheets, the lingering kisses between breaths, and the warmth that settled after—you found something more powerful than the danger outside. You found each other. And by the time dawn bled through the curtains, you were still tangled in him—his arm over your waist, his heartbeat slow under your palm, his lips brushing your shoulder as he murmured, half-asleep, “I’ve never had anything good… until you. Its just like a firelight is between us, pulling us towards each other.”

In the chaos of the world, he was fire. But with you? He was home.

[thefallenangel2008]

Imagine being Caryn Pines.

You give birth to twins. One of them has 6 fingers on each of his hands. The other was unplanned. Money is tight. But you love them both regardless. Your husband... He definitely loves them too.

One is smart, he will get far, that is evident. The other is reckless, and he doesn't study, you worry about his future.

Your husband plays favourites, praising in his own way one and blaming the other. You try to balance it out. Because you love them both and you don't want them to feel left out (but you can't stop the damage your husband is doing anyway).

They grow up, you see your boys becoming men, but they're still your boys.

A science fair project. A fancy college. A machine breaks. There's tension in the house. Everyone yells, explanations and accusations being thrown in the air. Your husband throws out one of your boys. Your free spirit. And you watch in the back, in the dark, unable to do anything, because you're a coward (you're not. You're holding a crying infant, it's the 60's, you can't get on your husband's bad side, God forbid you do, what if he hurts you or the baby?)

You can't sleep that night. The house feels empty. It shouldn't feel that way. You're laying right next to the man who kicked out your son like nothing (he's awake too. You know he's awake, he knows you're awake, but neither of you talk).

Your son, the one that stayed, moves out. The house feels empty. Both of them call from time to time. One talks about his life in college (he made a friend! So proud of him). The other talks about work. He has a small business. You believe that, you've seen his ads on the TV. He got an apartment. You don't believe that, even over the phone. You birthed him. You taught him how to lie, how to get away with lying. You know, but you don't address it. Maybe because you really want your son to be safe, to have a roof over his head, so you decide to hold onto that delusion. He never accepts your invitations to come over. He says he has work. You don't believe him. You say you understand.

It's been 10 years since you've seen your son. Your son, the one who went to college and made a life for himself in a town you've never heard of before, calls you one day. "He's dead" he says. Your free spirit is dead. He got into a car crush. You go to the funeral, alone. Your husband isn't there, not any other family members. It's only you, your son, and an IRS agent. (oh, what had he gotten himself into?) It's a close casket funeral. You desperately want to see your son's face again, but you don't think your heart could handle seeing him all bruised and broken from the crush.

Something's up with your son. You can't quite put your finger on it, but your mother instincts tell you that something is wrong. But you ignore it. Because of course something is wrong. One of your boys is going to be buried 6 feet under. You haven't seen your son in 10 years. So, your brain, your stupid brain, can't help but imagine your 17 year old son in that casket. Because that's the most recent memory you have of him. Of him being a loud, reckless, lovable teenager who never seems to sit down, now laying still, quiet, his chubby and rosy cheeks pale as snow. Imagination hurts just as real life does.

But it's that feeling again, that persistent feeling, that something is wrong. You don't notice how your son's sixth fingers look off in his gloves, or how his voice sounds more gruff than usual. Or maybe you do. But you try to ignore it.

You cry and cry in the funeral. Your son is dead. One of your boys is gone. You can't help but replay the past in your head, the "what if's" darting all over your mind like a roller coaster. You could have been a better mother. Been more stern to him so he studied and wasn't perceived as a failure to get kicked out. You could have done something that night. That dark, faithful night, that sealed your son's future. You could have reached out to him, helped him, insisted he came over, convinced him to tell you the truth about his life, you were his mother, you could have helped him, you could have you could have you could have!

But you didn't. It's too late now. Your free spirit is going to be buried 6 feet under. You will never see your boys together again.

Imagine being Caryn Pines.

[agere-fics]

Being A Little With The Thunderbolts

characters: bob, alexei, yelena, ava, john, and bucky

thunderbolts/new avengers x little!gn!reader

dni if under the age of 17 or if your blog has dd*g kink!

♡

Alexei:

he's literally the best uncle!cg/babysitter you could ever ask for

literally gets you hopped up on sugar and leaves your energizer bunny hyperness for bucky to deal with

bored? literally no worries cause alexi is taking you everywhere you wanna go. the aquarium? the park? with a big ol' grin on his face, he's ushering you to the car

speaking of the car, you get shotgun always and alexi almost always forgets that you need to wear you seatbelt

he uses his super strength to throw you around and rough house with you but 90% of the time you don't get hurt (don't worry about that other 10%. he buys you chocolates and toys if you promise not to tattle on him)

gives the bestest bear hugs you could ever ask for

Bob:

he usually regresses with you honestly, but he ranges between being a big brother or being on the younger side

will literally play monster trucks and dolls with you

you cuddle all the time and take naps together like the cute babies you are

you like to wear his clothes and sometimes he'll wear yours even if they don't fit properly

you always need to be in his line of sight cause you're literally his emotional support person. if he's in big brother mode, he'll frantically search for you and if he's in little baby mode he just starts crying until yelena helps him find you

you share a big plate of dino nuggies together!! and then fall asleep in a cuddle pile in the living room akdhs

Yelena:

she's your mama. shares cg custody with bucky.

very much a helicopter mom, overbearing and overprotective but usually you don't mind it if you're feeling really, really little. if you're feeling a bit older, you often throw tantrums that you're a "big kid" and yelena has to get alexei over to calm you.

she has rules for you but is not very stern. she definitely gentle parents you.

how natasha was for her is how she is for you and bob

will play dress up with you and bake with you

when you're baking, flour is thrown everywhere. both of you just covered in it. and obviously alexei joins in cause he loves his family. John just stands there in corner like: 🧍🙄

Ava:

biggest wine aunt that ever wine aunt'ed

literally let's you do whatever you want and gives you whatever you want but you're NOT spoiled that's not a nice word according to Ava

you guys play chase and hide and seek a lot

she does your hair and makeup all the time

she's actually really good at face painting

will fight and kill anyone for you on sight

someone have something to say about your age regression? game over. she's gonna get them and they'll never bother you about anything ever again.

John:

John honestly did not rock with the regression at first cause he was all like: "🙄🧍 what are you doing??"

but then you looked at him like this: "🥺" and he went all: "😖" and now he's your babysitter sjfhs

loves to carry you on his shoulders, or dead man carry you like a fireman. either way it's a very funny sight.

let's you use his shield to slide down the stairs

freaks out when you get hurt and start crying cause he has no idea what to do

so clueless but also so sweet

he teases you but he doesn't know how to show love otherwise

Bucky:

THERE'S SO MUCH TO SAY ABOUT BUCKY

HE'S YOUR DADDY/DADA!!! AND THE BEST ONE EVER

at first, he didn't want to be vulnerable with you cause he was so scared. everyone he's been vulnerable with has left him. but slowly for surely you broke down his walls, convinced he was worth caring for too.

and having you as his little gave him so much purpose in life

he could actually wake up in the morning with meaning and satisfaction knowing you were there to hold his hand

you tug at his leg pants when you want something ajfhs

he's pretty strict honestly with lots of rules but you don't mind following them. he just wants you safe!

he let you cut his hair once. Once. never again lol

you guys do arts and crafts together!!

he ordered you your own super suit so you'd feel like a part of the team

[marvelgirlatheart]

not an angel: act one (Elijah “Smoke” Moore x Black!Reader)

a/n: a few things to note before you start reading this: THIS IS A BLACK!READER fic. And there is vulgar language (n-word) used in this. Y/N is not used in this fic or mini-series, so everything is free to the imagination! Also, I know, it might seem a little small with little happening but I wanted to hurry up and get this posted for you guys but don't worry, the other three parts will come soon. For now, sit back and enjoy a good fic.

not an angel (act i: the sun’s time)

word count: 3k

premise: a normal day for you, something that seems so boring. but maybe a greeting from two certain twins will cheer you up.

taglist: @heyyimmisunderstood

——————☆

act i: the sun’s time

by: marvelgirlatheart

☆

“Love is of all passions the strongest, for it attacks simultaneously the head, the heart, and the senses.”

-Lao Tzu

——————

Clarksdale, Mississippi

1913

Everything seemed to be the same every day for you.

You woke up in the same dim room you have been sleeping in for years, now. The sunlight from the rising sun shone a gentle glow through the old window that had white paint, which now looked like an old grey color, chipping off.

The room was still and quiet… unlike the rest of the house. You were lucky not to share a room with your siblings. Otherwise, you probably wouldn't survive in this house you described as a hellish environment.

A quiet sigh slipped from your bed and under the old sheets – you. Damn, you had your days where you didn't wanna wake up. But you knew the thundering steps of your momma or worse, your daddy, would make their way if you weren't fast enough.

So, after what seemed like a lifetime of silence, you finally got up, the bed springs groaning beneath you as you arose like the dead, stretching in your nightie that your momma got you when you became of age, a woman, she said.

You yawned and let your arms meet over your head as you stepped on the old floorboards and to the window. You pushed the sheer curtain back to just take a look at the nature outside. Your house was closed off from the town of Clarksdale. Not too far from the point where you were completely isolated, but not too close where it took you a five-minute walk to get to the nearest market. But it was overall a lovely area to enjoy.

A forested area in the back of the house and an open dirt way that seemed to lead toward the sun. It almost looked like heaven was calling for you.

But that vision seemed to cut right out when you heard a voice from beyond the door. “Girl, if you don't get yo ass outta bed–”

“I know, mama!” Your body was now tense after hearing those words. “I know,” You repeated before you walked to your door. You grabbed a simple sweater to take just to cover yourself up before you opened the door and walked out, the upside-down hell of your family finally flooding your still dreary mind.

——————

“Mama, the skirt’s too tight!” Your little sister said as she stood on a wooden chair dragged from the kitchen and into the foyer of the cottage, where most of your tools were.

You were assigned as the ‘seamstress’ of the family. You had a gift with your hands, fast and quick in both the mind and at work. Your nimble fingers worked quickly, going from sewing to grabbing pins from your kinky and unruly hair that you yet have set for the day, something you knew your momma would get onto you for. You had an extra pin between your full lips as you stitched up the skirt you had been busy working on for a week, all because your little sister, Mika, wanted to show her little school friends how high she could jump from the biggest rock at the creek near their school.

