#I WILL say I will count Human as an animal. but I’d like to keep the human forms at a minimum. alpha and beta only imo

[ozcarma]

If all the AI fragments could each take an animal form what animals do you think they’d take?

furries of the fandom help me

[hivemuthur]

Request: something with sex pollen or accidental aphrodisiacs (science experiments?). And not like dubcon. More like Viktor/Reader have unconfessed feelings and apparently one or both of them needs to be drugged and desperate for sex to get them out. Idk if it’s your thing but I’d be interested to see your take on it.

I remember the evening I got this ask. I was like yesss and my friends gave me the look, you know?

Unknown Variable

viktorxfemale!reader explicit! sex pollen, but I've managed to plot it up a bit. From warnings: unsafe sex, rough sex, lots of fluids, brief mentions of experimenting on animals. The substance here is based on how fentanyl works, sort of :') I had to make myself a loop hole for something I wanted to write for the longest time :v

word count: 4,5K

author’s note: Freaktor Nation, how we feeling? Thank you for granting me another porn-writing fiddler milestone Anon :') beautiful artist behind the cover is @petitesieste 🖤

—

Your idle hand plays with the pendant of your necklace while the other scribbles down notes from the last test. Another miss. And life goes on in pain.

Finding a medication that alleviates pain without an endless list of side effects has been Sisyphean work, to say the least. Every time you think you’re close, something immune to compromise pokes its insistent head through the crack you’ve made in the never-fully-open door to the human pain receptor map.

To be honest, your ambitions to cure pain have long been tempered. Now, it’s merely about making it less relentless—offering people who struggle with it a brief reprieve, something to make it manageable. Not that Viktor was your inspiration, but he is a constant reminder of why you should keep going when every trial eventually turns to dust.

"Why do you insist on keeping such thorough documentation of the rejected ones?" The said reminder peeks over your shoulder, his hair tickling your cheek.

You huff, masking how startled you are, and mutter, "Of all people, you shouldn’t be asking stupid questions."

"There is no such thing. Only stupid answers," he counters, eyes still glued to your notes. "It’s a very noble goal, you know, but you might have to come to terms with the fact that a complete erasure of pain may simply be impossible."

"Again. Of all people, you should not speak of the impossible, Viktor," you smile under your nose and turn your head just enough to see that he’s smiling, too. A jest.

"I'm only teasing you," he hums, reaching out to point at something on the page. "This… is not bad. Persevere, you will get there."

His fingertip lands right next to where your hand has frozen mid-writing, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from his palm. For a brief moment, you allow yourself the illusion that Viktor is doing it intentionally. But the thought vanishes as soon as he straightens and clears his throat.

"I'm not sure I will continue with this one," you admit, tapping your pen against the page. "It gets rid of skeletal pain but gave my rats a headache to die for."

"Oh, no, no." Viktor shakes his head, eyes still scanning your notes. "This one, you shouldn’t abandon. Perhaps just tweak it."

"Tweak it?" You scoff, slumping back in your chair. "Do you have any idea how many times I’ve tweaked it?"

"I can only imagine," he replies with a wry smile. Then, after a beat, he leans in again, tapping a precise point on the intricate web of chemical formulas—lines and hexagons scrawled across the page. "I am no chemist, but this… just tickles the wrong part of the brain. Make it tickle the right one, and it might actually work."

It’s hard for him to mask the undertone of hope lingering in his voice. Hope that you will find the answer. Hope that your relentless pursuit of relief for those who suffer will finally bear fruit. And, if he allows himself a moment of selfishness, hope that his own pain, the dull ache that never leaves him, might one day be eased.

But there is something else, something unspoken and far less rational. Viktor has always found himself drawn to you, not just in admiration for your intellect, but in the way you work—how you lean too close to your notes, muttering under your breath, the way your fingers absently play with whatever they can find when you are deep in thought.

Since the early years at the academy, he has enjoyed working by your side more than he would ever admit. When your paths eventually diverged—yours to chemistry, his to engineering—he felt the loss more acutely than he had expected. There was pride, of course, in seeing you forge your own path, and such a noble one at that. But the empty spaces where you used to be, the missing sound of your voice arguing a point over some formula or blueprint, left a quiet ache that he did not know how to soothe.

Sometimes, when the solitude stretches long enough, he allows himself the indulgence of believing he was your inspiration. That some part of your devotion to this research, to this particular pursuit, was born from those long nights spent together over textbooks and dimly lit workbenches. But the thought is always fleeting, because minutes later, you will wave a dismissive hand at him, shooing him away to his own lab with a teasing remark, and he will remind himself that he is a fool for entertaining such notions.

It is not as though there have been no opportunities. There have been moments—unguarded, lingering occasions where it might have been easy to reach, to say something, to step beyond the line of friendship. But somehow, the time was never right. And so, this one thing, he never felt like he could touch.

You blink a few times, scrunch your eyebrows, and hum. The pen gets trapped between your teeth as you pick up the sheet and bring it close to your face, as if looking at it from a smaller distance would somehow make it clearer.

“You know, you might be right,” you finally say in a tone that suggests Viktor is never right.

A chuckle rumbles out of him. “Unthinkable,” he snorts, leaning on his cane and offering you a smug, satisfied grin.

You roll your eyes. “Don’t be so pleased with yourself,” you chide, but the corner of your mouth betrays a smirk. “Thank you. I must ask you to leave me to be a genius now.”

“Ah, there it is,” he sighs dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest. “Served my purpose, and now I’m being unceremoniously chased away.”

“Don’t sulk,” you tease, waving him off as you set the paper back down. “I’ll even put your name in teeny-tiny little scribble on the leaflet.”

“You spoil me,” he deadpans, shaking his head as he turns to leave. He pauses by the door, glancing back at you with an affectionate smirk. “Fine. Let me know how it goes.”

Before you can say, “You’ll be the first one to know,” Viktor is already gone, the door swinging shut behind him. You give yourself a moment to rub the stupid feeling of light-headedness away from your temples before setting back to work.

What was meant to be a small tweak stretches into hours. Then days. Then, after two weeks, as you stand in front of the blackboard, the realisation you hadn't anticipated settles over you. Whatever you’ve created will inevitably end the already miserable lives of your test rats. Other than that, the medication looks as ready as it will ever be.

You could wait, of course—gather a group of willing human test subjects and conduct the trial properly. But let’s face it—you’ve waited long enough. And it’s right there.

Your jaw aches from hours of clenching, your sleep has been erratic at best, and now, to top it all off, a dull pain throbs in your tooth. You could just check. Worst case? You die. And if that happens—well, you won’t care anyway, will you?

As for the side effects? Manageable. Irrelevant in the grand scheme of the doctor-patient relationship. So yes—it seems you’ve very much done it.

The sun sets at some point while you debate with yourself—to drink or not to drink. When you finally do, all your hesitation, all your pain, the aches and nagging little pokes you hadn’t even realised were there—vanish. They melt into a feeling of softness and lightness, enveloping you in a warmth that feels almost like a gentle embrace.

Your fingers flex as if testing for any lingering pain, but there is none. Even the dull pressure behind your eyes from lack of sleep has dissolved. A laugh bubbles up, unbidden, and you press your palm over your mouth, giddy with disbelief. It worked. It actually worked.

Then, just as quickly, your thoughts snap to Viktor.

You scramble for your notes, knocking over an empty vial in your haste. Ink smears as you flip through your pages, but you hardly care. Grabbing one more vial—just in case—you cork it tight and shove it into your pocket. You need him to see this. Now.

Your heartbeat pounds as you rush out, barely remembering to lock the door behind you before taking off down the corridor. The lamps lining the halls have already been lit, casting flickering pools of gold onto the stone floor. You don’t stop to enjoy it.

Viktor’s dorm is far from your lab, but somehow the jog doesn’t get you tired. On the contrary, it feel great. You reach his door and rap your knuckles against the wood, shifting on the balls of your feet with barely contained excitement.

“Viktor! Open up—I’ve done it!”

The door swings open faster than you expect, and Viktor is already halfway through a hasty, "Shh!" before you shove the stack of notes into his chest. He stumbles back a step, catching them with one hand while bracing against the doorframe with the other. His hair is tousled, his vest unbuttoned—he must have been in the middle of something, though whatever it was is immediately forgotten as he frowns down at the crumpled pages.

"What—?" he starts, but you barely hear him.

With a triumphant little flourish, you hold up the test tube between you, the liquid inside gleaming under the candlelight. “I did it,” you whisper, grinning. “It works.”

Viktor’s gaze flickers from the vial to your face, eyes narrowing. "It? You mean—?"

“If this isn’t enough evidence—” you gesture to the notes he’s still sorting through, his confusion growing by the second—“I might have secretly tried it.”

His fingers still against the parchment. His head snaps up. “…You what?” Voice pitches embarrassingly, sharp with alarm. He glares at you as if he might physically shake the confession back into your mouth, but it’s too late.

You shift your weight between your feet, the initial rush of excitement dimming just a little under his scrutiny. “I tried it,” you admit again, slower this time, watching as his grip tightens around your notes. “And it works, Viktor. No pain, not even a little. I feel…” You hesitate, trying to find the right words, then settle on, “Light. Like I’m floating.”

“That is not reassuring,” he snaps, finally stepping back to let you inside. As soon as you cross the threshold, he shuts the door with a soft but urgent click and turns on you. “You—” He exhales, dragging a hand down his face, visibly forcing himself into something calmer. “You did not even hesitate?”

“I hesitated a lot,” you counter, but that does nothing to ease the storm in his eyes. He looks down at your notes again, scanning them, flipping through pages. His brow furrows deeper with every line.

The rustling of paper sounds unbearably loud in the silence, the only noise countering it the pounding of your own heart in your ears. He says nothing, eyes scanning the pages with intense focus. He’s not just skimming—he’s memorising, cataloguing every formula, every line of documentation. His lips part once, his expression shifting from concern to consideration.

Finally, he lifts his gaze, hopeful and searching. “And the side effects?”

“Very unlikely to make an appearance. Oh, hey!” Your sentence stutters to a halt as you catch Viktor tilting the vial at his lips—and swallowing. “Have you lost your mind?”

“You said it’s safe. I trust you.” He shrugs with a grin, then his eyes flutter shut. After a moment, a quiet, breathy laugh escapes him. “I’ll be damned,” he mutters. “It does work.” As if testing a theory, he exhales deeply, then sits on the sofa and stretches his legs out experimentally. “Please, continue.”

You blink, thrown off balance, but quickly shake it off. “Uh… very unlikely,” you repeat, resuming your pacing in front of him. “Whoever prescribes the medication would have to be attracted to their patient, and vice versa, for any additional effects to take place. And they would both have to ingest it. So, you see—”

Through your excited rambling, you don’t immediately notice Viktor clearing his throat uncomfortably. You frown briefly, a strange warmth blooming in your chest, but your mouth refuses to stop moving.

Viktor speaks your name softly, trying to halt your trot. Then, again. Then, once more—his voice lifting just a notch in urgency.

You finally pause, eyes locking onto his. “Chances are… very slim,” you finish the sentence, but your voice falters into something dangerously close to a whine.

Viktor stretches his legs out stiffly, his hips jerking once as his fingers clench into the fabric of his trousers. A flush creeps up his neck, blooming across the cheeks and he exhales sharply through his nose, shifting as if trying to find relief. His chest rises and falls fast, and when he swipes a hand over his face, his lips part, damp from where he must have licked them. Another small jolt runs through him, thighs pressing together, and his knuckles go white where they grip his knees.

But above all of this, he just looks… incredibly hot. And as if the sight alone isn’t enough to nearly undo you, he speaks.

“Aphrodisiac.” Comes a low mutter of disbelief. “Brilliant, really,” he chuckles weakly, though there’s little amusement in it—only breathlessness. Brilliant, how you connected the dots. So incredibly brilliant to tickle, as he advised you, the parts of the brain that entwine both—pain and pleasure.

“But, oh… f-fuck,” Viktor stutters, a sharp inhale cutting through his words as his body betrays him. His hand twitches towards his lap before he catches himself, fingers gripping his wrist in a desperate attempt to resist. A painful cramp of lust wrenches his stomach into a knot, his entire frame tensing. “You’ve missed a variable, I’m afraid—”

You stand frozen, staring at him, torn between bolting out the door and throwing yourself at his feet. But then the realisation crashes over you, scorching hot, stealing the breath from your lungs. Your pulse slams against your ribs, your skin suddenly feverish—damp forehead, shirt clinging to your back like a parasite.

“You…” your voice wavers as you step forward, heat curling low in your stomach. “It means—” Viktor swallows hard, his gaze flickering up to meet yours, pupils blown wide. “Oh, gods,” you whisper, barely able to get the words out. “You like me,” the truth spills from your lips, the weight of it sending another sharp pang of want through you.

“Immensely,” he admits, voice strained, thighs pressing together as another tremor runs through him. His face is painted in apology, but his hands reach out for you.

You take another step, closing the space between you, and his breath stutters. “Since when?”

“Always, ah—” he gasps, struggling to keep control. His fingers tighten into fists against his knees again. “You?”

Your throat is dry. “Oh… s-same,” you choke out deciding the time for embarrassment is long gone.  

His head tips back, jaw clenched, a strangled sound slipping out as he exhales. “Gods.”

And it just fucking hurts not to touch him. The pain you had so recklessly rid yourself of is back with unnatural force—aching, unrelenting—and gods help you, if you don’t rut into his lap any minute now, you’re going to die miserably.

When you get close enough, his fingers brush yours pleadingly, and the touch feels like a punch to the gut. The mere ghost of his skin against yours bends you in half, has you leaning over him, gripping the backrest of the sofa for support.

“Can I?” he asks, his hand hovering under your skirt. The sweetness of it—this man, asking permission to touch you when you’re so clearly drenched, when you’re convinced he can see the slick dripping down your thigh—makes you want to weep.

You nod desperately, breathing out a tearful, “Please.”

Viktor immediately comes to your aid, his palm swiping up the dampness on your leg before pressing flat against your cunt. The sound it makes—slick and obscene—has him gasping. “Fuck, you’re so wet,” he whispers, bewildered.

His neglected cock aches, trapped painfully in his trousers. With the hand not already between your thighs, he fumbles with his belt, freeing himself—but to no avail. His left palm is even clumsier than the right, which now falters, frozen between your legs, his drunk mind unable to do more than one thing at a time.