This girl, I tell you. Your momma didn't even bother to respond to the little girl, knowing she was most likely being dramatic. She was too busy in the kitchen, making sure your daddy was set up for work while your baby brother ate his breakfast. The woman was strong, fixing your daddy’s suit that he got cheap from an old friend who used to work with a man who owned a cotton field, his job being to translate for any new people that came from overseas, specifically people from Africa. On her other arm was your baby brother, Eli, who was just born as the door opened for spring to come in the beginning of the year.

But damn your mother’s mind. And your daddy’s, as well. Always so strict with you, they were. They never let you out of the house unless it was for a quick job or an errand. You could never make that many friends, especially when you had to quit school to help around the house at such a young age. No people your age to talk to.

But no, soon… soon your chance of freedom would come–

“Come on! I’m tryna get to school on time.” Mika exclaimed to you, snapping you out of your trance. Your lashes fluttered against your cheek as you blinked. You looked up at the girl and smacked your lips. “Focus on gettin’ ya damn work done. Tryna play too fast for all ya little friends, but you know you’re failing your class,” You mumbled, going back to work to finish up the last bit of work, but your sister, being the snitch she was, just had to say something.

“Mama, she’s cursin’ at me!” She called out in her Mississippi accent. But before you could even say something, a voice came from the kitchen, not your momma but instead, the man of the house. He called your name, followed by more words. “If you don't quick gettin’ your sista, I’ll get on ya ass like my damn life depended on it,” A threat, not a warning.

You let out a quiet scoff and then sucked in your teeth, making sure you were quiet enough so that the man with super ears in the other room didn't hear you, before rolling your eyes, looking up to see Mika looking back down at you, her eyes that looked just like yours looking back at you, but there was a smug look in them with a smirk on her lips.

You wish you could pop that shit right out of her. But you weren't looking for trouble this early in the morning. You finished as quickly as you could, not caring how sloppy the lining looked toward the end before you got up, setting all of your tools down. “Get out of here,” You said, gently shoving her off the chair. She jumped off the chair at the push, not bothering you another glance before her little feet pattered against the wooden floor, making their way to the kitchen with everyone else.

With that, you were alone. You straightened out from your crouched position, hearing your bones pop as you moved before you went to the chair Mika was once on. Your bare feet, ashy from the floor, moved until you sat down on the chair your sister was once on.

You were slouched over the chair, your elbows on your knees as you took out the remaining pins from your frizzy hair, putting them in a tiny wooden box that had other trinkets in it to help you with your work. After the box was closed, you straightened out and crossed one leg over the other before reaching for the piece of bread you for for breakfast. You took a bite of the thing and looked around the room, just needing something to take your mind off of sleep.

And that seems to do the trick. The day goes on. Mika is gone for school, daddy is gone for work, and all that was left of you was your momma and Eli. But unfortunately, your momma could never give you a free day.

You were out all day with her and your baby brother, stuck in an itchy dress she told you to wear. You went through many places. The market, the church, and even a friend’s house that seemed to be scorching hot. You were left to watch the baby while your momma cooked with her friend, cackling like crows about something that went down in the church.

But finally… You were home. You know had Mika with you as the three of you, including Eli, in your momma’s arms, fast asleep after a day of heat and people.

Your daddy was still at work. You walked to the cottage, Mika talking about her school day while your momma just nodded and hummed at every appropriate moment.

They all got into the house for you, but you stopped at the second-to-last step, putting a gentle hand on the railing before you turned your head over your shoulder, your dark skin glowing from the sun that was now setting. Time seemed to go so fast now, from the sun rising and now this, the globe of light setting over the hill and trees of Mississippi. The sun setting was like a clock for you.

On Friday of every week, like clockwork, your close friends and twins of Clarksdale, Elijah and Elias, would be there to save the day. They lived completely different lives compared to you. They had fewer restrictions, maybe because they were men, they were seen more compared to the women of the town. But still, they got to do a lot that you weren't allowed to do. So, being the little badasses they were, they hooked you up. They took you out from time to time, letting you experience things you never thought you could do. Dancing, drinking, smoking… who knew a church girl in the eyes of her parents could do something like this?

You did. Now in the house, the sun was gone, set for the beautiful moon and its twinkling stars that seemed to follow right behind. Dinner was over, and everyone was in their rooms, getting ready for sleep.

You walked to your room after saying your goodbyes to everyone for the night. You looked tired, your feet dragging against the floor, and your body slouched as you walked down the tiny and dim hallway to your door. You grabbed the brass handle and turned it, opening the door and immediately closing it behind you.

You pressed your back against the door, just taking the time to stare at the window on the wall across from you. But then, your eyes travelled to the old, brown clock that was on the side table beside your bed. There, you saw the time and your eyes widened.

“Shit!” You cursed quietly. You were gonna be late. You went through every drawer from your dresser and every rack in your closet, but you weren't satisfied with what you were seeing.

The purple dress? Nah, you wore that last week. The red dress that usually showed a bit too much of your thighs? Nah, you were tryna look out those midnight whores who roamed the town late at night.

You went through everything before you finally settled for a blue dress, which immediately reminded you of Smoke. His favorite color. Maybe you could get something out of him tonight with it.

And with your pearl-white shoes. Oh, the man would fall to his knees for you before midnight. Now, here you were, standing in front of your mirror, making sure your kinky hair was just right and that you out the right amount of the red lipstick you snuck behind your momma looked good on you.

You had on your blue dress, the one that hugged your curves. The one you received the most compliments on. And plus… it was flexible enough for what you would be doing tonight. God, your mind was all over the place.

You straightened out your necklace, making sure everything was perfect, but just when you got it at the perfect angle, a rough tap against your window knocked it back in a crook.

But you couldn't care less about the damn necklace. You turned around and you saw a silhouette standing at your window, the figure too dark with the moon shining on the person’s back from behind. But you weren't scared. You were nervous, sure… but for reasons you wouldn't expect.

But most of all… You were excited. As quickly yet quietly as you could, you rushed to the window and pushed back the curtains and opened the window, making sure there weren't too many creaks to alert your parents before finally, you were met with a pair of brown eyes that you could stare into for hours.

Eyes that glimmered back on you and full lips that had that damn cocky smirk on them.

“Why, hello, ma’am,” Elijah said, gently tipping his black hat with a blue piece of fabric wrapped around it, and you couldn't help but feel giddy at the sound of his smooth voice.

You wanted to faint like one of those girls fainting at any man in Hollywood. “Hi, Elijah,” You said, your words almost dreamy, and his grin got even bigger.

But before he could say much, another voice, one much similar to his, sounded behind him and from the shadows.

“Nigga, save all that shit for later. I’m not tryna have a fuckin’ bullet launched in my ass,” Elias said, his head on a swivel to make sure no lights from the house came on and no footsteps sounded around them.

Elijah’s head turned at the sound of his brother, his brows slightly furrowing, but not out of anger, maybe mild annoyance. “Nigga, shut up,” He said but despite his words, he, just like his brother, looked around to make sure no one was around.

Then, he looked back at you, who was looking at the entire interaction with an amused smirk. His smirk came back at the sight of your amusement before he got closer to the window, offering you his arms.

“Come on, Ma,” He said, and that’s the only invitation you took. You looked to make sure everything looked appropriate for just in case your parents wanted to have a nightly watch around the house, before you looked back toward the window and started crawling.

You made sure you landed gently in Elijah’s arms as he grabbed you, setting you down on the windowsill before he took you down with him on the ground level.

Your legs wrapped around his waist, your arms around his shoulders for support.

You were finally out the house. Elijah took a small step back, getting acclimated to your weight in his hold, but before he could do much, you out your hands to his cheeks and then pressed your lips against his, letting out a soft moan.

Elijah, himself, let his eyes close, one of his hands supporting you while the other went to the back of your neck, his lips moving against yours like clockwork. You could feel his tongue press against yours as you both shared a hot and passionate kiss. You two hadn't seen each other in a week, so of course you would greet each other like this.

You could hear Elias smacking his teeth at the sight, the man already impatient to get out, but Elijah couldn't care less now that your body was against his and your lips were on his.

But for air, he leaned away and pressed a gentle kiss on your neck. “Damn good to have you, baby,” He whispered and you breathed against his ear, catching your breath.

“Same,” You whispered, and then, you leaned back to get a better look at him before you let your legs weaken around his waist and you soon let your feet meet the ground.

“Damn…” Elias said, now approaching you two. “You two damn horny-ass people need to get a step on. Come on.” He said, and he didn't even bother waiting for you guys this time. He turned around and started making his way to where the car they had parked was, sitting between the trees and bushes surrounding your home.

Even though Elias acted annoyed, you couldn't help but let out a small chuckle, looking at Elijah. “He been like this all night?” You asked as you both started walking the same path Elias took. He let out a small snort at his words. “You know he hates comin’ over here.” You didn't need to hear anything else to know that the reason was because of your daddy. You let out a small snort and started swaying your hips with your steps, excited.

“Well, now, we can ease the worry away with wherever you boys picked for the night,” You said, giving him a smirk one could only describe as seductive. “Mm…” He hummed out. “Really?” He said, his ears listening but his eyes looking down at your ass as you walked, your body being hugged by the blue fabric so nicely.

“Just because we’re goin’ wherever we’re goin’ doesn't mean every worry will go away.” You smacked your lips and rolled your eyes, looking at him over your shoulder after having stepped in front of him. “Damn, live a little. Let me say what I wanna say,” I said and Elijah gave you a raised brow. “Oh, well, my bad, baby,” He said, raising his hands up in surrender before he moved them back down, one in a pocket and the other on your waist. But then, he pulled you toward him, making you giggle as he playfully nuzzled his nose against your neck.

“But I ain't takin’ no disrespect tonight… especially from a bratty-ass girl like you,” He said and you couldn't help but let out a low hum, your body relaxing against his as his rough fingers groped your ass that was beneath your dress.

“Oh… you dirty man,” You said before your positions shifted and now, you both were walking side by side while he gave you his signature grin.

You both walked to the car, where Stack was already sitting in the passenger seat.

“Is Mary comin’?” You then asked, knowing that the girl had mentioned wanting to come to one of your late-night fun moments.