Desperate for friction, you grab his wrist and rut against his palm, spreading slick all over his fingers. Viktor whines, overwhelmed by both having you and not having you where he needs you most. Then, with a sudden motion that makes you gasp, he moves your knickers aside, hooks two fingers into your cunt, and pulls you down onto his lap.

The moment you're there, you begin to slide your pussy up and down his cock, and Viktor moans—a filthy, slutty sound that has you threading your fingers through his hair, tugging his head to face you.

He looks so gorgeous you could eat him and clean your teeth with his bones. Possessed by greed, you sink your tongue into his mouth and nearly stop grinding from the sheer feeling of it. His hands—gentle, reverent—cup your cheeks, soft lips nipping at yours, his eyelashes tickle your skin when his eyes flutter shut in relief.

It had never crossed your mind to just kiss him. And oh, you’ve missed out on so much.

Because Viktor kisses like he’s been wanting you for the longest time—slow and deep, breathing in through his nose as he presses his face into yours. Close, so close you could melt into him, dissolve into liquid and flow down his throat, straight to his heart. His scent floods you, sweet on your senses and unmistakably him, nothing in particular yet everything at once.

Your hips move once more, but he doesn’t let you go. He groans into your mouth, biting down a moan when your pussy lips hug the underside of his cock, teasing the spot just beneath the head. You stay there, rubbing your clit in short, frantic movements, the sinful sounds falling between you, making you ache for more.

Desperation floods your veins, your slick coating every inch of him as you grind into the ridges of his groin, each drag of your clit sending ecstatic warmth down each of your limbs. Viktor is no better—his breath comes in ragged pants. He grips your hips unsteadily, trying and failing to guide you into something slower that he could endure.

“F-fuck… you are—” His voice trembles, his forehead falling against yours as if the weight of his pleasure is crushing. “So wet. You feel so—so good.”

You can barely reply, too lost in the heat of him, the feeling of his length dragging through your folds, the head catching just right where you swell, the sensation buzzing, building up. Still, you manage a breathy, “Your cock feels amazing,” and the whimper Viktor lets out is nothing short of wrecked.

His hands slip up your back, holding you close, his lips brushing yours as he mutters sweet, broken things—bits of words and phrases in his native tongue. You don’t understand them all, but the way he speaks them, ardent and needy, has your stomach tightening, your whole body scorched.

“Viktor, I’m—”

“I know. Please, cum. For me,” he pleads, his hands gripping you tighter as you begin to lose your rhythm. It’s there, you can already feel it creeping up your spine, twisting and prickling your skin where Viktor touches you, coaxing it out.

The heat in your belly snaps, and you cry out, trembling in his arms as your release gushes over him, soaking his cock, his thighs, pooling where your bodies meet. The wetness, the sheer warmth of you, sends him over the edge in turn.

Viktor shudders beneath you, his voice breaking on a guttural groan as his cock twitches and spills, ropes of hot cum streaking over his stomach, mixing with your slick into a sticky, messy heat between you.

Your mouth falls back to his, kissing away the sweat from his lips, your pelvis still rocking gently through the aftershocks—the slide so easy now that you feel like a whore doing it. Viktor hums when you pull his damp hair away from his forehead, his breath slowing down when he exhales a breathless chuckle. "You will kill me," he murmurs, voice hoarse and fucked-out.

"No," you whisper, nuzzling into his cheek, your body still moving against him, slow and unhurried. Like a cat rubbing against its keeper, needy and content all at once. "No, I would never. I need you."

Viktor groans softly at that, his hands tracing your sweat-slicked back before settling at your waist. "What do you need from me, sweet girl?" His voice is low, the tone suggesting that anything you ask for, he will give you.

"Please, fuck me," you breathe, pressing closer, your lips brushing against his jaw. "I feel so empty." Only now you begin to undo the buttons of your shirt and Viktor does the same, pressing your damp stomachs together. He inhales your scent from the crook of your shoulder and hums, eyes rolling back in his skull as if the words physically unravel him. His grip on you tightens briefly before he smacks your hips with both hands and says, “Get up. Please.”

Your legs nearly betray you, thighs shaking and knees weak as you try to rise from his lap, only to almost collapse back at the sight of the webs of your shared release stretching between you. It makes a sticky sound, gross and hot, and to your relief, Viktor must find it hot too—because he’s nearly fully hard again.

You don’t know if it’s the medicine or something else. You feel different now, though it definitely still holds, since Viktor gets up with ease, turns you to face the couch, and presses his fingers to the back of your neck, squeezing gently before bending you over. “Ass up, head down,” he says, a renewed lewdness in his tone.

You turn your head, catching him in the corner of your eye, and at the flicker of concern on your face, he smooths a hand along your spine and murmurs, “It’s fine. It doesn’t hurt.” He peels the sweat-dampened shirt from your back, and you smile at your shared state of half-undress—the way no time is wasted getting fully bare, the discomfort of parting greater than the inconvenience of underwear pushed aside clumsily and trousers still pooled around his knees.

Only you know how many times you’ve pictured this exact scene. But your mind never drifted far enough to conjure exactly how wet and scorching everything would be, how your thighs would quiver in anticipation. The cushioned seat dips next to your knee as Viktor sinks down beside you, close enough that your legs touch. His cock hovers below your pussy, his hands undo your bra, then settle where your hips crease.

He rocks back and forth and tsks when you shift needily. “So impatient,” he hums, sickly sweet in your ear. “But I suppose I have your lack of restraint to thank for being here in the first place.”

A clever retort sits at the tip of your tongue, only to be punched back down when Viktor slides inside you with one smooth thrust, hitting deep. He groans, wide and loud, fingers digging into your flesh—but you don’t see his face. You barely see anything through the tears pricking your eyes, forcing you to squeeze your lids shut. Your nails bite into the couch, and your back arches to meet him, presenting your ass just as he asked.

Still tight from your last climax, you hug all of him snugly, yelping when his balls slap against your soaked lips. It’s slow, almost teasing—the way he stretches you out. He’s too busy gaping at his cock, appearing and disappearing inside you, to hear your little mewls of incoherent begging, the word please tumbling from your lips over and over with no meaning beyond desperation.

Finally, you’ve entered the realm of things he can touch. And it’s dishonourable, the way it happened—but he doesn’t care. The ability to touch you, to fuck you, quickly erases all shame as he slams into you, hard and measured, knocking moans and ragged pants from your throat. It feels better than anything he’s ever felt.

He fucks you hard and rough. Each thrust is forceful, precise, driving deep until the sound of bodies slapping against each other is all you can hear. When enough pressure builds, and he feels your walls tightening, clenching closer and closer around his cock, he fists a hand in your hair and yanks you up. A sharp cry spills from your lips, your belly presses out, and you have to brace a hand against the couch's backrest. His arm comes around your shoulders, holding your back flush against his chest. The other hand—the death of you—slides between your legs, fingers pressing ruthlessly against your clit.

No restraint, no kindness—no nice boy left in him. His teeth graze your ear before sinking into the straining flesh of your neck, his voice a ragged whisper against your skin. “Take it. Where do you want it?”

Your head lolls back onto his shoulder, mouth falling open as you breathe out a tired, “Inside. Please.” He bottoms out and wrenches it from you—an orgasm so violent it has you screaming silently into the ceiling of his dorm room. It’s devastating, ripping away all muscle control as your cunt seizes tight around him, milking him without mercy. Your hands tremble, knuckles whiten as you struggle to hold yourself up, trying not to slump face-first into a pillow.

It’s all too much for Viktor. He falters, his hand slipping from between your thighs. He whispers your name distantly, voice raw, and ruts upward—once, twice—before spilling inside you. Hot cum floods every crevice, thick and unrelenting, leaking out even before he pulls free.

Everything melts into one—your shared breaths, the wet warmth between you, the sluggish rhythm of your heartbeats syncing. Viktor sits back on his heels and wraps his arms around you, nosing into your neck. Leaves soft, loving pecks there, trailing from your collarbone to your temple.

“You really didn’t know?” he asks quietly, his thumb stroking your lip.

You swallow against the dryness in your throat and chuckle. “Oh, gods, no. I’d like to think I have more decency than to drug you into this.” Your face tucks into his throat as you whisper, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I have never been more pleased about someone missing a variable,” he mutters, and he’s back—himself again. His hands are gentle as they cup your cheek, swiping away your worry. His lips are sweet on yours, licking the salt from your skin. What this little mistake has just opened up for you—you have no idea. But you can’t wait to find out.

[reidmarieprentiss]

Unauthorized Documentary 0.5

Summary: Matthew Gray Gubler is filming his untitled documentary, you hate it (not really).

Pairing: Matthew Gray Gubler x fem!reader

Category: fluff

Warnings/Includes: fake arguing, fake fighting, mean reader (it's fake)

Word count: 1.6k

a/n: i am rewatching the documentaries right now and i need this man so bad

main masterlist 1.0

“I am not Matthew’s girlfriend,” you sighed heavily, rolling your eyes in exasperation. “I have no idea why he keeps telling people that.”

The camera panned slightly, focusing on your expression as the cameraman shrugged nonchalantly. His lack of input only seemed to fuel your irritation.

Turning sharply to face the lens, you stared directly into it with a deadly serious expression. With an intense tone, you declared, “Let me make this absolutely clear for anyone dumb enough to be watching anything about Matthew Garbler — I have never, and will never, date that pathetic freak.”

The silence that followed hung in the air, your words ringing with unapologetic finality.

The camera pulled back slightly, catching more of the chaotic surroundings: a cluttered dressing room filled with mismatched furniture, half-empty coffee cups, and a life-size cardboard cutout of Matthew Gray Gubler in a pirate hat.

From behind the camera, a voice asked, dripping with sarcasm, “So you’re saying there’s no chance for a romantic subplot?”

You groaned, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Romantic subplot? This isn’t some trashy rom-com. This is real life! And in real life, I wouldn’t date Matthew if he was the last human being on this planet. I’d rather marry the cardboard cutout.” You gestured dramatically at the pirate Matthew, who seemed to smirk mockingly at you.

The cameraman snorted. “Right. But you’re still his assistant?”

“I’m his manager,” you snapped, your eyes narrowing. “And don’t you dare forget it. I keep that lunatic’s life from imploding every single day. And what do I get in return? A stupid title on this dumb documentary and people thinking I’m his girlfriend? Unbelievable.”

—

Later, the camera turns on Matthew, his brow furrowed and his expression caught somewhere between confusion and mild panic. “She said what?” he asked, his voice tinged with disbelief.

From behind the camera, a voice awkwardly clarified, “Uh, she said she’s not your girlfriend.”

Matthew’s eyes widened for a moment before narrowing slightly. He made a quick hand motion, his tone turning sharp. “Show me the footage.”

The screen jumps back to Matthew as he watches the clip. He forces an uncomfortable laugh, scratching the back of his neck. “She’s so funny,” he says, his voice cracking slightly. “That’s just how Y/N is… she likes to joke around like that.”

The camera slowly pans away, catching you in the background, deep in conversation with one of the producers. Your body language is animated, your irritation still evident as you gestured emphatically.

“Fuck,” Matthew mutters under his breath, the nervousness in his voice escalating. He whirls around, shouting over his shoulder, “Cut that, cut all that!”

Before anyone can respond, he bolts from the set, his hurried footsteps fading as the shot lingers awkwardly on the empty doorway he’s just fled through.

—

While you were giving another uncomfortable interview for the cameraman, the door burst open, and Matthew himself waltzed in, juggling three cups of coffee. “Guess what, everyone! I’ve decided to legally change my name to ‘Gubl��,’ like the singer, but with pizzazz. Thoughts? Be honest but supportive.”

You turned to the camera, your mouth slightly agape as if asking the audience for strength. “This is my life.”

“Wait,” Matthew cut in, setting the coffee cups precariously on a stack of scripts. “Did you tell them about us?” His eyes sparkled mischievously.

You rolled your eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t fall out of your head. “For the hundredth time, there is no ‘us.’ There never was and never will be!”

“Ah, denial,” Matthew said wistfully, draping himself across the nearest chair like a Victorian maiden. “It’s the first stage of acceptance, you know.”

The cameraman’s voice chimed in again, amused. “That’s grief.”

“Well, I’m grieving her lack of enthusiasm for our undeniable chemistry!” Matthew quipped, pointing dramatically at you before turning to the camera. “Did you catch that? That’s good TV, folks. Make sure you zoom in on her frustration—it’s practically Shakespearean.”

You threw up your hands in defeat. “I’m quitting,” you declared, marching toward the door. “I’m leaving, and I’m never coming back.”

“Wait!” Matthew leaped up, his tin foil cape trailing behind him. “Before you go, do you want one of these coffees? I got your favorite!”

You stopped, turning slowly. “No.”

—

You stormed into Matthew’s trailer, not bothering to knock. He was sitting on the edge of a couch, exaggeratedly flipping through a script as he was recorded, but the moment he saw your expression, his face fell.

“Stop,” you said sharply, pointing a finger at him. “Stop telling people I’m your girlfriend. It’s weird as fuck, Matthew.”

He blinked, momentarily stunned, before awkwardly laughing and setting the script aside. “Oh, come on, Y/N. It’s just for the bit—it makes the show more, you know, engaging.”

You crossed your arms, glaring at him. “Engaging for who? Because I don’t think the fake audience gives a shit about your fake relationship narrative. And I’m certainly not here for it.”

Matthew shifted uncomfortably, avoiding your gaze. “I mean, technically, it’s not really fake—”

Your jaw dropped. “Excuse me?”

“Well,” he stammered, rubbing the back of his neck, “we’ve spent a lot of time together. People see that and, you know, assume things. I just… lean into it.”

“You lean into it?” you repeated incredulously. “Matthew, no one is assuming anything. You’re making it up and then selling it like a damn tabloid story!”

He held up his hands defensively. “Okay, okay, you’re right. I’ll stop. I swear. I’ll—” He paused, his eyes darting to the camera peeking through the crack in the door. “Is this… are we filming right now?”

You turned your head sharply to catch the lens disappearing behind the door frame. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Matthew grimaced. “It’s for the show?”

You groaned, dragging a hand down your face. “Matthew. Fix it. Now.”

“I will!” he promised, scrambling to his feet. “I’ll tell them it was all a misunderstanding. Like, tomorrow. Maybe.”

“Today,” you snapped, pointing at him one last time before turning on your heel to leave. “Or I’m moving to another continent, got it?”

Matthew sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Okay, okay. I’ll stop. I promise. No more telling people we’re together.”

You stared at him for a long moment, your arms still crossed. “You’d better,” you said firmly. “Because if I hear one more person ask me what our anniversary is or how you proposed, I’m going to lose it.”