“Oh, yeah,” Smoke said, as if he were remembering something he already knew. “We’re pickin’ her up next before we go to the place.” “Good. I wanna see my girl,”

Elijah let out a chuckle. “You don't wanna see ya nigga?” He asked, teasingly. “Well, of course I wanna see you… But I also wanna see my girl. There ain't no competition,” You said, and he let out another amused sound before you both continued walking and talking.

Soon, you both got in the car. Elijah got behind the wheel, and you got in the back before Elijah brought the thing to life, and soon, you three were driving down the dirt trail you were once looking at this morning, excited for a night you knew would be fun like the others before with the twins involved.

Damn, it was gonna be a good night.

[oddlylovingaddiction]

Hi how are you, I was wondering if you could do a batfam x reader where she was switched at birth

OKAY SO SORRY I HAVEN’ T ANSWERED THIS, I was thinking about making this ask a full fic and I’ve actually been thinking how to go about this. Because I don’t really want to create a throw away character that reader will replace eventually because idk why but that just leaves me with a guilty feeling 😭 however I started thinking…

What if YOU were the fake?! Batman THOUGHT you were his bio kid however when Damian came along Bruce ended up getting both your DNA tested. Damian was a 100% Bruce’s kid. You? You were definitely not. Insert chaos. Here’s a short blurb/fic about it! (I’m totally down to make it into a series if it gets popular enough. I mainly say series because this is such a good idea for a series and not just a one time thing.)

I’m assuming you want Fem!Reader from the she/her. Sorry if that was wrong!

Platonic Batfam x reader x platonic frenemy Damian

Tw for cursing, psychical violence, mentions of breakdowns, kidnapping and human experimentation.

(Also may contain spelling mistakes…)

“He is not your kid.” You scowl, glaring at Damian. I mean from your point of view he’s coming and swooping up a spot you had for years as Bruce’s child.

“Ha! Says the bastard who doesn’t share a lick of blood with her supposed father.” Damian snapped, giving you the evilest smirk known to man. You give him a strong punch for that, “Fuck you, just go back to your hole and die!” You screech.

Damian launches himself back, fists fire from both of you as you both. Bruce scowls, he was quiet before mainly just taking it all in before he decides that’s enough fighting, so he yanks you both apart and up by your shirt collars (almost like a mother cat would pick up her kittens by the scruff), before either of you could reach for your weapons.

You’re both battered, you sporting a black eye and Damian with a blooded nose. You glared at each other like if Bruce let go of you both, you’d go back to fighting to the death.

“It doesn’t matter who’s biologically mine, you’re both my kids and I intend to take responsibility for both of you.” He huffs in his gruff voice.

He pauses looking at You and Damian, who are looking in opposite directions, making sure if he sets you down you’re not going to try and kill each other.

When he finally sees you both not looking as murderous he sets you both down with a sigh before walking away.

As Bruce turns his back Damian mouths “Not his real kid.” To you which you mouth back “I know you aren’t his real kid no need to remind me.” To which he tries and kick you for. However Bruce turns around again so Damian and you are forced to stop.

When Bruce turns back around. you flip each other off and walk away.

That’ll probably be roughly how it starts, listen Bruce and the rest of the batfam doesn’t care if you’re not biologically his, hell half the damn family is adopted you’re fine. But between you and Damian? It matters. Oh it so matters. Constantly one upping each other in everything. Training? It’s a competition. Eating? It’s a competition. Hell even BREATHING is a competition. And Bruce lowkey doesn’t give a fuck, in fact he likes that you both are competing against each other because it means that both of you are improving battle wise. He only really separates you both when it gets violent or unproductive. I think Bruce would occasionally even try and start fights between you both because it makes you train more.

NOW HERE IS WHERE IT GETS JUICY.

So I think reader gets kidnapped by Lex Luthor during a mission with Damian. And this EATS HIM UP. The boy is a wreck assuming you’re dead and it’s his fault. I’m talking he trains 10x harder, he is 10x meaner and 10x more harsh on himself he usually is. I’m talking Bruce has to demand he stop and take breaks, and during those breaks he breakdown crying from the guilt and pain.

Insert some years later, 5? 3? Who knows years later you’re released from Lex’s grip, a bit battered and bruised and you go back home, when Alfred opens the door he nearly faints and Dick screams something about a ghost.

However once one of the batfam members confirms you are human and not a ghost, they all come running and BAWL their eyes out. Hugging you tight even if you’re now somewhat cold to them because of the stuff you’ve faced from Lex.

Damian walks in to see you standing there and you expect for him to flip you off or be annoyed you’re alive but instead when everyone finally lets go of you, he just walks calmly over and rests his head on your shoulder before breaking out in quiet sobs.

Everyone is shocked and frozen, and you’re frozen too, because you definitely weren’t expecting this. “I’m sorry— it was all my fault..” He sobs before slowly wrapping his arms around you.

I swear it takes you a good two hours before he finally stops crying and ever since then he’s being insanely clingy, he refuses to leave your side. He’s convinced that any moment you’ll disappear again and he’ll feel this unbearable pain again. But he also fears losing, in what his eyes is, probably his closest friend he’s ever had. Someone who inspires him to do his best everyday.

He now proudly calls you his sibling and straight up refuses to do anything without you, you’ve both been dubbed “The Wayne twins.” By media and the family despite the fact you’re not twins biologically at all.

I’m thinking of writing a full fic based on this, but I’m not sure! If this gets popular I’ll work on it after finishing Coming Full Circle! Let me know what everyone thinks!

[kayharrisons]

Caught up in a moment, lipstick on your face [Erik Campbell x Fem!Reader] [18+]

Erik Campbell has escaped death - narrowly.

So, naturally, his first pit stop on the way home is to the first dive bar that crosses his path.

The dive bar where you just so happen to be working that night.

His ex girlfriend. The woman he never got over.

The one that got away.

A/N: ok I know I said I wanted to get my other works out first but I just saw FD6 and 🧍‍♀️🧍‍♀️ I'm in love with Erik RICHARD HARMON I'VE LOVED YOU SINCE THE MURPHY DAYS anyway have this lil oneshot!!! Happy FD6 release day (note: it was release day when I started writing this LMAOOOO)!!

Warnings: fire mentions, injuries, drinking, smoking, death mentions, making out, thigh riding ehehe, piercings ;) , use of the word cunt and whathaveyou, lot of swearing from our boy LMAO, spoilers for FD6!

Minors dni!

Heat still licks at his skin.

The fire that could have killed him, should have killed him, is looming over him like a frigid chill. Ironic, he knows, but the goosebumps all over his entire fucking body speak for themselves.

If he'd worn one of his band shirts, or literally any-fucking-thing else, he'd be dead.

Lucky, the fire fighters had called him.

Erik prefers invincible.

He certainly felt it, in that moment.

Relief, yes. Smug at his cousin's theory being a big fat wrong-o, most definitely. Still jittery with nerves after literally falling into fucking fire, being branded and almost having his sweet as hell piercing ripped out, absofuckinglutely.

"Get ahold of yourself, Campbell," he breathes, laughing to himself as he trudges away from the smoked husk that was once his livelihood. Boss'd be pissed, but fuck him, he left him to lock up when he wanted to go home, grieve his father and drink himself into a fucking nice long sleep.

Yeah, fuck him.

Ri-fucking-p that sweet leather jacket too, by the way.

Saved him, sure, but god at what cost?

He should go home. Should change out of the ratty band shirt that is a few sizes too big and had been left in the lost and found box at work. Should cling onto his family tight and laugh at his luck.

He doesn't.

His feet, he finds, take him on a fun little detour, boots clomping against the pavement in a rhythm that's oddly soothing, like that of a heartbeat.

He's alive. He's alive. His heart is very much still beating, air is still flooding his lungs.

Take that death, motherfucker that you are.

A lamp-post sparks above him, and he flinches back with surprise, blinking at the light as it flickers weakly and then sputters to a dim end.

He holds up his hands, whistling low. "My fucking bad, dude. Jesus, can't even keep my thoughts to myself now?"

A pause.

"I'm not like grammy. Not gonna start that shit and yabber to the fuckin' walls. Fuck you."

That's all he has to say on the matter before he continues down the sidewalk, flipping the bird to the lamp-post as he saunters on down the street.

He shoves his hands in his pockets, kicking a loose pebble and watching it skip across the sidewalk as it would upon the flat calm reflection of a lake.

It's strange, wandering with no sense of purpose. Well, beyond heading home, but he knows that won't be his first stop of the evening.

It's just a matter of what catches his interest on his way there.

Initially, he debates stopping in at 7/11, debates grabbing himself some seriously unhealthy chips and an obnoxiously large slurpee that'll give him an intense as shit brain freeze and make him wish he was dead.

Ha.

But his feet pull him past 7/11, away from cherry syrup and fake cheese covered nachos.

They instead pull him to the end of the street, where the street corner diagonal from him is dimly lit red by one large sign;

BAR

Erik's lips curve up into a toothy, wide grin.

You take the last drag of your cigarette, tilting your head back against cool brick and watching the smoke curl from your lips and fade into the stars above you.

It's been a long night, so far.

Some firefighters had stopped in earlier after their shift, talking about the shitty tattoo shop a few blocks away that had burned down, about the poor man that had only lived by the skin of his teeth.

Or, rather, the leather of his jacket.

You can't help but think of Erik, wondering if it was his shitty tattoo place that had burned, if he was the one who had been inches from death.

No, you decide, flicking your cigarette butt into the trash.

Can't have been his.

Or else he'd have sauntered in here by now, would've taken the best seat at the bar and asked for your shittiest beer all the while staring down your shirt at your cleavage.

Or, well, that's what your boyfriend would've done.

You haven't seen him in a few months. Not since your last argument, your last screaming match post break up that was fucking Oscar or Emmy worthy.

You'd fucked him that night.

Because of fucking course you had.

You don't know what it is about Erik, even at his worst, or more terrifyingly his best, you would crawl back to him and beg him to fuck you like a goddamn bitch in heat.

The man melts your damn brain.

You can't help but wonder if he used one of those damn tattoo guns to etch himself deep beneath your skin, if he's penned himself into your bone marrow; the deepest and most intimate parts of you certainly feel like he has.