“Got it,” he said quickly, nodding like a chastised child. “No more fake girlfriend stories. Swear on my vintage ghost-hunting equipment.”

“Good,” you said, heading for the door. But just as you reached for the handle, you turned back one last time. “And for the record? If you ever pull this stunt again, I’ll leak the footage of you crying at craft services over them being out of grape soda.”

Matthew gasped, clutching his chest in mock horror. “You wouldn’t.”

“Try me,” you deadpanned before slamming the door behind you.

Inside the trailer, Matthew let out a long, defeated sigh before muttering under his breath, “She totally loves me.”

—

After the cameras had been packed up for the day and the set was finally quiet, you made your way to Matthew’s trailer. The door was slightly ajar, and you knocked softly before stepping inside. He was mid-way through changing out of his Spencer Reid clothes, tugging off the familiar cardigan with his back turned to you.

“Hey,” you greeted, a playful grin tugging at your lips.

Matthew spun around quickly, his face lighting up with a matching smile the moment he saw you. “Hi, love,” he said warmly, walking over to you without hesitation. His hands found your waist as he pulled you closer. His expression softened as he asked, “Are we okay?” There was a hint of hesitation in his voice, like he was bracing for a blow.

You tilted your head, confusion flickering across your face. “Of course, baby,” you replied, your hand instinctively reaching up to cup his cheek. Your thumb brushed against the slight stubble there as you searched his eyes. “Why wouldn’t we be?”

Matthew let out an awkward laugh, his grip tightening slightly as if to ground himself. “You were just... really convincing today,” he admitted, his words tumbling out with a sheepish smile.

“Oh, that?” you chuckled softly, rolling your eyes. “Matthew, you know I have to sell it, or the bit doesn’t land. That’s the whole point, right? It’s supposed to be funny.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, though the nervous edge in his laugh hadn’t quite disappeared. “But for a second there, I thought you actually hated me.”

Your expression softened at his words, and you leaned in to press a quick kiss to his lips. “I could never hate you,” you murmured against his mouth. “You’re ridiculous, sure. Annoying sometimes? Definitely. But I love you, even when you make up insane fake-girlfriend narratives.”

A relieved grin spread across his face as he leaned his forehead against yours. “Good,” he said softly. “Because I really don’t want to get in trouble with my real girlfriend.”

You laughed, your fingers threading through his hair. “Well, you’re not off the hook just yet,” you teased, a mischievous glint in your eye. “You owe me dinner for all the grief you caused today.”

“Done,” Matthew replied instantly, his smile turning playful. “But only if you promise not to leak that grape soda footage. My reputation depends on it.”

“Depends on how good the dinner is,” you shot back with a smirk.

“Challenge accepted,” he said, his lips capturing yours again in a kiss that promised he’d make it up to you.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

tag list <333 @yokaimoon @khxna @noelliece @dreamsarebig @sleepey-looney @cocobean16 @placidus @criminalmindssworld @lilu842 @greatoperawombategg @charismatic-writer @fxoxo @hearts4spensco @furrybouquettrash @kathrynlakestone @chaneladdicted @time-himself @mentallyunwellsposts @sapph1re @idefktbh17 @gilwm @reggieswriter @loumouse @spencerreidsreads @i-live-in-spite @fanfic-viewer @bootylovers44 @atheniandrinkscoffee @niktwazny303 @dead-universe @hbwrelic @kniselle @cynbx @danielle143 @katemusic @xx-spooky-little-vampire-xx @laurakirsten0502 @geepinky @mxlviaa @libraprincessfairy @fortheloveofgubler @super-nerd22 @k-illdarlings @softestqueeen @eliscannotdance @pleasantwitchgarden @alexxavicry @ill-be-okay-soon-enough @criminal-spence @navs-bhat @taygrls @person-005 @asobeeee

[revelboo]

Hi! Hope you’re feeling better! If you’re feeling up to it could you write some comfort/care for us chronically ill baddies? (I’d love to see predaking, first aid, or tailgate and cyclonus) but any bot of you’re choosing would be cute.

Sure! I tend to be almost perpetually sick- my own fault. I spooked after my old, chill doc retired and the new one wanted to start investigating why my white blood cell counts are consistently either too high or too low and haven’t been to an actual doctor since around 2019 lol (I’m a coward)

Care

Predaking

• Venting affectionately as you just groan at him and pull a pillow over your head when he tries to nudge you awake, he gives in and drags you back into his frame. Freezing as he registers that you’re warmer than normal. Again. Servos sliding against your neck and forehead, before pressing his head against the back of yours. How can you be constantly sick? Even with his nanites fighting a losing battle with your human immune system as you’d called it. “You should just let me bond you,” he growls and you make a soft sound that might be a laugh.

• It’s sweet that he keeps offering, but you don’t have the energy to explain that you want him to bond you because he loves you, not just because he’s trying to ‘fix’ you. It’s silly, but you need the words. And maybe Cybertronians don’t even do ‘I love you.’ You honestly know very little about your giant boyfriend. Except that despite his fierce appearance, he’s so gentle and kind with you. That his laughter is surprisingly loud when you do something he doesn’t expect. That even if the other Decepticons treat him like a dumb animal, he’s perceptive, intelligent, and even almost poetic at times.

• “I’m fine,” you mumble, relaxing into him as your soft fingers find and intertwine with his servos. And Megatron can get over it, because he’s not leaving you when you don’t feel well. Always insisting you’re fine even when you’re not. Resting his chin on top of your head, he vents softly to stir your hair.

• “You know I worry for you, little one,” he growls, shifting to brush his mouth against your jaw and neck. Making you feel loved. Eyes pricking, you’re tempted to just say it. To be vulnerable and let him know you love him. Even if the words mean nothing to him, even if he doesn’t say them back. “You’re my everything. I can’t lose you.”

• And you roll over in his arms, hiding your face against the mesh of his neck as you cuddle into his frame. Sliding a palm up your spine, he swallows a growl. Cares so much for you, would kill for you. But knows he’s not human. That maybe you can’t ever accept him fully because he’s alien. Feeling your breath on him, a thigh sliding against his own, he forces himself to relax. Almost doesn’t hear you softly whisper that you love him against his mesh. Going still, spark aching as his palm splays against your spine. “Say it again,” he growls, the words a plea. Needs to hear you say it again. Feels you huff against him, but you repeat yourself as his arms curl around you until you squirm, complaining that he’s crushing you. “I love you too, little one.”

[breakmeoff]

The Boy Next Door │2

pairing: bang chan x fem!reader

warnings: tension/angst, fluff...?

word count: 2.6k

synopsis: you babysat him when he was 7 years old, and he’s had a crush on you since you met, despite the 8 year age gap.  between moves to other places and time, it’s been 14 years since you’ve seen each other even though your dads are still best friends, still live next door to each other, and keep up to date about each other's family.  you surprise chris at one of the skz shows, and he’s shocked to see you, and even more surprised that he still has a massive crush on you.  if only he could convince you to look at him in any other way than the boy next door.

note: this is part 2 of a series, which I didn't expect to happen but here we are! still new to this, be kind. thx for reading. :)

Masterlist

The next morning, the sunlight was creeping through the small sliver of space between the curtains and shining directly over your face.  Blinking one eye open cautiously, you peeked around the room to reorient yourself.  Turning to your side, you glanced over to Mia’s bed, unable to see any sign of her other than the mess of bedding concealing a lump in human form with the tips of her dark hair sticking out from under the sheets.

Laying back flat, you threw your forearm over your eyes to block out the light in an attempt to fall back asleep, but your efforts soon became futile.  Your brain started working on overdrive, bringing up glimpses of the night before.  

Shit, Chris kissed me.  

Quietly groaning to yourself, you began justifying his actions on his behalf.  It was just the alcohol, and silly remnants from his childhood crush.  No big deal.  He probably forgot about it already anyway.  So you made the decision to do the same.

After a lazy morning, which really didn’t begin until 1pm after the teenage princess finally decided to roll out of bed, you and Mia decided to spend the rest of your final day of your trip sightseeing.  One hedgehog cafe, far too much mochi, one exhaustive anime shopping excursion and one conveyor belt sushi restaurant later, the two of you trudged your way back to the hotel.  

Dropping the excessive amount of souvenir shopping bags on the floor by your suitcase, you walked back over to the window, grabbing the curtains to close them once again. 

“I cannot believe I let you drag me around for almost 10 straight hours.  My feet are kiiiilling me,” you groaned, flopping onto the bed and kicking off your sneakers.

“Oh whatever, you had fun buying me all that stuff,” Mia said with a bratty smirk on her face, falling down onto the bed next to you.

“Yeah well, I recognize I have to buy your love these days.”  You retorted, glancing over at her.  Nodding, she deadpanned in response, “hmm… true.  I’d say this has been a successful trip then!”  Mia leaned over to give you a quick kiss to your cheek before standing up to start repacking for your return trip home the next morning.

“Great, so glad my credit card did it’s job.”  You teased, nearly rolling yourself off of the bed, audibly wincing in pain.  

“God, you sound like you’re 87 years old,” Mia sneered.

“I feel like it.  Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go soak myself in the tub for three hours.”  You said over your shoulder before disappearing into the bathroom.  A few minutes later, you exhaled a sigh of relief as you sunk into the bathtub in an effort to ease your muscles. 

Between the excitement of the day with your sister and your state of exhaustion, you’d forgotten all about the fact that Chris said he wanted to see you again after his show this evening.

Your phone began buzzing on the floor next to the tub, which caused you to sit upright quickly in shock.  First thing you saw was the name that popped up on the screen.  Chris.  Shifting your vision to the time, and noting it was after 11:30pm, you hesitated.

Almost paralyzed in disbelief, you froze, just letting the call ring out to voicemail.  Truthfully, you couldn’t quite understand why you ignored the call.

Deciding to disregard it completely, you slowly relax back to the edge of the tub, letting the warm water attempt to relax you.  

You had convinced yourself at this point that he was calling just to be polite, to hold his word that he would reach out.  You not answering though was your way of giving him an easy out, to forget about any weird possible obligation he might have felt about calling you that evening. 

He had to have been tired after a late night with you the evening before and another full day of rehearsals and the concert.  And it’s not like he had made any commitment to you and you’d see each other again sometime back home eventually. 

Now, feeling somewhat justified with your decision to ignore it, and resolving yourself to the fact that the matter at hand was settled, your phone vibrated again.  Once, then twice.

Cautiously looking over the edge of the tub, you saw two new text messages pop up on the screen.

Chris:  hey, are you still up? Chris:  I’d really like to see you again before you leave 

“...persistent twerp,” you jokingly whispered to yourself, dragging a hand down your face.  Reaching over to a nearby towel, you began drying your hands off to reply before you heard one more vibration from your cell.

Chris:  please?

Sighing, you picked up your phone, staring at it for a few seconds before typing up a reply.

You:  hey, hope the show went well tonight!  I’m actually just out of the bath and about to pass out.  had a long day with mia and we have an early flight in the morning.  let me know when you’re planning to be back in sydney next and i’ll try to make a trip home at the same time

Sent.  Setting the phone back down on the ground, you leaned over to start draining the water and dry off from the bath.  You couldn’t help but glance back to your phone every few minutes while you finished your bedtime ritual of skin care, taking out your contacts, and brushing your teeth.

Surprisingly, you realized you were almost disappointed that there was no text message back from Chris.  Turning off the light, you exited into the bedroom where Mia was already nestled in bed, facing the wall, scrolling on her phone with her earbuds in, oblivious to the outside world.

Settling yourself in the other bed, you sank onto the mattress with an exhale of relief before putting your glasses on the bedside table beside your phone.  As you were lifting your hand away, you heard another faint vibration.  Cautiously grabbing your cell, squinting at the screen, you saw it.

Chris:  I think I’m outside your room.  Come to the door?

“What the hell…” you whispered to yourself, looking back over to Mia who was still in her own world, you sat up quickly and grabbed your glasses.  Padding over barefoot to the door in just your sleep shorts and baggy tee, you inched up to your tip-toes, peering out the peephole.  Low and behold, there he stood, looking nervously back and forth down the hallway.

Unlatching the deadbolt and security chain, you quietly opened the door, looking over to make sure Mia was still unaware of what was happening, and stepped out into the hallway, leaving the door open just a crack so it wouldn’t lock behind you.

“What ar–” you began, looking incredulously up to Chris’ face which bloomed with a small, relieved grin, glancing over you.

“You still wear glasses…” he murmured wistfully, unable to help himself.

Quieter now, almost with a sense of urgency, you continued.  “Chris, what are you doing here?  And where’s your team…?,” you asked, looking down the hallway seeing no one else nearby.

“I left them downstairs, and I’m sorry for waking you up if I did,” he began, before you cut him off quietly “..no I was still awake.”

“Oh, good…” he nodded, looking you over once again, studying your pajamas, your soft, unkempt hair and clear, makeup-free face.  

Waiting for him to continue, which he didn’t, you spoke again, laughing nervously.  “So why are you here…?”

After a long exhale, he shifted his eyes back to yours.  “Honestly, I’m not really sure.  I just… didn’t want to wait another few years to see you again.”

“Dramatic much?”  You tried to tease, hoping to ease the indescribable tension between the two of you.

Chris shifted his weight from one foot to the other, looking down for a moment with a shrug of his shoulders.  “I don’t know, seeing you again just brought something back for me.  Something I didn’t realize I was really missing.”  

“I probably just reminded you of home, I’m sure you miss it.  It’s got to be hard being away for so long,” you said quietly, reassuringly.

“No, I mean… yes, it is, but I don’t think that’s it.”  He paused, observing you, watching you, trying to get the courage to really say what he was feeling.

Not finding the words, Chris couldn’t stop himself before he cautiously took another step closer to you, closing the distance between you.

Unable to take your eyes off of his, watching him move into your space, you barely whispered “...what are you doing?”

And without waiting another second, Chris leaned down, gently pressing his lips against yours.  This time, you didn’t immediately push him away.

Holding your breath, you allowed yours to melt into his.  Noticing that you weren’t stopping him, Chris carefully lifted a hand, softly moving it to cup the side of your face, tilting his head in the kiss as he moved in even closer to your body.

As you subconsciously began feeling the warmth of his body against yours, you quickly regained your thoughts and leaned back, breaking the kiss with a slow shake of your head.  Lightly gliding your tongue over your lower lip, you couldn’t help but taste the remnants of him on your skin.

“We can’t do this…” you whispered, watching him as he reopened his eyes, his hand still against your cheek.

“Why?”  Chris murmured, honestly questioning.  You couldn’t help but laugh dryly at the sweet naivety in his voice.

“Oh, so many reasons,” you quietly began.  Chris on the other hand, was too focused on how close you still were, and he boldly moved his hand to lightly drag the tip of his thumb against your lower lip.  Your breath hitched at the subtle gesture, and your brain finally kicked in.

Reaching up to grab his hand away from your face and break his spell, you tried to gently bring him back to reality.  “For one, you’re like, half my age…” sure it was an exaggeration but you were trying to prove a point.

“You’re really bad at math,” he retorted, dismissing your point.

“Two, we’re in the middle of a hallway…” you motioned to where the two of you were currently standing, under the fluorescent lights, where literally anyone could see you.

“It’s late, no one is looking,” Chris replied, once again trying to dispute your rationale.

“Three, you’re an idol, a celebrity.  If someone caught you kissing someone it could be really bad for publicity.”

Chris quickly replied, “I revert to my previous statement, it’s late, no one is looking.”

“And four, most importantly, you’re far too young for me, and you’re almost like my little brot—”, before you could even finish your statement, he literally lifted his hand to cover your mouth.

“Don’t.”  He said firmly, and all you could do was stand there, blinking up at him in surprise at his bold move.

“I’m not the little boy next door anymore.”  Chris said quietly, slowly, trying to get his words to sink in.  “I’m an adult, and I know what I want.  And you aren’t my babysitter anymore.”

You tried to mumble something in protest, though nothing coherent came out with his hand still quieting you.

“No,” he said firmly, almost condescendingly.  All you could do was lift an eyebrow in surprise, still rendered silent.  

“You’re done talking now, my turn.”  Chris smirked, trying to playfully, yet sternly, get his point across.

“Y/N, I have had a crush on you for damn near the last twenty years and I’m finally presented with an opportunity to do something about it.  And who knows when I’ll get the chance to see you again, so please, stop trying to make excuses to stop me.”  He paused, searching your eyes for an understanding.

“So let me repeat myself,” he began again, purposefully taking his time.  “I am an adult, a grown ass man who is standing in front of the girl,” he paused, correcting himself,” the woman he’s dreamt about for years.  And if you think I’m going to let you ruin this for me for some stupid reason about you being barely older than me, you are sorely mistaken.”

“Do you understand what I’m saying here?”  Once again, all you could do was blink.  Your heart was in your throat, staring up at him with an unfamiliar tightness in your chest that was becoming more intense by the second.  Noticing your hesitation, he teasingly prodded you.  “Nod your head once if you understand.”

So you did, one short nod of your head, his hand still over your mouth and eyes boring into yours.

“Good.  I’m going to kiss you again now, and you’re going to let me prove to you how much I’ve grown up.”  He smirked, very hesitantly lowering his hand, bracing himself for you to try to reject him again.

You didn’t.  You were just frozen there, internally struggling with the way your body was involuntarily leaning into his while your brain was still trying to tell you this was a bad idea.

“Ok.”  You murmured, and without another second’s hesitation, Chris leaned back in to you, kissing you with more intensity than before.  His strong hand moved to the back of your neck, angling your head in the way he wanted it.  

Instinctively, your arms lifted and wrapped around his broad shoulders, pulling him in closer to you, parting your lips slightly in surrender.  Chris groaned softly against you, feeling you relax into him, and brought the tip of his tongue to your mouth, tasting the fresh mint from your toothpaste and a distinct sweetness he could only assume was just you.

Chris’ other hand slid behind you, finding the hem of your shirt, and cautiously placed his fingertips against the warmth of your skin just under your top, causing you to arch your back, pressing your chest against him.

The contact of his fingertips against the bare skin of your lower back, made you let out the softest whimper against his mouth, finally realizing that this was a completely different version of the kid you grew up with. 

No, this was a man and he wanted you, as evident by the slowly growing bulge that was pressing up against you.

The two of you stood there for a few minutes, lips and tongues intertwined, tentatively touching each other with a fervent intensity.  And when Chris finally leaned back, looking over your face and your plump, kiss swollen lips, he sighed deeply, arms still wrapped around you.

Finding his eyes again, you still couldn’t find any words to say, and stood there dumbfounded before he pressed his forehead against yours, his hand idling tracing your spine as he held you.

‘Fuck,” he whispered, leaning back again, looking both ways down the hallway in a clearly conflicted manner.  Turning his face back to you, he quickly leaned back in, pressing a lingering kiss to your lips.  “Give me like, five minutes.”

“...what?”  You asked as he pulled away, dropping his hands from you, leaving you standing there with a confused expression on your face.

“Five minutes,” he repeated, taking a step back, eyes still on you.  Letting a low groan rumble out, he drug his gaze down your body, and back up to your lips.  

Hungrily he closed the distance between you once more, boldly kissing you before he reluctantly took three steps back.  “Five minutes.”  He nodded before turning around and nearly ran to the elevator, disappearing into it once the doors closed.

You couldn’t do anything except stand there, wondering what the hell just happened.

Masterlist

[movingmusically]

Hello, dear!! I hope you’ve been good. I have an Austin x gf!reader request for you: reader surprises Austin with a motorcycle for his birthday, or maybe their anniversary? I know nothing about motorcycles lmao, I just watched Bikeriders the other day and the idea popped into my head. Thank you if you get to this!!

Word Count: 3.5k

Masterlist

Gifted

It started with Austin talking about the bikes.

You were curled up together on the sofa, your legs tangled, the end of some documentary playing in the background. You couldn’t remember what it was about — something moody and black-and-white — but Austin’s attention had drifted, and so had yours. His fingers traced lazy patterns over your arm, and his voice had gone soft in that way it always did when he was remembering something he loved.

“You know, the riding ended up being my favourite part of filming The Bikeriders,” he said. “Jeff had us on everything — Harleys, Triumphs, some old weird things I’d never even heard of. He made us ride them all. Said we had to earn the right bike.”

You glanced at him, smiling. “And did you?”

He nodded. “Yeah. By the end of it, I was pretty damn good. Jeff said I picked it up fast. I think I surprised myself a little.”

You could hear the fondness in his voice — not just for the riding, but for the whole experience. It had stayed with him, left a mark deeper than most projects ever did.

“Did you ride before that?” you asked.

He nodded again. “My dad taught me when I was fifteen. Just us and this parking lot in our neighbourhood. He let me stall out a hundred times, never rushed me. Just said to listen to the engine. Said the bike’ll tell you everything if you treat it right.”

There was something about the way he said it — the memory softening his features, the nostalgia wrapped around every word. You loved listening to him when he got like this, words tumbling out, heart wide open.

“I forgot how much I loved it,” he said quietly. “That feeling of moving forward. Wind in your face. Just... freedom.”

You didn’t say much. Just reached over, laced your fingers with his, and let him keep talking, every now and then glancing over to see that same smile tug at the corners of his mouth — the kind you didn’t see every day.

Later that night, long after he’d fallen asleep beside you, you lay awake thinking about the way he’d looked when he talked about it — relaxed, bright-eyed, like some part of him had clicked back into place just remembering.

The idea didn’t come all at once. It started as a what-if. Then it wouldn’t let go.

What if you got him his own bike?

A real one. Vintage. Something that felt like that road. That freedom. That moment with his dad.

You had no idea how. But you knew what you wanted.

The idea doesn’t go away.

It lingers for a few days — while you’re doing the washing up, scrolling through your phone, lying in bed next to Austin and pretending to watch something. It settles in the back of your mind like a stuck song lyric, except instead of a chorus, it’s just: Get him a bike. Get him a bike. Get him a bike.

There’s only one problem. Well, two.

You know absolutely nothing about motorcycles.

And you have no idea how to buy one, let alone a vintage one.

But you do know someone who might.

Jeff Milburn.

You remember Austin mentioning him more than once — how he trained the actors himself, rode with them between takes, picked out the bikes like they were rescue animals he knew how to match with their forever humans. He trusted him. A lot.

So one night, while Austin’s in the shower and humming something unidentifiable but enthusiastic, you make your move.

You grab his phone, open contacts, and scroll until you find Jeff Milburn.

Send the number to yourself.

Lock the phone.

Casually toss it back on the sofa like you didn’t just commit a mild act of relationship espionage.

It feels a little sneaky.

But also — extremely noble. You’re on a mission. A heartfelt, chrome-coated, vroom-vroom kind of mission.

The next day, you stare at the number in your messages like it might bite. You open the text window. Close it. Open it again. Type half a message. Delete it. Type it again.

Finally, you send:

Hi Jeff, I hope you don’t mind me reaching out. I’m Austin Butler’s girlfriend, Y/N, and I have an idea I could use your help with. It’s about a bike.

You immediately regret every word. You pace your flat like you’ve just texted Beyoncé. You throw your phone on the bed and walk away dramatically, as if that’ll make it respond faster.

It buzzes a few minutes later.

Say no more. I already know which one you’re thinking about.

You blink at the screen. Then blink again.

What.

You message back a cautious question mark, and he replies:

The ’66 FLH. Harley. He loved that bike. Told me it reminded him of riding with his dad. Watched him fall in love with it in real time. If that’s what you’re doing — I’m in.

And just like that, it stops being a what-if.

Jeff tells you he’ll start reaching out to his contacts — bike guys, swap meet regulars, collectors with barns full of forgotten magic. He says he’ll handle everything technical: the search, the restoration, making sure it’s safe and gorgeous and ready to ride. You won’t have to lift a wrench.

You’re equal parts relieved and overwhelmed. There’s still a lot to figure out — when it’ll be ready, how you’ll give it to Austin, how to casually explain your mysterious texts if he happens to look over your shoulder.

But you’re doing this.

It’s real.

You’ve got Jeff on board.

You’ve got a plan.

You just need the perfect moment to hand Austin the keys.

Jeff did not waste time.

The morning after you texted him, your phone lit up with a message:

Already made a few calls. We’re hunting.

And just like that, you were in it. No turning back. No pretending it was just a passing idea. You were now officially involved in the world of vintage motorcycle acquisition — a sentence your past self would absolutely not understand.

Jeff sent updates like it was his full-time job. Pictures, voice notes, the occasional all-caps ALMOST PERFECT followed by a video of him pacing around someone’s garage.

You tried to play it cool, like you weren’t hanging onto every message. You failed miserably.

One afternoon, he sent a video of a dusty old Harley with a rusted-out headlamp and a note that read:

She’s got character. And probably tetanus.

Then a different one with half the engine already removed:

Promise I’m being picky. Not putting Austin on anything that might spontaneously combust.

You had no idea what you were looking at most of the time — every part looked either suspiciously greasy or like it belonged in a museum. You responded with things like:

This one looks… round? Is that… a seat? Shiny. Love it.

You got a voice note back where Jeff just laughed and said, “Yeah, we’re definitely keeping you off the tools.”

Occasionally, Austin would catch you grinning at your phone and narrow his eyes like he was trying to read your brain through your forehead.

Once, he walked into the living room just as you were zooming in on a close-up of a chrome-plated fuel tank.

You panicked. Threw your phone screen-down on the couch.

“Everything okay?” he asked.

“Fine! Totally normal. Memes.”

“Memes?” he repeated, raising an eyebrow as he flopped down beside you.

You nodded with the kind of enthusiasm that makes you look deeply suspicious. “So many memes.”

He leaned in, kissed your cheek, and muttered, “Weird,” before stealing the blanket and getting comfortable.

You renamed Jeff in your phone to Jess M. that night. Close enough to feel familiar, ordinary enough to pass unnoticed. The perfect cover.

Then one evening, Jeff sent a photo with no caption.

It was a Harley — gleaming black frame, clean lines, and something about it that felt… right. Even to you, even through a screen.

A second later, your phone buzzed again.

This is it. ’66 FLH. She’s solid. Almost all original, barely needs anything. Just a little polish, some upgrades. We’ll swap the pipes, throw in a Springer front end, black out the detailing. Trust me.

You stared at the photo, heartbeat in your throat.

It was happening.

Over the next couple weeks, Jeff sent you videos of the process — swapping out the front end, cleaning up the engine, tweaking the seat. The man worked fast and clean. Every detail was chosen with care, every change done with Austin in mind.

No chrome overload, Jeff texted at one point. He likes things with a little grit.

You asked if you could add something personal — something small, just for Austin.

Jeff didn’t even hesitate.

Got a leather pouch under the saddle that zips shut. Send me whatever you want to go in it.

Also — the keyring’s all yours.

You spent a whole evening agonising over what to include. Eventually, you settled on two things. A pair of black leather riding gloves, tucked into the saddlebag. Not too new, not too worn. Just right. And a keychain — smooth, round metal, stamped with two quiet words: Cream Puff.

Anyone else would think it was a joke.

But Austin would know exactly what it meant. The name of his bike from the movie.

When Jeff sent the final photo, you had to sit down.

The bike looked like something you’d only ever see in old photographs or dreams. Something Austin would walk past, stop in his tracks, and fall in love with.

It was his. Already.

She’s ready, Jeff wrote. I’ll bring her in whenever you say the word.

You stared at the message for a long time, grinning like a maniac.

His birthday was coming up — just a couple of weeks away.

You hadn’t planned it that way, but now it felt like the universe had lined everything up for you.

So you texted Jeff back:

Can you bring it to the house on the 17th? I want it to be a birthday surprise.

No problem, he replied. I’ll keep her under wraps until then.

The plan was simple. Keep it casual. Play it cool. Let him think breakfast and a few small gifts were all he was getting. And then… let the rumble of an engine do the rest.

All that was left was the moment.

And now you knew exactly when that would be.

Austin was still asleep when you woke up — face buried in the pillow, one arm thrown across your waist, the covers tangled somewhere between your knees. He looked peaceful. Rumpled. Gorgeous.

You lay there for a while, just watching him breathe, smiling to yourself like an idiot. Then you leaned in, pressing a slow kiss to his temple. Then his cheek. His jaw. The slope of his shoulder.

“Happy birthday,” you whispered, just above a murmur, and kissed him again, this time at the corner of his mouth.

He stirred, brow scrunching in that soft, sleepy way you loved. “Hmm?” His voice was gravelly and half-muffled in the pillow. “Already?”

“You’re officially one year hotter,” you said, grinning as he blinked his eyes open.

He groaned dramatically and dragged you closer, rolling onto his back and pulling you with him until you were half on top of him, your legs tangled, your hand pressed to his chest.