With a sigh, you push yourself off the wall, smoothing down your black shirt, your miniskirt, before heading back into the bar.

The juxtaposition of the sweet silence of your alleyway compared to the deafening dad rock of the bar is jarring.

You feel the beginnings of a headache, as you always do when coming back into work. It nips at your temples, the base of your skull. But it will pass, as it always does once you readjust to the noise level.

"You blow through a whole pack out there or something?" Todd asks you as he pours whiskey over ice, giving you side eye as you tie your apron back around your waist.

"Debated it," you hum, tying the ties in front of you in a neat little bow. "Why, you get a hoard when I dipped?"

Judging by the fact that there's only one guy at the bar and the tables are half empty... you're gonna go with a big fat nope.

"Just don't pull bullshit like that again, alright?" Todd scowls, to which you smile angelically back at him before turning around with a roll of your eyes as you start to polish glasses.

Fucking Todd.

You aggressively wipe at a smudge in a martini glass. Fucking Todd and his inability to clean his damn fingers before he touches glasses. Fucking Todd who's worked here not even a year and he thinks he owns the place. Fucking-

"Polish that any harder and you're gonna break it," comes a sing song voice from the end of the bar.

Your head whips around so fast it's a wonder you don't give yourself whiplash.

Erik is sat at his usual seat, elbows leaning against the bartop and expertly dodging any sticky patches. His hands are clasped in front of him, and you follow them up to his wrists, then his left forearm, which now boasts a piece of gauze likely covering a new tattoo.

"Doodling on yourself again, are we?" you ask, arching a brow as you instinctively reach for the shittiest lager you guys have on tap. Just the way he likes it.

"Less doodle, more memoriam," he shrugs, taking a swig from the pint with a content sigh and smack of his lips.

Your expression softens, any venom and fight leaving you within an instant, "I heard about your dad," you frown, reaching over and settling your hand atop his. "I'm really sorry, Erik. He was a great guy-"

"You believe in fate?" he blurts out, those icy blue eyes of his locked onto yours. You feel as though you're stood on thin ice, watching your breath in the air as you wait for it to shatter and pull you beneath and into the freezing depths. "Coincidences? Luck? Any of that bullshit?"

"Like... step on a crack, break your mother's back? That kind of thing?" you clarify, furrowing your brow.

Erik clicks his tongue a little. "No, not quite. Just... fate, like I said. Say every member of your family died a horrific death by the time they were twenty-seven-"

"Morbid."

"My dad got his face mown finer than the damn grass on the fourth of July, literally fuck off. Anyway... they all die by the time you're twenty-seven, but you live past your twenty-eighth birthday... what would you call that?"

You purse your lips in thought, considering your ex a moment as you lean against the bar. His eyes drift down your throat, glimpsing at your cleavage before flicking back up to your face.

"Luck, maybe," you concede, tilting your head. "Divine intervention, maybe."

Erik barks out a laugh, spraying some foam from his lager across the sticky bar. You scrunch up your nose, grabbing a rag to start cleaning.

"Fuck, sorry, babe, just... kind of riding on a high," he explains, pushing his dark hair out of his face, setting his glass down on one of the beer mats.

You'd instilled that into him during the early days of your relationship, ranting about customers who never had the goddamn thought to use the little mats.

Erik, at least when you'd dated him, had never set a drink on the bar.

You arch a brow as he leans in, his smile wide again. "I feel kind of fuckin' invincible right now. Legit on the greatest high of my life."

"Are you high?" you ask, giving him a quick once over.

"What? No. Do I look edible induced to you?"

You grumble your agreement that no, he does not.

"The tattoo parlour burned down," he informs you, casually, as if it's a completely normal thing to drop mid conversation.

Your heart stops in your chest, even if only briefly.

"Erik! Jesus Christ- are you okay-?"

"Fucking obviously, babe. Look at me, not a scratch on me- oh! Telling a lie, I did get this sick branding-"

He moves to lift up the gauze, and you wave him off. "Fuck- no, no. Don't wanna see that, you freak. Cover it back up, slut."

"How is this slutty?" he asks, bewildered, as he waves his left arm around. "In what universe is this slutty?"

"It's you," comes your flat remark. "You once humped a mailbox and asked if she was a good girl."

"...so?"

"You can make anything slutty, if you try hard enough." you say, tutting at him.

Erik considers you a moment, before his lips curl up into a devious smile. Like that of the Cheshire Cat.

You point a threatening finger at him. "Not an invitation, Campbell."

"Not even a little bit?" he asks, batting his lashes.

You hate that it's working.

"No."

"Boo." he pouts, before taking another sip of his lager. "...I almost died tonight," comes his soft admission, eyes glued to the tiny bubbles in his lager. "Literally was on fire. If I hadn't worn that damn leather jacket then... Jesus, I'd be right alongside my ole pops some time next week."

You reach out again, fingers gentle as they rest upon his.

He exhales, shakily, eyes flickering up to meet yours. "I almost died."

"But you didn't," you remind him, thumb gentle as it rubs back and forth along his knuckles.

"No," he agrees, voice softening in that way it always does with you. The same tone that turns your insides into mush. "I didn't."

And with that, he leans over the bar and kisses you.

You startle, lips tingling even as you lean back. "Erik!" you chide, shakily. "This is- we're broken up, we can't keep doing this. It super goes against what being broken up means-"

"Our break up," Erik breathes, eyes glued to your lips as if hypnotised. "Our rules."

That's all it takes to convince you.

It never does take much, when it comes to one Erik Campbell.

"Smoke break!" you bark out to Todd, as you toss your apron aside and dash out from the bar, grabbing Erik's t-shirt and pulling him along behind you.

"Fucking AGAIN?!" you hear Todd cry out indignantly behind you as the door closes, which you pay no mind to.

Erik has you pressed up against the cool brick wall in seconds, your face cradled in his palms as he slams his lips against yours.

You moan at the sensation, at the familiar feel of his hands, of his mouth.

His tongue pushes past yours without a second thought, in no mood to play fight for dominance. No, tonight, he's the one in control.

You slide your fingers beneath his tee, fingers lightly scraping up his chest, tracing designs of familiar tattoos that are burned into your memories.

You wonder if he's gotten anymore recently. It's tempting to rip that shirt off and find out.

But you control yourself, for now. Though your fingers do creep up his chest, lightly brushing over the piercings in his nipples.

Erik groans deep into your mouth, the sound reverberating in your mouth and straight down to your cunt which pulses with want.

You whimper, your hips bucking instinctively. You want him so badly it fucking aches between your legs, your underwear flooding with warmth as you think of his rock hard length filling you up. As you think of that damned piercing he got whilst drunk, and how it feels so fucking good when he-

Erik shifts, sticking his thigh between your legs. "C'mon, baby," he pants against your mouth, hands moving from your face and down your body. His fingers trail fire in their wake, leaving you feeling as though your skin is burning. His digits only briefly linger over your breasts before continuing southward and finally settling on your hips. Gently, he moves you forwards upon his thigh, and then back, then forwards again. "Be good and ride it for me, yeah? C'mon, sweetheart-"

You whimper again, and do as you're told. It doesn't take much more coaxing from Erik before you're leisurely rubbing yourself up and down his thigh. Your panties are a fucking mess already, and you know for a fact that Erik's jeans are going to follow suit soon. "I've missed you," you admit, eyelids heavy as you pick up the pace, grinding harder against his thigh as that ever familiar delicious ache begins to build.

"Missed you too," he murmurs, leaning forward and tipping his forehead against yours. Your noses brush with every desperate grind of your hips against his thigh, and his breath is heavy against your skin. "Fuck- didn't realise just how bad until-" he cuts himself off as he surges down, pressing a heavy kiss to your lips.

Your fingers reach up and tangle in his hair, holding him closer as you move faster, and faster and oh god yes you canfuckingfeelityou'resofuckingclose-

"Dude your smoke break is going on a little lo-OH MY GOD-"

Both your heads snap in the direction of a wide eyed Todd, who is averting his eyes from the pair of you.

"FUCK OFF TODD!" comes your joint yell, to which Todd does, in fact, fuck off, stumbling as he shields his eyes and returns inside.

All the while you are still grinding against Erik's leg, desperately chasing your release. It crashes over you just as the door slams shut, and you cry out softly as you come against Erik's thigh, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles against your hips.

Like you said; the man practically reduces you to a bitch in heat.

You pant softly as you come down from your high, leaning your forehead against Erik's shoulder as he noses at your hair, pressing kisses to your temple and forehead.

"...that'll teach him to fucking knock, huh?"

"We're outside, dumbass." you can't help but laugh, swatting at his chest.

"Dumbass that you just came all over," Erik sing songs, nothing but smug pride in his tone.

You lean back a little, eyes dancing over his face with a little smile. You could have lost him. You haven't been together in months and yet... the thought fills you with a terror you've never quite experienced before.

You've never not been in love with him.

"...I'm glad you're okay." you say softly, brushing his hair out of his face.

Erik nods, turning his head and pressing a kiss to your palm. His lips linger, his eyes flutter shut as he takes a minute.

Takes a minute to soak it all in, to soak you in. To think about whatche could've left behind, had the fire killed him.

But it hadn't.

And standing out here with you? Your slick heavy against his jeans, the smell of your perfume lingering in his nostrils, your warm touch...

If he thought surviving a fire made him feel invincible...

You make him feel infinite. Immortal. Everlasting. Untouchable.

"Yeah," he agrees, pressing another kiss to your palm. "Me too."

[merakiui]

Reverse mer captivity

You’re the second mermaid to be discovered and captured for science. The first one died of maltreatment and was dissected, but scientists believe they’ve learned enough to keep you alive in captivity.

You’re trapped in a tank that feels minuscule compared to the ocean, mournfully calling to your pod while trying to avoid being poked and prodded by the scientists who seem to do it more for sadistic amusement than any real search for insight. It only gets worse when foreign dignitaries and government diplomats and generals come to see you, as you’re expected to perform for them.

Especially when you’re forced into heat to demonstrate your breeding capabilities…

Ohhhh,,,, reluctant and conflicted scientist Riddle Rosehearts who is put in charge of the whole operation. He's looking after you as the facility's best, but that does't mean they'll necessarily listen to everything he has to say. When he tries to explain to the higher-ups that you can't prosper in these conditions, that those musical sounds you make each and every night are actually cries for your own kind, they scoff and insist he's spending too much time reading fairytales again. "It's a mermaid," they tell him. "A fish. It's not human."

But you are human. Part of you is, at least. You're intelligent. You can feel and think; you have complex emotions and reactions. You grieve the loss of your friends and family, the loss of the sea. He feels so bad for you, but what can he do? He's just your caretaker, jotting notes that will either be accepted or tossed aside by higher-ups desperate to avoid a scandal and a lawsuit. Laws regarding the capture and treatment of merfolk are uncharted waters, so it's all very hazy as of now. But it doesn't take a genius to see just how unethical this is.

Riddle feels bad watching them force you down in the shallows, pinning you there so that you're spread for all of those curious eyes. He feels horrible having to watch you suffer in a forced heat, even more so when he spreads your soft, slick, puffy merpussy open on gloved fingers and explains all of the anatomical knowledge he's gleaned from his research. The way you keen around his fingers, weakly thrashing because they gave you a sedative to keep you from smacking your tail everywhere. >_< he knows it must be unbearable and he's so sorry, but then he has to do his job. Everyone's watching; they expect the genius Dr. Rosehearts to blow them away with his knowledge! He can't fail. So he has to be invasive and spread you wide, explain about the few ways reproduction works for merfolk (from what he's gathered), do his best to ignore your sweet whimpers and trills and the way your merpussy squeezes his fingers. ;;;;;

After what he's sure was a traumatic ordeal, you're released and you hastily return to the depths of your pool to suffer through the rest of your forced heat, splashing him and the other researchers on your way down. When Riddle visits you later with your dinner, you lurk in the shadows, scowling fiercely at him. He apologizes profusely under his breath, promising you he doesn't mean you any harm. You really are a beautiful creature. He wishes things were different. He's noticed your scales have seemed duller as of late. :( it's horrible, really.

He wouldn't be surprised if you wanted him dead, so he's very shocked when you're cooing at him, looking at him so sadly, almost as if you're begging for something. He doesn't understand at first until you roll over on your back to show him your puffy slit shimmering with wet beneath the fluorescents.

Oh.

You're still in heat.

Well. There's no one else here except the janitor, but even they're not dumb enough to come into your enclosure when it's so dimly lit. Maybe he could help you? It's the least he can do. He feels like he owes you so much more, considering his kind is the reason you're treated like a glorified circus animal. Besides, a sick part of him is brimming with curiosity. If you can allow this, then surely you must trust him to some degree? Maybe it's possible to establish a bond of some sort! The eager researcher in him trumps all of his morals and shame in this moment. T_T

[omgfangirlland]

I think I just fell in love with 🫀 anon. Wanna be friends with them so bad frfr

-🔱

🫀 anon is very nice! And we just got another anon that I think you'll love adding to the Ben10!Reader (:

Sorry, I got distracted with an itch for Sims 4 due to watching a Sims builder make some nice houses and went down a custom content rabbit hole 🫠🫠

There's a reason Bruce is shaking and pale- but let's go back a bit.

After you left, Martha and Thomas were sure soon enough someone would notice, maybe not Bruce, maybe not even Alfred, but surely a kid would. The kid did- true- but they just thought you moved out, after all, it wasn't like Bruce was out and proud of you- hell, the man didn't even rectify the rumor that you were dead.

And Martha and Thomas started acting out. They're ghosts, flashes of what they were once upon a time, they're holding on out of desperation and anger, and all they felt right now was that. Desperation and anger.

It starts small, things they knew they could do without exhausting themselves, right? Moving that, drawing that with ketchup, flickering the lights. But the more they do that, the more powerful they get. Rattling all the furniture in the bed, letting them hear their cries and words, appearing in reflections for seconds.

Around this time, Martha goes after the man they hired, and Alfred becomes robotic in his duties, disassociating, as he realizes the scream he heard that day wasn't your mother realizing what she was doing, it was Martha. He thinks of how lucky you were that day, but the thought of checking on you doesn't even cross his mind.

And when Thomas appears in Bruce's dreams, bloody and choking as he cries, Bruce breaks. "How could you? She was just a baby!" Bruce wakes up, barely breathing while he stumbles out of his room, the room seemingly spinning and closing in as he trips over his feet towards your room. And then he stops, and so do the walls. He doesn't know where your room is.

Chaos ensues as the man goes to Alfred and then his other kids, asking them for help in finding you- Bruce almost collapsed when half of his kids don't even know who you are- and then he calls John. For an exorcism and a tracking spell.

As your name leaves Bruce's and his mom's lips, it takes a while for John to finally connect the dots. Jaw-dropping, realizing you lied to him about having no ties to Bruce Wayne. He should have know better by the way you had paled and your boytoys straightened.

John immediately refuses, saying that you were in- he choked on his words- good hands, protected by an actual angel, the biblical kind, and friendly with the current king of hell. Thomas Wayne wasn't having it tho'.

Now, your siblings, to various degrees, feel some kind of guilt, while the ones who didn't even know of your existence are furious. By everything they know, your mom is insane, tried to kill you, and then Bruce proceeded to ignore you like you didn't just exit the newborn stage. Damian felt that anger- due to Bruce marrying your mom and not his, due to not actually being the firstborn, due to there not even being a sign of your existence.

And after Constantine gave up fighting, Damian started. Yelling, throwing tantrums, being the emotionally unstable kid he is. Dick and Jason were quick to restrain him and move him away, letting Bruce and John carry on while they did everything in their powers to keep him quiet, and away from a staby incident.

Of course, John passes on every word of disappointment, anger, and even disgust the two dead Waynes have, even throwing in some of his own opinions and simply shrugging at the dead woman's glare. Due to Bruce, he'll have to grovel for a long while to get Sam and Dean to trust him again. If he wants to call Bruce a few choice words, he will.

I don't know how Reader would interact with the siblings, mainly due to me seeing her as someone who'll just teleport to another country at a glimpse of a thought of her "family" after being forced to interact with Bruce and Alfred.

You know what would fuck Bruce up, extra hard? Reader having a baby or toddler, specifically a boy that looks like him. Faints on the spot. (I'm not writing that btw, it's a cute thing to imagine Dean being an anxious dad, but I'm terrified of pregnancy and the idea alone makes me nauseous... But, yk, just throwing out the idea)

Martha and Thomas are just happy to see you again... even tho Martha is judging Dean hard.

[whitehairandtraumatized-bracket]

White Hair and Trauma Brawl Round 1; Poll 70

remember, voting is based on swag, trauma, and favoritism!!

trauma and propaganda under the cut!

Trauma! 

Winter: Uhh it's been years since I read wof give me a second. Brother dead none of his family likes him kind of an outcast of his tribe. Listen I can't remember specifics but I just Know

Piko: SO before Piko even released he was suffering. Basically him and Miki were owned by a company called HEARTFAST and they went bankrupt at just the right time that the two voicebanks had to be given to someone else to be produced and released. Miki was given to AH-Software, and Piko to Ki-oon (owned by Sony)

And thus the siblings were split up

But hey, things happen all the time. Maybe it would get better?...a week before release, Sony released a trial version of him. In tiny print they put that you couldn't post anything with this trial version. People either didn't see this or didn't listen but dude it's a trial version his voice comes out in 7 days, what could go wrong? Well, Sony started taking down the videos. This upset people, naturally, and so some people made the decision to not support the voicebank.

Eventually this finally clears up but *here comes kagamine rin and len with the steel chairs* because 19 days later their append vocals released, roadrollering Piko's poor ass out of the limelight he already was not getting. Now here's the thing-- this happened to Gakupo too (released super soon after Rin and Len act 2) but unlike Sony, Internet Co. Didn't piss off people in the vocaloid fandom first. Oh, and he wasn't the 2nd to last release for the V2 program (a title Piko only got because VY2 had the grace to be delayed several times)

Anyway  after a bit his voicebank does start getting more popular, but there's still a lot of. Issues.

First of all, the only person really putting effort into his marketing is his voice provider (the only merch of him was stuff made because they were making it of his voice provider too, like the cospa graphig and the promotional images for the sakurane album)

AND THEN a song was released with his voicebank in it that his become one of the most INFAMOUS VOCALOID SONGS (sh*ta sh*ta Island* -- search at your own risk, it's. Well it sure exists) and imo it's not even tuned well.

And so that (plus jokes about him being a "trap") became the 1 joke people made about him. For YEARS (this didn't fade out of popularity until around 2021-22ish)

Piko of course gets a giant burst of popularity finally. By now his voice provider has left Ki-oon, so unless another company buys his voicebank there's nil chance he's getting updated out of V2 into the newest vocaloid version or to another synth.

Years pass. Every single V2 vocaloid that wasn't already updated to V3 updates to V4. V5 releases. It is completely incompatible with V2

There are only 6 un-updated V2 voicebanks remaining

Piko is the only Japanese V2 voicebank among them -- the others already announced to have no update intentions.

August 20th 2020

Piko's voicebank is marked sold out on the Sony website

The first un-updated V2 to be marked as sold out

He is free

His voicebank explodes with popularity after this, of course, because the universe really likes being cruel, I guess.

Anyway -- Piko's voicebank (specifically the song My Own // Boku no Mono by Circus-P) was the reason I decided to buy VOCALOID

So I wanted to submit him

(*mod note: im not gonna link shota shota island im not subjecting y'all to that mess)

Propaganda!

Piko: THE KAKYUUKEI COVER OF ABNORMALITY DANCIN' GIRL !!!! Actually just any Kakyuukei cover in general !! His voice is so beautiful and he is also beautiful. You can make him anything you want. He was released for the same program as THE Hatsune Miku

[Winter did not receive propaganda. rip.]

[oftenwantedafton]

the assistant | william afton x f!reader x dave miller

Under the watchful eye of the skilled but stern William Afton, you begin to learn how to repair and restore animatronics in preparation for the renovated designs he’s created for a brand new facility in the decaying remains of his old restaurant, guarded by a strange man that bears a striking resemblance to your employer.

chapter one

Explicit content, 4.3k words, new 5/14/25

ao3 link

You never know quite what to expect when you enter the workroom; which version of your mentor you’ll be meeting with in this unlikely apprenticeship.