“I was gonna say we could stay here all day,” he murmured, voice low against your ear. “But didn't you promise me pancakes?"

You laughed softly against his skin. “I’m right here and you’re thinking about pancakes?”

He hummed like he was considering it.

You kissed him again, smiling against his mouth, and you stayed like that for a while. Not rushing. Letting the warmth of the blankets and the quiet of the morning stretch around you like a secret.

Eventually, you managed to slip out of bed — though not without protest — and padded into the kitchen to start breakfast, determined to make it all seem like this was the highlight.

A few minutes in, you felt his arms slide around your waist from behind, his chin resting on your shoulder, eyes still a little squinty with sleep.

“You’re making everything,” he mumbled into your neck.

“Yes,” you said, flipping a pancake. “Because I love you and I’m very extra. Don’t fight it.”

He didn’t. He stayed pressed against your back, swaying gently with you while you cooked. Occasionally stealing bits of fruit or bacon when he thought you weren’t looking. Whispering things like, “This is the best day of my life,” when you passed him a fresh cup of coffee.

By the time you sat down together, you’d made enough food for a small film crew. Pancakes, eggs, bacon, fruit, toast, even hash browns you didn’t technically know how to make but attempted anyway. He looked at the table, then at you, grinning like he’d just witnessed some kind of breakfast miracle.

You ate slowly, your legs brushing under the table, conversation moving easily between childhood birthdays and what kind of cake you might have hidden somewhere.

After breakfast, you handed over a couple of small gifts you’d tucked under the sideboard.

He opened a vintage record he’d mentioned in passing months ago and immediately beamed. Then a soft grey hoodie from his favourite brand — the one he always reached for when he got home from set but had somehow managed to wear into the ground. And finally, a tiny leather-bound notebook with the words “For the good stuff” embossed on the front.

He turned it over in his hands, smiling. “What kind of good stuff?”

You shrugged. “Quotes. Ideas. Lyrics. Things I say that you find unbelievably charming.”

He laughed, pulled you in for a kiss. “I thought we were keeping it chill this year?”

“We are,” you said, far too quickly.

He narrowed his eyes. “There’s not, like... a surprise dinner with fifty people?”

You laughed. “No. Just a small dinner tonight. Close friends. Chill vibes. I promise.”

He relaxed. “Okay. ’Cause honestly? This was perfect. I don’t need anything else.”

You smiled sweetly. “Good to know.”

A little while later, once the kitchen was semi-tidied and he was curled up on the sofa scrolling through birthday messages, you leaned over the back of the couch and said, “Hey, can you help me with something outside?”

He looked up, suspicious. “Now?”

You nodded. “Just real quick.”

He followed you without question — barefoot, still scratching his neck sleepily as you walked toward the front door. You were already pulling your phone out of your pocket, thumb hovering over Jeff’s name.

You’ve already coordinated everything — Jeff’s towed the bike over in his truck and parked just around the corner. He’s waiting for your text.

Ready when you are.

Jeff replied almost immediately.

Rolling up. One minute.

Austin was still halfway through stretching when you opened the door. “What are we doing?” he asked, following you outside.

You shrugged, trying to look casual. “You’ll see.”

And then — there it was.

That low, familiar rumble in the distance. Steady and rich, carrying through the quiet late morning air.

Austin stopped walking.

He didn’t say anything.

Just stared.

The sound grew louder, closer, until Jeff rolled into view astride the Harley. Black frame, chrome details catching the late sun, engine purring like it had been born to move.

Austin straightened beside you, squinting toward the drive. “Wait… is that—? Is that Jeff?”

You just shrugged, feigning casual, even as your heart pounded. “Maybe.”

He stared, frozen for a second. His brain visibly trying to catch up.

Jeff swung the bike to an easy stop in front of the house, cut the engine, and hopped off, tossing a quick wave. “Mornin’.”

Austin blinked, grinning in disbelief as he walked over. “Dude—what the hell? What are you doing here?”

They hugged — one of those quick, back-slap greetings that spoke to real affection. “You didn’t tell me you were in town.”

Jeff just smirked. “Didn’t need to. I brought company.”

And that’s when Austin really saw the bike.

His gaze dropped, then lingered. Shifted slowly from Jeff to the Harley. Then back again, like he was trying to reframe the moment.

His gaze snapped to you — and that’s when it landed.

You watched it happen — the moment it clicked. The widening of his eyes. The sudden, almost physical stillness that took over his whole body.

He stepped forward, slow, like if he moved too fast the whole thing might vanish.

“You’re kidding me,” he said, voice low and stunned. He looked back at you, eyes searching, almost disbelieving. “No way. No way.”

You smiled, unable to hold it back anymore. “Happy birthday.”

He shook his head like he still couldn’t believe it. “You got me a motorcycle?” He laughed under his breath, running a hand through his hair. “You got me this motorcycle?”

“She’s yours now,” Jeff said, grinning as he clapped Austin on the shoulder. “Full custom. Swapped the front end, blacked out the pipes, tuned her up. She’s ready to roll.”

Austin still hadn’t moved beyond a slow circle around the bike, fingers trailing lightly over the handlebars, the seat, the fuel tank. Like he was convincing himself it was real by touch alone.

Jeff nodded toward the saddlebag. “There’s something extra in there too. Courtesy of your girl.”

You could feel Austin glance back at you, something too big for words shining in his eyes.

Jeff adjusted his cap. “I’ll leave you to it. See you both at dinner later — don’t be late. Or if you are, at least show up loud.”

He threw you a wink, headed back down the drive, and climbed into his truck. A few seconds later, he was gone, leaving you and Austin and the bike and a bubble of stunned, humming silence.

Austin finally reached for the saddlebag, flipped it open.

The gloves were the first thing he saw — soft black leather, broken in just enough to fit him without needing time. He pulled them out carefully, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Then he found the keychain.

Just a small, round tag, simple and unassuming — but when he turned it over and saw the words stamped into the metal, he let out a short, disbelieving laugh.

“Cream Puff,” he read aloud, shaking his head. He looked up at you, grinning like a kid. “No way you remembered that.”

You lifted a shoulder. “Seemed fitting.”

He crossed the space between you in three strides and pulled you into his arms — tight and sure, like he was grounding himself in you. You wrapped your arms around him, laughing breathlessly into his chest.

“You’re insane,” he said against your ear, but there was no heat in it. Only wonder.

You leaned back enough to see his face. “You’re welcome.”

He kissed you then — slow and unhurried, the kind of kiss that said thank you and I love you and I missed this all wrapped up into one.

When you finally broke apart, he rested his forehead against yours.

“I didn’t even realise how much I missed it,” he said softly. “Until now.”

You smiled, running your hands lightly over his back. “Thought you could use a little freedom.”

He laughed again, breathless. “You’re dangerous.”

“I prefer ‘resourceful.’”

He glanced back at the bike, still looking half in awe. Then down at his bare feet and pyjama bottoms. “I feel like I should ride it right now, but...”

You smirked. “Yeah, no. Full respect for the vibe, but I’m not spending your birthday in the emergency room.”

He grinned, catching your hand in his. “Later. After dinner. Proper gear. Helmet and everything.”

“And me?”

He squeezed your hand. “You and me. First ride’s ours.”

You felt a flush of happiness warm your chest, quiet and full.

He glanced at the bike again, hesitation flickering across his face. “We should move her into the garage, though. Can’t just leave her out here.”

You nodded, squeezing his hand. “Go ahead. I’ll open it up.”

It only took a minute — you pushing the side door open, him carefully walking the bike inside like it was made of glass.

When he finally set the kickstand down and stepped back, he just stood there for a second, taking it all in.

Like he couldn’t believe it was real.

Then he turned back to you, smile slow and soft, and reached for your hand again.

He kissed your forehead, then your cheek, then your knuckles as he led you back inside, the door swinging shut behind you.

The kitchen still smelled faintly of syrup and coffee.

The morning’s chaos forgotten in the slow, golden stretch toward midday.

Austin set the keys carefully on the counter, like they were something sacred.

Then he pulled you down onto the sofa, wrapping himself around you — arms around your waist, chin on your shoulder, the low steady rhythm of his breathing against your back.

“You know,” he said quietly, his voice brushing the shell of your ear, “this is the best birthday I’ve ever had.”

You tilted your head back to smile at him.

“You say that now,” you teased. “Wait till you see the cake.”

He chuckled, low and warm, and pressed another kiss to your hair.

But even without the cake, without the dinner, without anything else —

You knew you’d already given him exactly what he needed.

And he’d just given you the same thing in return.

Taglist:

@thefallofthedamned @saturnsdaughtr @bellesdreamyprofile @butlerrizz @myradiaz @chocolatetree222

[soluversworld]

You, Serial Killer - Ren/Redacted x G.N Reader part 1~

14 days with you! is a 18+ visual novel Minors don’t interact!

Genre: G.N Reader (Angst!)

Summary: You're the Corland Bay Butcher, The Serial Killer, you heard in the news, Bodies, dead, gone, You're nuts! What if, someone was helping ya back to keep you safe, Will you see through his act after all, You met him first. NOT HIM

Trigger Warnings (TWs):

Violence & Gore – Mentions of knives, blood, and killing.

Mental Instability – Implied unhinged thoughts, intrusive urges.

Obsession & Fixation – Thoughts circling around a past encounter.

Content Warnings (CWs):

Dark Poetic Themes – Romanticization of violence and chaos.

Self-Awareness of Morality – Internal conflict about killing/mercy.

Shakespearean-style Poetic Bullying – Intense self-deprecation with a dramatic, lyrical flair.

You're a killer.

Not just any killer—a serial killer.

Why? Could be justice. Could be fun. Could be nothing at all, just a way to kill time. Could be money—blood-soaked bills stacking up in your pocket like trophies. It’s on you. But no matter the reason—you’re a fucking serial killer.

A name whispered in alleys. A face nobody remembers. A shadow in the wrong places at the

You're a killer.

Not just any killer—a serial killer. The kind that gets headlines, Netflix docuseries, and edgy teenage fans who call you “misunderstood” while painting their nails black. Maybe you do it for justice (sure). Maybe for fun (closer). Maybe for nothing at all, because boredom is a worse death than whatever you dish out. Or maybe—just maybe—for money, ‘cause even murderers gotta eat.

You, though? You’re a special breed of fucked. You don’t just kill; you curate. A gallery of ruined bodies, each arranged with a shit bow and a shit-eating grin. You're the scum of the earth, and you know it. Flaunt it, really.

They’ll try to psychoanalyze you. Daddy issues, mommy issues, the whole trauma-riddled spiel. They’ll say you’re broken. That you snap at the world because the world snapped at you first. They’ll search for meaning where there is none. You don’t care to distinguish truth from the real—two entirely different beasts.

You probably fake-hate black holes because they’re cliché but would style yourself after one with a smile. Suck the light out of the room, leave nothing but a cold abyss.

And yet.

You are a fucking liar.

A cute little library assistant by morning, shelving books with a saccharine smile, whispering “shhh” to old ladies and college students. By night? You’re a fucking scary-ass serial killer in a raincoat, dripping something that ain’t just rain.

Crowbar, knives—hell, anything sharp enough to carve flesh from bone. Baby, it’s your choice of weapon. You love blood. Live it, breathe it, bathe in it like it’s a second skin. Your love language? JK, no. You don’t need love when you’ve got arteries splitting open like pages in a well-loved book.

Turn the page. Who’s next?

Also—sadly—an anime fan. A shit living show called Attack on Giant owns a piece of your rotten little heart. You know it’s bad. You don’t care.

And worse? You have a fictional husband. Haruki Haruko. The timid, sympathetic, air-headed (but in a good way), people-pleaser type. Cotton candy in human form. The kind of guy who’d apologize for bleeding on your knife.

How the fuck does a blood-soaked abomination like you love a walking pink marshmallow like him?

It’s fictional. STOP.

And it gets worse.

You and your online friend MOTH? Howling for Haruko like a couple of rabid fangirls. CAPS LOCK ON. ESSAYS IN THE GROUP CHAT. “HE DESERVES THE WORLD” “HIS LITTLE SMILE” “I WANNA PROTECT HIM” — all while your hands are still sticky with blood.

MOTH doesn’t know you’re a killer. Shut up. They think you’re normal. That you just have “dark humor” and a really convincing way of describing knife wounds.

“omg if haruko was real i’d die for him <3”

You? Staring at your body count. Thinking, buddy, I don’t even die for me.

Life was fine. Whatever fine means for someone like you.

Then two idiots fucked up. Bad dudes. Real pieces of shit. The kind that makes even God wanna look away. They got your eyes—metaphorically or literally, who cares—and suddenly, you had a reason. An excuse.

You were already a killer. Now you’re a haunting.

They go first. Before the others. Before the side quests and the casual bloodshed. You want them to know. To feel it. The way your presence clings, the way their shadows stretch too long at night.

They look over their shoulders. They see nothing. For now.

You don’t just kill them. You ruin them.

The first one goes slow. Too slow. You take your time, peeling back skin like wrapping paper, watching them twitch, eyes rolling like marbles in their sockets. You laugh. You LAUGH. It bubbles out of you, high and breathless, like this is the funniest shit you’ve ever seen. Because it is. Because they thought they were untouchable, and now they’re meat.

The second one? Screaming. Begging. Doesn’t matter. You’re an artist, and their body is just another canvas. You make something beautiful—ugly—perfect. A mess of red and twitching limbs. Your hands are soaked, your raincoat is dripping, and you feel fucking alive.

And then.

Someone’s watching you.

The air shifts. The hairs on your neck rise.

What the fuck.

You pause. The feeling lingers—someone watching, something just out of sight. But you? You just shrug.

Eh.

Not your problem. If they saw, they saw. If they didn’t, they’ll wish they had. You wipe your crowbar off on what’s left of them, let the sticky warmth seep into your gloves, and turn on your heel like this was just another Tuesday.

Footsteps. Yours. Handprints. Also yours.

If the police are slick enough to find you? Good for them. You’ll make it fun.

You’re gone. Vanished into the night like the walking crime scene you are.

And then—he arrives.

A man, moving like he’s got all the time in the world. A black hoodie, mask pulled up just enough to hide what matters. Black hair, messy but intentional, like he ran his hands through it one too many times. And his eyes—blue. Too blue. Like the kind you’d see in angel paintings before they ruined you. Too bright. Too sweet.

If you were still there, you’d think, No fucking way.

But you’re not. And he? He’s got cleaning supplies.

Because it seems like you left.