You can handle the fatigued, irritable version without too much difficulty; you’ve mostly learned to let the reprimands and insults roll off you like water off a duck’s back, recognizing them for the tired, heat-of-the-moment criticisms they are, internally resolving to do better next time. William Afton is an engineering genius; there’s no denying that. But he’s also becoming increasingly impatient in his advancing years, lashing out and venting his frustrations on the most readily available outlet—namely, you, an easy target that must endure a steady stream of beratement about your work, constantly remarking on your clumsiness and ignorance and failures, though you’re newly out of college and have had no real world experience prior to this.

He’s also taken to drinking more lately, an indulgence that heightens his temper and makes him even more unkind. The verbal attacks become much more personal, then. More cruel. His eyes narrow and his lips curl in disgust. He taunts your solitude, the fact that you live alone, have no close family or friends and no romantic prospects. You could possibly forgive these slights, considering the terrible influences the alcohol clearly has, if the man didn’t so clearly enjoy their effects; the haughty glint to his steel colored eyes and the way his tongue darts out to moisten his lips as if savoring your wilting discomfort in the manner one might enjoy a forbidden treat. He so clearly delights in inflicting emotional pain, and yet still you return night after night to learn from him all you can, repairing animatronics that will never see use in this shuttered children’s party themed restaurant ever again. An exercise in futility, in denial, though it never seems to daunt the middle aged man any. He’s as determined as the day you’d answered the advertisement in the local newspaper, first offering an interview that had left you feeling flayed, dissected, vulnerable—before immediately putting you to work. A hands-on test, as it were. You’d performed adequately enough, apparently, because he’d tersely told you that he expected you to return again the next evening. And so this bizarre apprenticeship has gone on, for nearing two months now.

Still you feel as if you’re working beside a virtual stranger, the enigmatic man offering up few personal details beyond a basic collection of facts that include a divorce several years ago and three children, one of whom tragically was killed in an accident at this very establishment due to a prank by his older brother who allegedly is a dead ringer for his father. He speaks with no affection for any of his family members; indeed, the closest emotion you detect is a thinly veiled contempt mingling with disappointment. How exhausting it must have been to try to please the man as his offspring; even worse as his spouse. You can all too readily imagine his scowl over a dinner not served promptly enough; recounting the latest bit of trouble one of the children had gotten into; bracing oneself before delivering news of an unexpected household expense. Surely it hadn’t always been like that, of course; there must have been some happiness. Some measure of affection. Otherwise why get married at all? Why have three kids? Perhaps the strain of running a business was too great. Tragic, then, that this is all he has left, now: a failure that he sits in night and night, tinkering with these aging relics that so few care about, in the very building where his own child had perished. He might not deserve it—he would most assuredly reject it if he’d been made aware of it—but still you pity the miserable creature all the same.

There is such a dark history in those smudges beneath William Afton’s eyes; in the tight lines bracketing them and the corners of his mouth. You hadn’t gone in completely blind, of course; you’d heard the stories. Missing children. Alleged murders. Both restaurant owners, William and his former business partner, Henry Emily, had been blamed. Yet there was nothing to pin on either. So people had retaliated in the only way they could, by boycotting the business. Eventually it had closed its doors to the public a final time.

You still cannot say for certain if the man you’re working beside had anything to do with those disappearances. It seems unlikely that someone as controlling and shrewd as himself would let anything happen on his property without his knowledge. But to outright kidnap and kill children? That, too, seems far-fetched. As short as his temper is, as biting as his words can be, you’re not sure you can envision him performing such vile deeds. It’s a silent debate that wages through your mind constantly, with neither side being the clear victor. You find yourself fervently hoping the accusations had been unfounded, because to seek instruction from such an individual would almost make you feel complicit in those crimes.

The length of time for which you’ll be assisting the man has never formally been declared; perhaps there will come a day when he will decide his ill-kept patience has finally reached its limits, forbidding you from returning. Until then, you’ve resolved to learn all you can, soaking up the master’s years of experience like a sponge while you collect your wages. A modest sum, on the lower end of the scale due to your inexperience, but even being taking advantage of sets you above merely scraping by. You have a roof over your head, an apartment in a good section of town. Decent transportation. Enough food on the table. Even a bit of money stored in savings. You really can’t complain, especially in this economy. Yet another reason you endure the man’s temper.

And the final reason you remain, well…that’s a little more complicated. Because in spite of all this negativity, you catch glimpses, every now and again, of a man who was clearly different, once, evident in the gentle care he uses when manipulating some component, in the pride and affection when recalling some memory. He even, at times, reveals a bit of charm beneath a rare smile that is truly pleased, not mocking or condescending as it typically is, but pure. A lingering look in those strange, intense eyes of his makes your breath hitch and your heart beat a little faster when your fingers collide as your bodies crowd together to share some task.

And then the moment passes, his voice stern and whiplike once again, the mask slipping back into place as he jerks away, another storm ready to break as he glares at you impatiently, ordering you back to work, making you doubt if the incident had even occurred in the first place.

After the second week of employment, William had entrusted you with a key to the rear entrance of the pizzeria, quickly tiring of waiting around to let you inside the building. You insert it into the lock now, casting a wary eye down the shadowed recesses of the corridor in case the odd night shift security guard was lurking nearby, but the coast is clear and you sigh in relief, turning and shutting the door firmly behind you and securing the lock. You can only imagine how upset your mentor would be if he’d ever discovered you’d accidentally left the facility open. There had already been several break-ins over the years—thrill seekers in search of excitement, vagrants in search of shelter, curious teenagers on a dare or thieves in search of supplies that could turn a profit—thus the need for the guard. Despite these threats, you can’t help but feel those funds might be better spent elsewhere.

The lighting in the facility is poor, a consequence of time and neglect, many of the bulbs burning out long ago and the remaining ones not properly maintained. Sometimes you swear you hear footsteps that aren’t your own, but you never see anyone when you turn around. Other times there are whispers, odd clangs of metallic objects, an unsettling hum from the faulty electricity flowing through the wires. It’s easy to get spooked in a place like this, especially at night. You’re not sure why William prefers working so late; surely these tasks could be completed just as easily during daylight hours. But he’d insisted on evenings, and so evenings it was, your body still struggling to adjust to sleeping during the day and staying awake all night.

You reach the workroom labeled Parts and Service and push open the heavy door, leaning your shoulder into it to assist the movement. You immediately see your employer seated in a swivel chair in front of one of the workstations, your gaze traveling to note that he’s already made his way through an alarming quantity of the nearby whiskey bottle you know for a fact had been almost full the previous evening, catching a glimpse of it as he’d fumbled for some supply in the bottom recesses of a cabinet. You feel a sinking sensation as you watch him toss the remaining contents of his glass back in one gulp, dragging the back of his wrist across his mouth and glaring at your entrance.

“You’re late.”

“I know. My neighbor’s car wouldn’t start, they needed to visit their daughter, she’s sick, so I gave them a ride—”

“—I’m not interested in your excuses,” he snaps coldly, setting the empty glass down with a sharp crack of sound.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble, easing your backpack off your shoulder and tucking it beneath the table.

“I’m not interested in your apologies, either,” the older man replies.

You remain silent, recognizing that this is your best course of action at present given the mood the man is in, your eyes flicking over the animatronic limb resting on the surface. In spite of the hostile nature of the environment, you are learning a lot about the inner workings of the vintage creations. There are newer circuits and mechanical components that you can proudly say are solely your own handiwork now, achievements you’d never have accomplished even a month ago.

“Are we finishing up the arm tonight, then?” The words spill from your lips, your enthusiasm bringing about a slight ease of tension.

William’s lips press into a thin line, but his crumpled brows smooth once more. His forehead is beaded with perspiration, likely from a rising body temperature because of the alcohol. “Yes,” he admits, still looking a bit displeased that you hadn’t continued to grovel. “If someone would fetch supplies from Deep Storage.”

Your fingers stutter on your jacket’s zipper. Deep Storage. That part of the building you despised investigating. The entire establishment is unsettling in general, but that place…well, it isn’t just the dust and the cobwebs and the broken light bulbs that creep you out. You hate venturing outside of the workroom because it means the likely possibility of running into him. That security guard.

“I’m sure we can make do with—”

“—You’ll go,” he growls, rising to his feet, an impressive six foot five frame suddenly unfolding and looming over you as a torn piece of notebook paper is thrust in your direction, “or you’ll exit back out that door and never set foot in here again.”

You swallow, reluctantly snatching at the paper only to find his fingers clutching it firmly, refusing to relinquish it. He’s standing entirely too close, gifting you a scent of the whiskey staining his breath, mingling with a faint hint of that evening’s aftershave. Your eyes linger on a small nick visible along his jaw, a little red line created out of haste, that perpetual impatience of his. You struggle to meet his gaze, still grasping one end of the list. His eyes are bloodshot and even more shadowed than usual. You’re willing to bet he hasn’t slept well. Something is clearly bothering him, beyond his usual blatant distaste for the world around him.

“Well? What’s it to be?”

Your tutor’s wrath or the weird guard. Which is the lesser of two evils? “I’ll go get the tools,” you murmur obediently.

William abruptly releases the scrap of paper and uses those fingers to rake through graying hair that is badly in need of a trim. “Be quick about it. You’ve wasted enough of my time tonight.” His attention once again focuses on the whiskey. He pours another serving into the glass and takes a large swallow. You notice his hand is shaking, reaffirming your earlier suspicions.

“Is…is everything alright?”

“What?” His voice sounds distracted. He appears to be studying the amber liquid with great interest.

“You seem upset. Did something happen?” More details begin to reveal themselves as you regard your employer: clad in one of the three piece business suits he insists on wearing in spite of the nature of your current project, you notice the long sleeve shirt is not as crisply pressed as usual. The row of buttons on his paisley print vest is done incorrectly, leaving the hem of the garment at an awkward angle. His tie has already been loosened, tugged again in frustration while you continue watching him, his blazer slung haphazardly over the back of his chair. This is not the put-together man you’re accustomed to seeing. You can’t help but feel some concern. He might be a cold, cruel person, but you’re not.

“William,” you prod gently. You most often address him as Mr. Afton, but somehow you feel this form of address will not capture his attention now.