He starts to clean. Like it’s routine. Like he’s done this before.

But you didn’t leave.

You grab him from behind—hard. Slam him down, pinning him with your weight, breath hot against his ear. He barely fights back.

“The fuck do you think you’re doing?” you snarl, pressing down harder. “What are you, some undercover cop? Finally found the killer? Corland Bay’s sweet psycho serial killer?”

His eyes—too fucking blue—widen. Stunned. Mouth slightly open, like he’s trying to form words but forgot how. And something about the way his face flushes—**soft pink, creeping up his neck—**is wrong.

You don’t notice. You press the knife against his throat. Harder.

“Talk.** Now.**”

You keep him pinned.

Knee digging into his ribs, knife pressed against his throat, eyes narrowed. "What kind of detective—police—whatever the fuck are you?" You hiss, pressing just a little harder, feeling the faint hitch in his breath beneath the blade.

But then—his breathing.

It changes. Too heavy. Too shaky.

Like... ahhhh???!?!!?

AH—????

Your grip tightens. "The fuck is wrong with you?" You growl.

And him? His pupils are blown, his cheeks are flushed, and his breath is ragged in a way that’s not fear.

Oh.

Oh, what the fuck.

You press the knife a little deeper. Not enough to kill, just enough to scare. Or maybe to feel the pulse beneath the blade—fast, uneven, a little too eager.

"You’re gonna die here, you know that?" you murmur. Cute. Like this is just conversation. Like you’re talking about the weather. Another collection. Another body. You grin, sharp and mean.

But he’s still fucking flustered.

Still breathing all wrong. Eyes shining. Like he wants to say something. You peel his mask up, slow, deliberate. His fingers twitch, reaching like he’s gonna stop you—no. You shove his head back down, hard.

Almost makes him faint. Almost does.

You glance around. The mess. The streaks of red. The bleach.

Oh.

What the hell was he trying to clean up?

You look back down, and his eyes—too blue, too bright—are glassy, struggling to focus. He tries again to speak. You don’t care. You push his head down again—too hard.

He goes limp.

You sigh, irritated. Tear the mask away.

And pause.

Tall. 6’5”, easy. Sleeper build—lean but solid. Hands covered in marks. Scratches, burns—old, deep, childhood scars. Piercings that gleam under the shitty streetlights.

And his face?

...Pretty.

Too pretty.

And somewhat familiar.

What the fuck.

He was trying to clean up the mess. Your mess. The blood, the gore, the little bits of art you left behind like a signature.

A serial killer fan? A wannabe? Some poor, mentally ill fuck who thought you were some kind of idol?

Hah.

Darlin’, he was being nice.

Nice enough to clean up after you, to make sure your ass stayed off the radar. And you knocked him out.

Killing him now? Sad. Kind of a waste. But it’s tempting. The way his throat is right there, the way his too-pretty face would look even prettier painted red.

Nah.

Life’s shit. He’ll grow out of it. Probably. Or he won’t.

And wouldn’t that be interesting?

Too hot to kill.

That’s the excuse you land on. Not the stupidest one you’ve made, not the worst, but damn if it isn’t pathetic. You. Showing mercy. Saint Y/N, patron of dumbasses who clean crime scenes.

You almost carry him—almost. He’s fucking heavy. Dead weight in every sense of the word, and your arms are not built for this. You drag him instead, yanking him into another alleyway, gritting your teeth at every awkward shuffle of his too-tall, too-pretty, too-stupid body.

He could wake up. Could see the sun. Could get scared, maybe. Maybe he’ll take the hint. Maybe he’ll run. Maybe he’ll get the fuck out of Corland Bay and out of your life.

Oh, Y/N.

You showed sympathy.

You’re a saint, aren’t you?

Why the fuck was he trying to clean the mess?

Weird-ass serial killer fan? Some freak with a savior complex? Someone worse?

You don’t care. You won’t care.

Your work here is done. Corland Bay sleeps. So should you.

You yawn, stretch, crack your neck. Good night, dumbass.

You need to sleep. For your work.

You had… a dream.

A little child. Small hands, soft voice. He tries to give you a ring.

Innocent. Loved you.

And you—you looked. You can’t remember your own expression, but your face felt warm, felt happy. Like he was everything. Like he was your darling. A sweet boy.

You can’t see his face.

"Do you wanna marry me…? Angel! I'll take good care of you…"

His voice—soft, bright, hopeful.

You don’t get to answer.

Because Leon, your ass of a friend, grabs your hand, pushes the boy’s away. The ring falls. The boy stumbles.

He’s crying.

"He's a freak! I told ya! Why did you hang out with him? Look!"

You couldn’t say anything.

You didn’t.

Leon—nah. He took your hand. You let him.

And you watched.

Watched the boy cry. Watched him pick up the ring.

Your older self watched.

Watched your kid self. Watched the way your little hands twitched, how your feet stayed planted, how your mouth—silent.

You felt something. Like you wanted to remember. Like if you just reached a little further—

Then—

A sound.

Loud. Jarring. A kick to the ribs of your dream.

Yeah. You woke up.

Congrats.

You’re the beauty of gore.

Coffee. Black, like your soul or whatever. Bitter, like your mornings.

You flip on the news. Same shit, different day.

"Yet another body was pulled from Bluemoss this morning. Authorities believe it was the work of the infamous Corland Bay Butcher—"

What a fucking name.

Hideous.

You hate it. If you were gonna be branded a legend, you’d at least give yourself a name with some style. But no. The public loves their sensationalist, overcooked horror movie bullshit.

And this case? This crime?

It’s years old.

What the fuck.

Maybe people are just dumb.

It’s like that one show, Dexter. The whole Bay Harbor Butcher thing. Lame. At least Dexter got a name with a little bite—this? This sounds like something a washed-up true crime podcaster would spit out between sips of pumpkin spice.

People should’ve named you something cool. Something with presence. Something that rolls off the tongue like a whispered threat.

You sip your coffee, scalding hot, burning the tip of your tongue. Whatever. You like the pain.

The news anchor drones on, their voice that usual mix of forced solemnity and thinly veiled excitement. Because that’s what this is, right? The public eats this shit up. Blood and bodies and mystery.

And the dumbest part? This case is years old.

They’re still talking about it, still digging up corpses like long-forgotten relics, still pretending they care.

But you know the truth.

People don’t care about the dead. They care about the thrill. The spectacle. The fear.

You roll your eyes and take another sip. Yeah, whatever.

You do like Dexter, though. Good show. But come on, at least his name had branding.

Moth texts. Buzz, buzz. Your phone screen lights up.

You flick open the keyboard, thumbs hovering. Moth is sweet. Thoughtful, even. Different time zones and all, but they still check in. You shoot back a quick "Thank you!" because you’re a saint.

Grey bubble. They’re typing.

Moth

"btwww! did u see the latest AoG ep?? i heard Haruko got an outfit change!!!!"

Moth

"spoil it for me. did he really change his hairstyle as well?"

You scoff. Baby stays the same.

You type back so fast your screen almost cracks.

"HHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE"

He didn’t. Still the same. Still cute. Still sweet. Still the most lovable little cutie to ever exist.

You hammer it into the keyboard like it’s gospel.

Moth

"LMAOOO bless. also. shouldn’t u be at work rn."

…Oh. Oh, shit.

FUCK.

You throw the phone. You bolt. Clothes? Shitty. Aesthetic? Somewhere between 2018 emo-core and 'I let a Tumblr gremlin dress me in the dark.'

WHY?

Fuck it. You’re emo.

You catch yourself in the mirror. Oh. Oh damn.

You look hot. Like feral raccoon meets 2018 Hot Topic cashier meets 'I definitely bite.'

Self-confidence? SKYROCKETED. You are an icon. A menace. A walking, talking Tumblr sexyperson if Tumblr had any taste.

Oh shit.

Work.

Oh no.

Oh no no no.

You can’t be feeling yourself this much and then drop a fucking uwu. That’s a war crime. That’s illegal. That’s—

…You wink at yourself in the mirror anyway.

"Time to cause problems."

Door swings open. The world outside assaults you with daylight. Gross.

"Oh! Hey there, Angel! Looking good!"

Violet’s standing there, all sunshine and soil-stained fingers, practically glowing in the morning light. Sickening. If it were anyone else, you’d gag. But it’s Violet. So you deal with it.

You flick your eyes to her hip, where yet another potted plant balances like a permanent attachment. Her whole apartment? Basically a jungle. If you didn’t know better, you’d swear she was growing a sentient vine army in there, plotting to take over the world with nothing but greenery and kindness.

You? Not complaining. The air always smells fresh, floral, and earthy as hell whenever she’s around—a perfect mask for the lingering traces of smoke and death clinging to you.

"New plant?" you ask, because duh.

Violet grins, fishing for her keys. "Mm-hmm! This one’s a rosemary bush! Thought it’d be nice to have something useful."

Useful? You know fifty different ways to kill someone with rosemary. You smile.

"Nice."

Violet eyes you up and down, her expression turning downright delighted.

"Loving the look today, Angel! Very... 2018 Tumblr emo."

You snort. "You wound me."

"No, seriously! I kinda wanna raid your closet one day." She nudges you playfully, still grinning like she’s just discovered a hidden treasure trove of goth fashion secrets. If only she knew.

You laugh, all teeth and mischief. "Sure, sure. One day."

One day. Which means never. Because the only thing your closet is full of? Knives. Knives, crowbars, and the occasional bloodstained hoodie. Hardly the wardrobe of an alt-fashion influencer.

Then she dropped a bomb.

You blink. "Nope. Nada. Never heard of him."

Violet narrows her eyes, lips pursing. "You sure? "'Cause he seemed real familiar with you.""

Your stomach does this weird little flip, like your instincts are tapping at your ribs, whispering, Hey, maybe pay attention to this one. But you shut that feeling down real fast.

"Violet, babe, I think you dreamed this one up." You flash a grin, all casual confidence, even as your mind works overtime, flipping through the mental Rolodex of potential problems.

Tall guy? Dark hoodie? Alternative fashion? Too many belts? Jesus, what is he, a Final Fantasy character?

"No clue who that is," you repeat, a little slower this time, letting the lie settle.

Violet hums, unconvinced. "Weird. "

You shrug, pretending your skin isn't crawling just a little. "Sounds like a him problem."

But in the back of your mind, you know damn well this is gonna be a you problem real soon.

"No worries, Vi. I got work now, I'll check later." You wave a dismissive hand, already stepping away.

Check later? Lmao, no. You didn’t give a shit. Who the hell would stalk you?

…Unless—

Oh.

If it was a stalker, then they were bold. And if they were bold, that meant either two things:

They were stupid. In which case, easy kill.

They were a detective.

And ohhhh, baby, wouldn’t that be fun?

You bite your lip, suppressing the grin creeping up. A detective? Hunting you? Now that was hot.

Hell, maybe you'd let them catch up just for the thrill. Let them get close, real close—close enough to think they had you—before you turned the tables.

Oooooh. Fuck.

Yeah. That’d be fun.

You hit send before you can second-guess yourself. Maybe it’s better to leave it at that. Maybe it’s better to pretend you don’t care. Maybe, maybe, maybe. You can stack those maybes like a house of cards, but it won’t stop the wind from blowing.

You’ve got bigger things to deal with. A shitty apartment. A shittier job. The nagging feeling that something off is creeping up behind you, but you? You walk faster.

You breathe deep, step through the library doors, and let the scent of old paper settle the static under your skin. It’s grounding. Familiar. The only thing that stays still in a world that never does.

And then—

“Oh!”

Elanor.

Sweet, doting Elanor, with her scatterbrained ways and her insufferable meddling. She’s already smiling, head tilting, eyes flicking you over like she’s about to say something that’ll make you regret showing up today.

“Sooooo?” She hums, teasing. “How does it feel to no longer be the one in charge of stacking books all day long?”

Before you can answer, she keeps going, because of course she does.

“Although… you’ll still have to work the front desk from time to time, unfortunately.”

You shrug. Offer a smile—if it even counts. Make your way past her before she can wring you into another conversation that leaves you tired before noon.

The familiar chime of the library door rings. Someone’s entered. Not your problem. You duck down, slide your bag under the desk, start pulling out your things. You focus.

The hum of the library settles you, slow and steady, like an IV drip to an addict. Bookshelves, faint ink-and-paper perfume, the distant murmur of people who still think this place is a sanctuary.

And then—again.

Elanor.

Her voice drops into something light, airy, knowing. Fuck.

“Looks like he’s back again.”

Your fingers freeze on the paper in front of you.

“You know, that new guy? The one who always checks out the books you put on display?”

She’s got a grin in her voice. It makes your eye twitch.

“And if I didn’t know any better—” (you don’t, Elanor, you never do,) “I’d say he has a little crush on you.”

Pause.

“Because he was staring. A lot.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

You shove her chair so it spins away from you, ignoring the heat creeping up your neck.

The universe, it seems, has chosen today to test your patience.

And now—because fate is cruel and Elanor is worse—

Aisle 8.

The red light above the shelves blinks. Someone needs help. Him.

Of course.

You sigh. Drag yourself up. Refuse to look at her. You don’t need to—her glee is practically a tangible thing, radiating off her in smug waves. You weave through the shelves, every step an exercise in reluctant inevitability.

And then—there he is.

A broad figure. Back turned. Wearing the comfiest cardigan you’ve ever seen. He hasn’t noticed you yet.

You clear your throat. “Ahem.”

Flinch.

He turns.

Stops.

And for the first time all day, so do you.

Pink.

Pink hair. Soft eyes. Tall—too tall. Looking at you like he’s just walked into a dream he wasn’t ready for.

You stare.

He stares.

Somewhere, distantly, reality stirs.

His jaw moves, something almost forming before it stumbles out clumsy and quiet:

“Woah… You look…”

A beat.

His eyes flick over you, unreadable, thoughtful, confused.

“But I thought you preferred softer clothing…? That’s why I…”

Why he what?

His voice dies. He clears his throat, face burning cherry-pink, matching his hair.

“Ahem! Um… S-Sorry, I hope I’m not bothering you.”

And you—oh, you—

You don’t know what the fuck is going on.

How’s that?

Not about this. Not about him.

But his voice drags you back, an anchor to the present, and you scramble to piece together whatever sentence just left his cherry-stained lips. There’s a kind of innocence in the way he struggles for the right words, tripping over them like a nervous actor missing his cue. It’s almost endearing. Almost.

You give him a slow nod, a silent cue to keep going.

He takes a breath.