“Hmmm?” At last his reverie shatters and his gaze flicks to meet yours. His lips part as if to speak but then he seems to think better of it, waving a pale hand in your direction. “Nothing to be done about it now. Go get the tools.” He slumps heavily back into the chair.

You hold the paper clenched tightly against your palm, nodding and scurrying from the room.

***

Just as you never know what to expect when you meet with William Afton, you also have no sense of what your encounter with the security guard Dave Miller will entail.

You still have no idea why the restaurant owner had decided to employ this particular man; at the very least, he seems derelict in his duties. Instead of doing proper rounds or monitoring the security cameras, you’ve always found him doing what seemed to be a whole lot of nothing, lurking in the shadows until he has the odd opportunity here and there to interact with you. When he does, well…he quite frankly makes your skin crawl.

It’s eerie how much he physically resembles William.

Beyond the nearly identical height for each man, their facial structures are very similar: the same long nose, high cheekbones and pouting lips, albeit your mentor had more weight on his face, and his entire frame in general. William’s hair is longer and shot through with gray, while Dave’s is a rich, dark shade like soil or coffee grounds. His voice is smoother, and he lacks the British accent of your employer, but overall you see far more similarities than differences between the two men. It would not come as a surprise to learn they were related somehow, though you cannot fathom why either one would not just admit it if that were the case.

The starkest contrast, of course, is in their personalities.

Granted, you haven’t had any particularly in depth conversations with the security guard, but the ones you had endured had left you feeling wary. There was something a little too heated and intrusive in his gaze; a little sleaze to what was clearly intended to be a friendly, reassuring smile. He strikes you as someone hiding something, enjoying that secret with barely contained glee.

You vow before you even reach your destination that you’re indeed going to make this fast, not solely because William had deemed that you should, but because you don’t think you’re up for Dave’s antics tonight; especially not after already irritating the intoxicated man awaiting your return. You slap hastily at the lightswitch on the wall, disappointed to see that another bulb has surrendered, making the space even more dimly illuminated than usual. You hold the list of tools close to your face, squinting at the measurements. A voice behind your shoulder makes you jump and whirl around.

“Need some assistance?”

“Dave! Shit, you scared me. You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that.”

The thin man’s lips twitch in a smirk. “I thought you might like the use of my flashlight. But I can leave you to it if you prefer.” The smile widens and you shiver, considering your options. You could definitely use the extra light, but you really don’t want its owner’s company. “Can you just let me borrow it, please? I won’t take long.”

“Then I’d be in the dark. Many places in this building have no functioning lights left. That’s hardly fair, is it?”

You sigh, shaking your head. You should’ve known it wouldn’t be that easy. “Fine. I’ll try to make this quick.”

Dave nods, withdrawing the device from his belt and switching it on, aiming the beam towards the piece of paper in your hand. You begin rummaging through the pile of tools, wishing this area was better organized as you pluck out various customized wrenches and set them to one side.

“Wrong one,” the security guard corrects your current selection and you frown, rechecking William’s specifications. He’s right. You scowl, mumbling your gratitude and swapping for the correct tool.

At last you finally complete your task, tossing the last item into a box. “That’s it, I’m done.”

Dave seems a bit disappointed. “Already?”

“Told you it wouldn’t take long.” You hoist the box up, turning towards the door.

“Wait a moment.” His fingers curl around your arm and you shiver again.

“Dave, I have to go.”

“Surely you can spare another minute or two.”

“I really can’t. Mr. Afton’s already upset that I was late getting here tonight.”

“The anniversary must be hitting him hard.”

You pause, suddenly curious. “What anniversary?”

“The restaurant shut down on this date exactly ten years ago.”

“Oh, no wonder why he’s so upset and needed a dr—” Your words halt abruptly. It’s really none of Dave’s business what his employer does in the privacy of the workroom. It doesn’t feel right speaking ill of him.

The dark haired man hums, his head tilting to one side. “Ah. Such a loyal assistant, trying to preserve your boss’s dignity. Drinking again, is he? A nasty habit, that. You should visit me more often. I have no such vices.”

As if, you think sarcastically. “William keeps me busy.” The informal address slips out before you can stop it and the other man’s grin widens, his lips stretching thinly over his gums.

“I could keep you busy, too.” The thumb of the hand still resting on your arm sweeps up and down in a slight caress. “I think you’d find my company far more pleasant than his. He’s not the only one who knows things,” he adds.

You have no desire to unpack that boast any further. “I have a lot of work to do.” You shake his hand free and step forward but the guard immediately blocks your path, moving quickly in front of you.

“I can help you.”

You shake your head, feeling a rising sense of panic at your exit being barred once again. “I don’t think he’d approve of that. I really have to get going. He’s waiting for me, and I’m sure you have things to do, too.”

The smile fades. “Very well,” he replies stiffly, spinning on his heel and striding towards the door, the flashlight switched off and secured in his belt once more beside a ring heavily laden with keys. “Don’t forget to shut the lights off on your way out. What’s left of them,” he mutters, disappearing from view.

You sigh in relief, realizing your hands are trembling, rattling the collection of tools you’re carrying. God, the man was so creepy and weird. You debate about mentioning his behavior to your employer, then quickly discard the idea. You don’t think William would approve, but you also don’t want to risk earning Dave’s ire. He seems the vindictive type. You’d probably emerge one morning to find you car keyed. Maybe worse. Better just to keep silent about it for now.

You nudge the lightswitch off and brace the box against your chest, tugging open the door. Another wave of relief floods you when you see an empty corridor stretching ahead.

Dave Miller has disappeared.

***

When you return to Parts and Service, you find that your employer has mercifully abandoned the whiskey bottle, at least for the time being, his sharp nose now buried in a large spiral bound sketchbook.

You set the box of tools down, your gaze wandering curiously over the page your mentor is drawing on.

“What’s that?” The overall animatronic design looks familiar, yet you can see some changes from the pre-existing ones as well.

“A new project I’ll be starting once this tutorial of yours is complete. A new facility calls for new features,” he murmurs, scratching in a few more components.

”You’re opening a new business?” You blink in surprise. This is the first time you’ve heard of this plan. Perhaps that’s why he hasn’t invested more money into maintaining the current building since funding is required elsewhere.

”Yes. The prototypes can be created much faster with two people at work. Provided that second person shows up for work on time, of course. And doesn’t dally in the storage room. What was the hold up?” His eyes never leave the page, his tone deceptively casual, but there’s no mistaking that acerbic lilt.

“I ran into the security guard.”

William grunts, seemingly uninterested, but you don’t miss the slight waver in the line he’s creating. The pencil twirls between his fingers, inverting, and he erases the mistake before resuming his drawing. The stub of the eraser tip is nearly worn away past usefulness, but there’s also a white wedge that may have once been rectangular in shape resting beside the book, it’s rounded edges covered in graphite.

“How did that go?”

“He helped me with the lights. Another bulb blew out.”

Another dismissive sound. This time his hand remains steady.

“He…he mentioned what happened on this date ten years ago.”

The man’s hand freezes and his face lifts sharply, his gaze piercing you. “Did he, now? What else did he say?”

“Nothing, really. I told him I had to get back to work.” Dave is a topic that never arises. You’d never even been formally introduced, his presence on site merely mentioned in passing. It feels odd to be discussing him now; you kind of wish you hadn’t mentioned him at all. There’s a dangerous glint to the gray eyes intently watching you.

“You don’t care for him much, do you?”

“I…it’s not my place to say. I don’t really know him very well.”

“Mmm…quite.” He eases back into the chair, tapping the end of the pencil against the spiral rings, his lips twitching in a faint smirk.

You’re not sure how to respond; what answer is the right or wrong one. That mock smile looks unfriendly. Dangerous. So you simply remain silent, waiting for William to react.

The awkward moment lengthens, abruptly severed when the sketchbook is closed and set aside, his features solemn once again. “Well, we’re going to have to work quickly if we want to salvage the time that’s been squandered. Ready to start?”

You nod, hastening to unpack the tools and laying them out in a neat row. Mood swings with your employer are nothing new. At least this one seems a shift in a positive direction.

“Looks like you’ve gotten everything correct. Good. Let’s start here.” He selects one of the specialty wrenches and uses it to point to the innards of the exposed upper arm, then holds it out for you to take.

You inhale deeply, accepting the tool.

Your shift of animatronic repair has officially begun.

***

William Afton is asleep.

You’d suspected this outcome, given his increasingly drowsily issued instructions, his eyelids drooping further and further with every passing hour, until at last they’d surrendered, the man’s head tipping back, lips parted, a soft snoring sound accompanying your unguided repairs. Eventually you reach a point where you’re unsure of how to proceed and you cease working, setting the tool down.

Resolving that there’s nothing further to be gained from this shift, you begin tidying the workstation, casting glances in your mentor’s direction, but he is sleeping soundly, oblivious to your actions. You bend down to retrieve your bag, once again stealing a look at the older man. Without his perpetual scowl, his features are smooth and serene, and he looks much different. Perhaps this is what he’d looked like back in the day, when his business was a success; when the dining room was full of laughing children instead of dust and cobwebs and bitter memories. When he’d been a kinder husband and father. A happier man. That one that you sometimes glimpse when the curtain draws back.

You hesitate, then set your backpack down. The whiskey bottle still sits open on the desk and you close it now, tucking that and the empty glass back where you’d last seen them stored. Then you lift William’s jacket off the back of the chair, draping it over his chest. You’re almost tempted to wake him, but he looks like he really needs the rest. Similarly you consider and discard leaving a note explaining your departure. The truth will be obvious enough. Hopefully he won’t be too upset upon waking.

You retrieve your belongings once again and exit the workroom, wondering what the next night will bring.

[sillygoobermanlol]

Imposter

Silly short fic I wrote

You are dead lol sorry

Simon has retired, thought he could ignore the mental effects of what his former job brought onto him.