“…I need some help. I—I’m looking for a specific book, you see, but…”

And there it is. The sleeve-tugging hesitation. That stammer, that nervous shift, like a protagonist straight out of one of Moth’s favorite anime. They’re going to absolutely lose it when you tell them about this later.

The stranger tries again, steadier this time, his gaze catching yours with something just a little too sharp.

“…Do you have any books on native flora? The best I’ve found are on generic wildlife, but nothing on Corland Bay’s plants.”

Plants? Your first thought is to direct him to Violet—this is her territory—but instead, you let out a quiet chuckle and step a little closer, scanning the shelf beside him.

He twitches. Not away—closer. Just slightly. A shift so subtle it’s almost imperceptible, except for the way his breath hitches when your scent brushes past him.

“No, you’re in the right section,” you murmur. “They’re just… buried.”

Your fingers ghost along the book spines, slow, deliberate, until you find the one. You tug it free, turning it in your hands before offering it to him.

“This the one?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Not with words, at least. His gaze lingers—too long, too intense—before he finally reaches for it. His fingers brush yours, barely, but there’s a slight tremor in them.

Then he flips through the pages, scanning, searching—

And stops.

“Yes,” he breathes, triumphant. “This is perfect. Thank you…”

You barely have time to nod before he adds, almost too softly:

“Haha, you’re like an angel, you know that? So kind.”

Your heart stumbles. Your lips part—

“…What?”

His expression shatters into pure, unfiltered horror.

“Oh my God—” His face flushes, hands flying up as if he could physically shove the words back into his mouth. “I didn’t—Did I actually say that out loud? Oh, shit, I’m so sorry. That was—That must’ve been so weird—”

It’s adorable, in a train-wreck kind of way.

You bite back a grin, raising your hands in mock surrender. “Relax. Just caught me off guard, is all.”

His eyes flicker with something—relief? Embarrassment? It’s hard to tell beneath the flush crawling up his neck.

“R-Really?” His voice is softer now, hopeful. “Well, I meant it.”

You sigh, shaking your head. “Sure.”

And that should be the end of it. You should step away. Let him bask in his mortification. But he doesn’t move. Just watches. A silent, expectant sort of tension stretching between you.

You clear your throat. “Uh. You shouldn’t stare like that.”

His head tilts, almost curious. “Why not?”

Your stomach twists.

“Because I don’t know you,” you reply, words lighter than the weight pressing against your ribs.

His lips twitch, like he’s suppressing a smile. “Ah. A technicality.”

You exhale sharply, already regretting this entire conversation. “You haven’t even told me your name.”

“Haven’t I?”

A pause.

Then, smoothly: “Red- Ren.”

Ren. The name tastes unfamiliar, but something about it scratches at the back of your mind. The way he says it—like it’s borrowed. Like it’s just another book on a shelf, waiting to be picked up and put back down under a different title.

Still, you nod, forcing an easy smile. “Nice to meet you, Ren.”

His gaze flickers down—to your name tag. A quiet hum leaves him.

“Y/n,” he muses. “Or… Angel, maybe.” His grin sharpens. “Both suit you.”

Until he tilts his head, expression sobering.

“…You said you needed a new lock for your apartment.”

You blink, thrown off by the sudden shift. “Yeah?”

“Why?”

You hesitate. There’s no real harm in telling him, right? It’s not like he’s the one who broke in.

“Someone snuck in last night,” you admit, shrugging. “Didn’t steal anything. But still. Creepy.”

Ren hums again, thoughtful. Then, without missing a beat:

“I could watch your place.”

Your breath catches.

You blink at him. “What.”

He shrugs, casual. “Stay up. Keep an eye out. Handle it if anything happens.” His voice is smooth, steady, like he’s offering to water your plants while you’re away. “Wouldn’t be a problem.”

You stare.

He meets your gaze, unwavering.

It’s insane. It’s suspicious. It’s absolutely something you should say no to.

Instead, you hear yourself say:

“…You offering to be my personal bodyguard now?”

Ren smiles. “Only if you say yes.”

"You really want to protect a stranger like me, Who knows, You-" You went closer to his ear whispered "can't trust anyone...What if, I'm luring you for my own fun..?"

He flustered, almost fell down...You giggle and left.

You smile. Evilly.

Heheheheh.

He looks cute, won’t lie. Almost too cute. You’ve always wanted to commit a Haruko crime—sink your knife into something pretty, watch something lovely turn ruinous in your hands. Killing him would be fun.

Wouldn't lie… those blue eyes—

They’re similar.

That man.

The one from the alley. The first one you didn’t kill. The one you let walk free.

Your mind wrenches back to him, unbidden. That look in his eyes, the way he stood—different. He wasn’t like the others. He was… something else.

And maybe—just maybe—your poor, gutted heart…

Ugh.

Stop.

Ugh.

You smile a little.

Shitty. Yes. You’re fucked in the head.

And oh, how you love it.

A wretched thing, a beautiful disaster, a creature born to revel in ruin—you, a lover in the way fire loves to lick at the edges of a home, the way a knife loves the tender give of flesh.

What is it, then? This itch in your skull? This whisper in your bones? Some ghost of mercy rattling in your ribcage? How disgusting. How divine.

You let one go. One. And yet his ghost lingers like the taste of copper on your tongue. A memory dressed in blue-eyed regret.

You should carve it out. Bleed it dry. But oh, don’t you adore the ache?

[1midnightdesires1]

Temptations

Carlisle Cullen x Fem! Reader

Word count: 1.9k

Summary: Your Carlisle’s mortal wife. As the morning rises you and Carlisle plan to make breakfast together. While the two of you make preparations for breakfast, everything seems fine, until you accidentally slip up with the knife.

!Mostly Fluff!

Warnings: references to sex, praise, slight gore, blood, literally just vampire things, sensual scenes, teasing, heartwarming moments, age-gap, and slight obsession.

The day had broken into a gleaming sunrise. It had peaked through our openly inviting window that laid next to our bed, or really your bed, because Carlisle never slept.

You slowly stirred awake from your slumber as you leaned up and groaned out a stretch. Your sudden awakening had alarmed Carlisle’s sense of hearing and he immediately appeared in your room. Or at least that’s what it looked like to you, he was so quick that to you, you didn’t even see him moving until he arrived at where he needed to be. It almost looked like teleportation to you.

He caressed your shoulder as you slightly jolted. He has startled me, you truly didn’t know how close he was to me in such a little amount of time before he made himself known. He let out a soft, breathy, and quiet snicker as he apologized. “I’m sorry I startled you..my dear..” He leaned down to place a soft kiss on your exposed shoulder as you rolled over into his arms and smiled.

“Why don’t you just…come in a little slower when you greet me love…” you softly spoke as you went to rub the sleep out of your eyes before you looked up into his now hazel eyes.

“Will do.” He hummed out as he started on another topic. “How did you sleep..?” He gently ran his hands up and down your arms, almost like he craved to feel the warmth of your body. “Good..really good actually.” You ran your hands up into his hair as you watched his eyes slightly narrow and adjust.

“Oh really? How so? Couldn’t be because of the bed could it?” He teased out his words as he placed a gentle kiss on your lips. “Oh yeah, it’s the bed for sure.” You played along with his tease, but you both knew what you were referring to the night before. He smirked softly at your response.

“Are you hungry?” He spoke with a questioning tone as he leaned up from you. He tried making this question a habit since he knew as a creature himself who didn’t eat much, you were the complete opposite. “I could eat, I usually don’t eat much in the mornings but since you asked I suppose I could.”

You caressed his cheek as you looked up at him before he kissed your forehead and hummed a response. Which made me have a soft tint on your cheeks. “I’d like to cook with you, if you wouldn’t mind.” He let me up from the comforting bed as you crawled out of bed and opened your drawers, pulling out a pair of undergarments. “Of course darling.” He watched me, leaning against the bed as he slowly crossed his arms.

His eyes were definitely on you, you could feel him staring right at you. “In my 300 years of living I don’t think I had ever met such a human as beautiful as you…” he leaned into you as you started to slide your robe on your shoulders.

His words slid into your veins like you had just injected an adrenaline rush. He always had a unique way with his words ever since you had met him. “Oh Carlisle..” You leaned your body against his as you tilted your head to look up into his eyes.

He followed your eyes as he started to try and read your expression. As you leaned into him he wrapped his arms around your waist and buried his head right into your neck. Which started a fire in him, a fire that he needed to keep under control like he always did when he was around you.

That sweet, sweet, scent of blood was like nectar to them. And being a Cullen, it was a tradition and a truce to stick to an animal based diet. But he wasn’t going to lie and say that being this close to you, feeling my heartbeat, hearing my blood flowing into your body wasn’t the least bit of tempting. Especially since he was so so close. But he knew he wouldn’t do such a thing, especially since he agreed that he would never take someone’s life to turn them into someone like him unless they were underlying dying.

You softly gasped as he dug into your neck, never piercing it, just laying a little pressure against the leanness of your neck. “Carlisle…” You breathed out as you gently dug your hand into his hair, letting off a bit of the pressure.

He immediately groaned into your neck as he backed off and softened his grasp. “Mm. I’m sorry..it’s hard to control myself against you my dear…I’ve never had a mortal women’s blood smell so good..” he placed a soft kiss against the side of your neck as he leaned up and ran a hand up and down your side in a compassionate manner.

His eyes had changed colors, even through his contacts, they were darker. “You know…sometimes I feel guilty that you keep me this way, and the way you torture yourself everytime you’re around me.” You kissed his cheek as you made your way to the kitchen, where he followed you, actually walking with your pace.

“You shouldn’t feel guilty about that dear..you know my ideals behind it…” he wrapped an arm around your waist as the both of you moved to the kitchen. “I know, sometimes I wish you’d change those views.” You gave him a sympathetic smile as you looked into the fridge, fresh goods, specifically for you since you were, unfortunately the only human in a house full of vampires.

While you did just that, he went ahead and and made sure the area of the counter was ready for you. Grabbing all the essentials such as knives, a cutting board, and a bowl. “Lord. we haven’t used this kitchen in forever, ever since our first time moving in, we wanted to experiment.” He chuckled as he admired the way you focused on what you needed in the fridge.

In response to his little story you snickered, “experiment?” You questioned as you looked back at him before shutting the fridge and walking closer to him, laying all the ingredients down on the counter. “Well yes, before I bought this house I’d never really experienced a kitchen before so…” You just looked at him with a sweet expression, one with admiration. “I wish I could have gotten to see those expressions.”

He smiled as he moved a strand of your hair behind your ear. “Me too, my love.” A soft blush fell on your face and you moved your eyes to the counter, looking around at all the ingredients. You planned on making a breakfast sandwich, something simple and savory. Your personal favorite.

You started by washing all the veggies and putting the proteins in a pan and onto the stove as he started to cut the vegetables for you. “May I?” You playfully spoke as you watched him. “Always, my dear.” You put the proteins on low and moved closer to him as he backed up. You took the sharp knife from his grasp as he let you take control of the situation. You slightly pressed against the counter as he watched you slowly make cuts in the vegetation.

The way you were cutting though was humanly, slow and steady and he had just snickered and gently took your hand in his. The same hand with the knife. “Here, my dear, let me show you a little something…” as he laid his hand on top of yours, he guided you into a new technique of cutting. This technique was swifter, smoother and overall more beneficial at the end of the day. You had learned the method quicker than he expected as a human and just stood there with a proud smirk on his face. “Atta girl.” You smiled into his words as you continued, “like this?” but as you asked that question you leaned off the trail of the vegetables and sliced right into your finger, immediately dropping the knife on the counter and wincing in pain.

Grabbing your finger, blood started to drip onto the slight damp cutting board and trailing down your finger. As quick as it happened, he gripped your hands together and tensed. As a doctor of many years he was used to this, but in these circumstances, he wasn’t used to you. You were a temptation.

He looked at you with a saddened expression like he could feel what you were feeling. “Jesus my love…let me see it…” You followed his words as you uncovered your bloody hands. The cut was deep and dripping. And the scent was strong, so very strong. He slightly breathed in, almost as to get anything from the scent itself. He was tense and you could feel it.

He felt the way your heartbeat excelled after the accident and the way your blood rushed in adrenal pain. “I’m sorry.” You rushed out before he closed your hands again and held you close. “You don’t need to apologize for an accident, my love.” He turned the stove off and laid his hands on top of yours, taking you immediately into his office. “Just be so very careful next time, okay? Could you imagine how much worse it could’ve been if the family were home?”

He sat you down. “And im so very grateful for that…” You winced softly as he gently pressed against your cut, seeing how deep it really was. “I’m sorry love.” He spoke softly as he examined you. Thankfully enough he didn’t need to do a stitching process since it was deep, but not enough to stitch. He gently pressed on your cut, wiping the blood from your soft, delicate skin.

As he cleaned you up he laid the materials in a, now dirty bowl, watching your every movement and reaction with every little touch. “Almost done..” he softly whispered right against your ear as he disinfected your cut with rubbing alcohol. “It’ll only hurt for a moment my love…” He warned you, and the reaction hit you fast before you held him close, enduring the pain as he whispered sweet words of affirmations into your ears.

As the pain dimmed down he proceeded to wrap your finger and the rest of your hand up in Gauze. Over and over again he made sure the wrap was secure before he gently tilted your chin to look straight at him. Your eyes were slightly wet with tears as he gently kissed your lips. “Oh my sensitive girl…” You wrapped your opposite arm around him as you brought him closer to you. “Carlisle…the way you torture yourself for me…”

he smiled against your forehead. “I wouldn’t say torture.. more like endurece..” he leaned back and looked into your eyes. His shoulders were now relaxed and his expression was subtle and gentle. “You make it difficult to contain full control within myself, I won’t lie to you my dear…” He said as he proceed to light a match and throw it in the metal bowl, burning that beautiful bloody scent away for good.

He caressed your cheek as he admired your soft eyes. “Why do you do this to yourself? When you could easily make me like you?” You spoke as you laid your hands on his chest, looking up into his eyes. “Mmm…because you, my love, are my temptation…and as it pains me, I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

[queen-of-the-avengers]

When Life Gives You Lemons...

Pairing: Eventual Bartender!Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader, Tony Stark x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~3.4k

Warnings: minor angst, mostly fluff

Summary: After a parent-teacher conference goes wrong, your boss tells you to make nice with the biggest donor the school has ever seen. You don’t expect him to play nice, and you definitely don’t expect to give him a chance when he finally asks you out.