Simon Riley sat with his hands cuffed to a table, on his wrist they were too tight. Straining his blood flow, nobody had fixed it, not since the officers came, when they saw you on the floor in a pool of your own blood, blood that was still stuck under his nails, still staining the lines of his hands. Part of him still didn’t believe it was real, grey eyes dazed as he stared at the metal table blankly, no mask, only flesh. Not a monster, but a very bad man. Somehow that was worse. The glint of the bright light overhead overbearing. His leg bounced and he couldn’t unclench his fists. The sound of sirens was still blaring in his head, and he couldn’t think. Though he was acutely aware of the man in the corner, watching him with a gun, ready to fire if he so much as moved an inch. Simon Riley was no small man, it was only reasonable, and with what he had done even more. But part of him itched to fight, only instinct with such a weapon pointed at him while he had nothing. After years of keeping one in his grip so tightly, how could he have let himself get soft? How dare he try? How dare he promise you that he could be. 

A tear rolled down his cheek, and fell into his palm, taking some of your blood with it as it rolled down, he hadn’t realized he was crying. 

He hadn’t noticed either the sound of voices that grew louder. But when he did, they were already so close.

“Simon Riley. Ex soldier, murdered his partner.” Said one, 

“Jesus,” said another under their breath, a woman. He didn’t look up when the door was pushed open. There was only silence for a moment, before the sound of a chair dragging across the floor, she sat down sitting the clipboard she held on the table before clasping her fingers together on top of it. “Simon,” she said, and it was so sickeningly soft. It reminded him of his mother almost, soft, yet didn’t do anything to stop the chaos around him. It wasn’t protection, but pity. “I know this is hard, but I need to know what happened tonight.”

Of course, they knew what had happened, somewhere the details were written on paper, that described the state of your body and what killed you. This was for him, to put him behind bars. He knew that he deserved that. But he didn’t know if he could take picturing your face right now. It settled in. You were dead, oh god, you were dead. 

“Simon?” she said again, dipping her head to see his face. “Do you want to tell me what happened?” 

All he could see was the blurry outlines of his hand, tears were still falling unwilfully. But he couldn’t feel anything. Gods, why couldn’t he feel anything? The woman only sighed, “My name is Detective Porter, I’m not here to hurt you, or accuse you of anything. I just want the truth. Can you give me that at least?” 

When he didn’t say anything, she kept going, “I was told you were ex SAS, is that true?” 

Silence. 

“You retired a year ago, worked with the T141. Under John Price, with the callsign: Ghost.” 

His eyes shot up, peering at her. He was shaking. Of course, they knew all of that, they knew everything about him. Ghost was a manufactured weapon, a successful one. He was milked for everything he had and when let go didn’t know how to be human. He didn’t know how to be gentle for you, yet you still stayed. And now you were dead. He always thought that maybe it would have been the demons that followed him off the battlefield, hungry for revenge. Wanting to take away the only happiness he ever had. Like they did to his family, scared that one day he would come home and find that they had put a hole in you, leaving him to grieve yet again. He thought he was clever, thought that if he kept you close, he could stop it, but he didn’t think to save you from himself. 

The woman nodded, pleased that at least she had ignited some reaction in him. “Let’s talk more about that then, yeah?” 

“No.” he finally spoke, gravelly and deep in his throat. 

“Then we have to talk about what happened tonight.” 

He went still again. 

The woman sighed, taking apart her clasped hands and taking up the clipboard. Reading over the text before speaking, she said your name first, the wound was still so fresh that he didn’t think of you gone, but the way she spoke of you in past tense made him sick, “Your significant other, correct? They were found dead inside of your shared apartment. You were the only one inside, you were also the one to notify the authorities.” 

Simon dug his nails into his palm, where your blood still stained red. Get it off, please get it off. The realization of what he had done was still fresh in his mind, when you stopped moving, when he touched you and you were real, when just a second ago he was convinced, you were not. That you were here to hurt him. A threat, another enemy. 

“Simon, I want you to understand that-”

He slammed a fist on the metal table, she flinched, the man in the corner tightened his grip on the gun, she let out a shaky breath, holding a hand up to stop the man from proceeding further. 

“Stop, saying my fuckin’ name like that.” He snarled. 

“Okay, okay. I won’t,” She breathed out, “What would you prefer? Ghost?” 

“No.” he said, and his voice shook slightly, he didn’t know. He did not want to be Ghost nor Simon right now. 

“This is serious, I want to make sure you understand that all I want to do right now is understand.”

He was still shaking, the cuffs rattled on his wrists like chains. “No…No, you jus’ wanna…you..” he rambled, voice shaking, his entire chest shuddering. 

“I want to help, I want to know why they were found in your apartment with their neck broken.” 

Simon whimpered, shaking his head. “Don’t…Don’t do that, don’t you fuckin’ do that.”

“Do what? Tell you what happened? That’s what we found, Simon.” 

He shook his head again, shaking violently, he knew these interrogation techniques, hell, he’s used them himself. But he was breaking, because this wasn’t war, this was you. 

“I didn’t mean to- please, I didn’t-” he choked on his own words, “I thought- I didn’t know it was them I didn’t know..” 

“You didn’t know?” She leaned forward a bit, like she had a fish caught on her hook now, all she had to do was reel it in, “Can you tell me what you thought, then?” 

“I…I…I didn’t…I thought-” he sputtered, everything felt so real now, the fuzzy haze in his mind was gone, no longer there to protect him from reality. Is this why it had been so easy to kill before? With a mask and convinced he did not have to be human. Like a machine, with just a job to do. But your blood was on his goddamn hands. Your body was somewhere getting cold, and he had done it. 

Porter tilted her head down to write on the clipboard before looking up at him again, “Did you kill them, Simon?” 

“I didn’t mean to.” He said, and it was so broken. So gone. He did not register your cries, your begs, when he put his hands around your neck because something in his brain was telling him that you were not real, only posing as someone he loved. He squeezed you until you stopped moving, you clawed at his arms, at his face and now he could feel them burning. Like all of his kills they had left a mark, physically or mentally. You had left both. 

[quins-makeshift-menagerie]

Seeing that other anon made me remember that I never actually posted my Typhon theory, SO here we are! My apologies for the overall length of this message, I hope I'm not cluttering your inbox too badly! (That, and I'm sorry if someone has made this theory before. I don't check up here too often.)

SO! Now to my theory.

This Mew, pictured below-- that is Typhon.

So far, there are multiple things we know about both Janus and Typhon, which have led me to believe that this is the case. I will present this evidence below-- it is going to get very image-heavy. I apologize.

Typhon has been shown, on multiple accounts, with a different bone structure, indicating some level of shape-shifting.

You have mentioned before that your design of Typhon has always been final, so I do not believe any alterations in his design to be due to said design being a prototype at any point in time. That being said, Typhon has been shown with both Mewtwo AND Mew anatomy.

As you can see in exhibits two and three, Typhon has the head shape of a Mew and, more importantly, the bone structure of one in exhibit three. Notice the three toes, and the lack of a dewclaw on his hind legs. His overall body shape is clearly that of a Mew.

However, in more recent images (most of which are too bloody for me to post), Goopy's body is clearly more Mewtwo-like, in both skeletal structure and his overall size. To get a better view of what I mean, I recommend that anyone (who can deal with the gore) to take a look at any image Typhon is in, and look at his skeletal leg. But for now, have exhibits four and five.

What I believe this to mean, I will go over in my conclusion.

2. Janus was aware of Typhon's existence.

Janus has told Fuji (and by that extent, us) that he was aware of Typhon's existence. That being, "Yung's other project". We are aware that they thought very lowly of both Yung and his creations, and given her reaction to Fuji when he was first created, I can imagine that her encounter with Typhon went much of the same. It is clear that Janus did not destroy Typhon, however, it is very likely that they believed him to die soon enough.

As you can see in exhibit six, Janus appears to recognize Typhon after he and Nemo sense him, and though at first he is in denial about the whole thing...

...she ends up with the grim realization that she may have underestimated Typhon after all.

3. Despite Janus knowing of Typhon's existence, they either thought he was dead, or did not consider him "complete" enough to fit among the ranks of the other Mewtwo.

Janus indicated that she knew of Bellatrix's existence before she was ever revealed to us as a character. This in revealed in the post made on September 26th, 2023, in which Janus laments about all of the Mewtwo that have been created. Notably, Typhon is not here, despite him being revealed only about a month later on October 31st, 2023. (Though one could argue that he had already been teased before then.) See, exhibit seven.

Janus has no reason to lie to us. They were forthcoming in just about everything else asked of them, so why be obtuse about this? Same with Omni. Omni and Janus are friends, and yet when Omni asked if anything had "happened" before then, Janus doesn't answer the question specifically. If there was another Mew in Janus's world, an ACTUAL MEW, one that could have been considered family-- I do not see any reason that Janus would have to withhold that information from not only their equal, but their friend.

I take this to mean that Janus never considered Typhon to be alive-- at least, not before now. Nothing more than a failed experiment, until she was forced to reconcile otherwise.

4. Conclusion:

Because of the information presented above, I believe that "baby Mew" you showed us is actually Typhon.

Janus very clearly has met Typhon before, but only thought of him as a "project". She met him likely a long time before ever meeting Bella, maybe even around the same time she met Fuji-- meaning that her opinion on clones was not a positive one. Combined with the fact that Janus never considered Typhon to be "as alive" as Fuji, Bella, Zeus, and the others, I doubt they never expected him to be fully sentient or capable of surviving. It is entirely within the realm of possibility that Janus left Typhon to die, expecting that "failed experiment" to simply dissolve away. After all, he "lacks" what Nemo "stole".

Typhon's form is very clearly unstable. I think, when he was first created, Yung attempted to make a Mew. But Mews, as we have seen with Nemo's coma, have very unstable DNA, and Typhon's body was unable to hold itself together. He was always destined to die. He knew it, Janus knew it, and instead of helping him, Janus left him. His body, still, is prone to spontaneously dying-- if that revive stone is any indication. I think that as he grew, his body warped itself into something more "stable", something his DNA was actually capable of holding together-- a Mewtwo.

Him appearing as a mangled Mew instead of a Mewtwo in Nemo's dream is likely his "ideal self". Nemo got the stability that he never had, the body that he never had, and he wants it back. In the real world, he is unable to hold the form that he was born with, and so he must settle for something less. Something inferior. He could have just taken Fuji's body and ran, but no, that's not what he's after. Typhon wants to be a Mew, he is a Mew-- and there's only two Pokémon on Earth that could ever help him achieve that goal.

Or at least, that's what I think.

I wanna eat this ask like a massive bowl of spaghetti mmmmm