One in a Million Series

Square Filled: tony stark/iron man (2023) for @buckybarnesbingo

Author’s Note: any and all comments are appreciated <3

x

Every month, the principal chooses one teacher to teach the sex-ed class and this time, it’s you. Not that you don’t mind, you love teaching kids about their bodies. It’s nothing like how a sex-ed class would be in high school, but it’s appropriate for middle schoolers. The last class of the day is let out, and you slump down in your seat tiredly. You don’t care what other people say, this shit is hard. Being in a classroom with a bunch of kids sucks the energy out of you but you love it. You wouldn’t trade this job for anything else.

Teaching is your passion.

You stay with the same group of kids all year round since they don’t change classes like junior high and high school, so you get to form personal connections with each other kids and watch them grow into exceptional human beings. There are a few every year that get under your skin and who you’d rather beat over the head with a stick, but you suck it up and teach them as best as possible.

There is a certain student, Morgan, with whom you are a bit concerned. You love having the kids get creative and have arts and crafts time regardless of how old they are, and her artwork is… unique. Where some art is bright and colorful, hers is dark and black. Others are pictures of families and beaches and animals whereas hers are broken dolls and blood.

It’s why you’ve called her father to come down to the school for a brief conversation. You called her mother but she’s not in the state right now. You get up from your chair and start cleaning the desk free of condoms you used on a bunch of bananas. There is a knock on the door and a handsome man walks into your classroom.

He’s not Bucky handsome but he definitely isn’t ugly. He has short hair that curls in the front, a goatee paired with a thin mustache, and is wearing an expensive-looking suit. He’s not the sort of man you go for but you can see yourself spending a night or two with.

“Oh, Mr. Stark, thank you for coming in.”

“Please, call me Tony. Sorry, I’m late. I just flew in from London.”

“It’s no problem. I’m glad you were able to come in. I wanted to talk to you about Morgan. I was hoping to have Mrs. Stark here.”

“She’s not Mrs. Stark. We’re not together anymore. It’s fine, I can handle it.”

You nod in understanding as you take out the art pieces your students did before you had to teach sex ed.

“I think it’s very important that kids are able to express their creative side, so I have what’s called ‘Dream Sesh’ where they’re able to draw, paint, or create whatever it is they want.” You hold up a nice picture of a dolphin and the beach. “This is a nice picture at the beach.” You hold up another one. “This is a nice rainbow with gold at the end of it.” Another picture. “I’d like to think this is a family of four with a pet.” Finally, you hold up Morgan’s art. It’s a mess of dark grey and black with doll heads she must have ripped off her Barbies and kept in her backpack. “I’m just a little concerned with what Morgan has created.”

Tony barely looks at her artwork. “Yeah, Morgan will be opting out of ‘Dream Sesh’ from now on. I want her to focus more on her studies.”

“Oh, did you talk to her about this?”

“I don’t have to. I want her to know geometry before going to high school.”

“Sir, I follow the curriculum. She’s doing very well in school.”

“Apparently not if she’s creating a mess of doll heads. Keep up the good work,” he says sarcastically.

“Tony, I talk to Morgan every single day. Do you?” You might be out of line for saying this but you’re not going to let him get away with not putting the needs of his kid before his own. “Hiring a tutor is not the same thing as spending time with her.”

“I’m her father, not her friend. I know what she needs and it sure as hell ain’t this.”

He turns on his heels and walks out of your room, done with this conversation. You roll your eyes and finish cleaning up your classroom. Afterward, you go to your principal because he can’t get away with this. You know what’s best for these kids, and he can’t come in here like he owns the place.

“Yes, he can,” Tracy, the principal says after you get done explaining what happened. “He is the biggest donor for this school in the city.”

“So, just because we take his money, we have to do exactly what he says? You’re telling me to throw out my integrity?”

“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m telling you to do. We need his money. What you’re going to do is go down to his office and say you were wrong, that you’ll never let the kids do anything creative again. Make sure he doesn’t pull his donation.”

There’s no arguing with Tracy. With a sigh, you leave her office and head home for the day. The boys are at home devouring the pie you made last night, and you walk over to them with a look of defeat.

“Hey, how was work?” Steve asks.

“Fine. I was picked to teach sex ed to a bunch of twelve-year-olds.”

“Is that why you look like that?”

You must look defeated like you’re lost, and also a little annoyed. “No. One of my students has been making… unique art and I had to call her father in to talk about it. He bashed my ‘Dream Sesh’ idea so I went to the principal. He’s the biggest donor for the school and is super rich, so now I have to go apologize to him.”

“Do you know how much groveling I have to do on a daily basis? It’s what fills my gas tank up, so I can’t really complain,” Steve says.

“That’s the problem. It’s rich people who suck, and they make the poor people dangle and beg for things that come easily for them,” Bucky says. “Fuck him. Don’t apologize.”

“He might pull his donation, and I can’t do that to the kids.”

“Blame it on your period,” Sam suggests.

“Excuse me?”

“Since no one else is suggesting this, how about a simple apology?”

You look between your roommates, your mind already made up. “I’m gonna go with Bucky’s idea. He’s right. Fuck him. I shouldn’t have to apologize for letting my kids be creative in their artwork.”

“Here’s what you’re going to do.” Sam and Steve roll their eyes but let Bucky continue. “You’re going to march into his office and tell him, ‘You can’t tell me what to do. Your money doesn’t own me.’”

“That is a bad idea,” Steve says.

“No, I like Bucky’s idea.”

You turn to leave but Bucky stops you. “Who’s the guy?”

“Tony Stark.” All three men’s eyes go wide and they all start stuttering. “What is happening?”

“Forget everything I said. Apologize.”

“What?”

“You’re talking about the Tony Stark? That guy is a billionaire. He’s destroyed people for less. Go with Steve’s idea.”

“No.” You pause. “I’m not going to conform to his rules. I’m going to go over there right now and give him a piece of my mind.”

You leave before you can talk yourself out of it and leave in your piece of shit car. Words are already swirling in your head as you try to think of what you’re going to say. What will come off as the most sincere while you’re telling him to get fucked? Maybe you shouldn’t do this. Maybe you should just keep it civilized and apologize. No! You’re not wrong for sticking up for your students! You can do this.

You pull up to a red light and pause in the front. You’re going over your speech in your mind when your car stalls. In a panic, you try starting it again only for it to make this ungodly terrible sound.

“This is not happening right now,” you gasp.

The light turns green and it doesn’t take long for the cars behind you to start honking. You groan and get out to inspect the damage. Everyone is pissed you’re holding them up like you’re doing it on purpose. You’re not going to be able to fix this so you have to get this out of the road before you cause an accident. You stick your key into the ignition and turn it once so it clicks, and you put the car in neutral.

With all of your strength, you push the car across an empty lane to the curb. As soon as your car is cleared of the lane, cars honk as they pass by you. This could not get any worse. How can you piss on the fact that Tony is one of the richest people in this country with a broken car?

“Y/N?” You look up and see Tony Stark crossing the road once it’s clear to do so. “What are you doing?”

“Milking a cow.” You roll your eyes. “What does it look like I’m doing? My car broke down. How did you know I was here?”

“I work here.” You look up and see you’re parked in front of Stark Industries. “What’s wrong with the car?”

“I don’t know. It stalled out on me at a red light. I haven’t had a chance to look under the hood.”

Tony reaches into his jacket pocket and takes out his phone. “I know someone who can fix it. Don’t worry.”

You’re not sure why but this doesn’t settle well with you. Never have you had a man want to do something this nice to you, even after you accused him of not spending enough time with his daughter. There has to be an angle he’s playing at.

“I can take care of myself.” Tony raises an eyebrow as if he’s challenging you. “Listen, I never came from money so when something broke, I either pretended it didn’t or fixed it with duct tape. I’ll be fine.”

Tony looks at your car and nods. “Yeah, the tow truck is on its way.”

“That’s generous, Tony, but I need a car.”

“Take mine.” He holds out his keys to his Audi R8 that’s parked on the other side of the street near a meter. “I won’t take no for an answer.”

“Wha..? I can’t take your car.”

“Sure you can. I’ve got a dozen of them. I’m having a cookout this weekend, so you can drop it off then. You should come.” You truly don’t know what to say to this. He checks his watch and makes sure you take his car keys. “I gotta go. I’ll see you on Saturday at four.”

He winks at you before walking away, and you open your mouth in shock. Did that really just happen? The only reason you’re leaving your car and taking Tony’s is because you can’t physically drive your car. You’re about halfway home when you realize you never did what you came to his office to do.

Fuck me. You park Tony’s precious car inside the car garage instead of the street because you don’t want some junkie or hooligan to mess his car up. You don’t really live in the best part of town, but it’s not the worst. Still, you don’t want to take the chance. It’s not every day a sports car comes through this side of town.

You walk inside and pause when you see Natasha wearing nothing but one of Steve’s old shirts. She’s much smaller than him so the shirt easily goes to her knees. She freezes as if you just caught her doing something terrible.

“Hey. What are you doing here?”

“Steve and I slept together,” she blurts.

“What?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t like keeping things from you. Then we did it again ten more times.”

“Wow, um, I don’t know what to say. Good for you! Steve is pretty great. He’ll be good for you.”

Natasha nods but then she sees the look of distress on your face. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” You turn and head inside your room, hoping she’ll leave it at that. Knowing Natasha, she won’t. She follows you inside your room and closes the door behind you. “Natasha…”

“Something happened. What is it?”

You give her the 411 on Tony Stark and what happened today outside his office. “He just gave me his car keys. What the fuck? I had this whole speech planned in my head, and he goes and does something like this. Ugh, I’m so pissed at him.” You start making a mock impression of him. “Look at me, I’m Tony Stark and I just give away my cars because I have twelve of them. Oh, look at me, I have all this money to spend on whatever I want.” You’re about to continue when you notice Natasha smiling. “Why are you smiling?”

“Nothing.”

“Come on.” You roll your eyes. “You know what he’s doing, right? He’s trying to take back the power. Now, I have to go to this cookout and grovel because he has my car and I have his.”

“You want to know what I think?”

You see the look in her eyes. She had the same look when she told you how much Bucky was into you. “Not really.”

“What if he likes you?”

“No, I hate him,” you scoff.

“He is single and cute. Have you seen the comments on his business page? Every woman wants him.”

“He’s not the type of guy I go for.”

“Why not?”

“He’s the type of guy who has a closet just for his watches and socks. He’s the type of guy who has a towel warmer outside of his shower that I bet has ten different knobs I’m sure no one but him knows how to work. You know me. I’m into the guys who are afraid of success and still have roommates.”

Natasha gets up and she walks closer to you. “Can I say something you’re not gonna like?” You roll your eyes but you don’t answer her. “I think Tony intimidates you. You wouldn’t have to take care of him because he would take care of you.”

“Uh, no.” Natasha gives you a bitch face. “You’re wrong, Natasha.” She raises an eyebrow. “Stop looking at me like that. You were wrong about Bucky and you’re wrong about Tony.”

Her words stick inside your mind all week leading up to the cookout. Bucky was the only one available so he agreed to go with you. You’re not sure how you feel about bringing the man you’re crushing on to a man who’s crushing on you, but you try not to think too much about it. His Audi is nice but it’s not something you’re used to driving. After parking on the street, you and Bucky walk toward his mansion which is already crowded with people.

This mansion is all sorts of all over the top. It overlooks the ocean which gives off a great view but you’re thinking about storms and how one wrong move will make the entire house plummet into the ocean. You hate to admit it, but you’re kind of in awe at the look of it. It has a roundabout in the driveway so that people don’t have to back up to get out. It’s one continuous circle.

“We’re here for one thing and one thing only.” You look at Bucky who has a frown on his face. “What's wrong?”

“Too fancy. Something doesn’t sit right with me. I never trust someone with this much money.”

You roll your eyes. “Come on.”

Bucky takes one step into his kitchen and he’s lost in his own mind. Bucky loves to cook. He taught himself while working at the bar. He figured he could make more money if he served something other than alcohol. Steve and Sam know how to make signature dishes but they leave the cooking to Bucky.

You split off from him and walk into the backyard where most of the guests are. Tony is standing among friends with a glass of dark alcohol in his hand. You do have to admit, he is kind of handsome. Much older than you, but handsome. There is soft music playing, nothing like what the parties you go to play. Okay, maybe there is some truth to what Natasha was saying. You take a deep breath and walk over to Tony.

He sees you coming and excuses himself from his group.

“Y/N, you made it,” he smiles. “Oh, the mechanic called. Your car is ready. Easy fix, I hear.”

“Okay… Good.” You hand over his keys. “I parked your car on the road. Tony, I came here for two things. First of all, thank you for helping me. Second of all, I know you donate a lot of money to the school, but--”

“Oh, God, you think I’m a snob,” he cuts you off.

“What? No. I have nothing against people who…” You look around. “...live in enormous mansions.”

“Y/N, I’m forty-five. I make a lot of money, and I like spending it.”

You look around the place and suddenly feel so out of place. You don’t belong here. You’re thirty years old and live with roommates in an apartment that’s falling apart. How did you ever think you could try and be one of them?

“I gotta go.”

“Wait, Y/N.”

He grabs your arm gently but you whip around to face him. “No, Tony. I came here because the principal told me to apologize but I’m not sorry for what I said. Morgan is twelve and she is creative and deserves to participate in ‘Dream Sesh’. I don’t care if you pull your donation because I am not going to grovel--”

“Wait, what? Do you think I’d pull my donation? I’d never do that.”

“Tony!” You two look at a woman waving him over. “I want you to meet my brother!”

“I gotta go. Nice party.”

You turn and leave before Tony has a chance to say anything else. Bucky is in the living room admiring his TV system when you grab his hand and partially drag him out of the house.

“What are you doing?”

“We’re leaving.”

“Why? What happened? Did he do something?”

“No, Bucky.” You stop outside the front door with a sigh. “We don’t belong here, Bucky. He has twelve cars and a koi pond in his backyard, and we have a stick we use to get the faucet to work again. We’re not the same.”

You try to leave when Bucky stops you.

He can’t believe he’s going to say this because he’s so into you, but he saw the way Tony looked at you earlier. Between him and Tony, Tony is the better man for you. He can take care of you in ways Bucky can’t, and you deserve everything in the world. Maybe he should focus on trying to love a woman who is more in his bracket.

“Look, I saw the way he was looking at you. He likes you, Y/N. You shouldn’t be running from him when he can give you everything you deserve. Go back inside and talk to him.”

Hearing this from the man you’re crushing on is a bit overwhelming. Bucky is who you need but if he’s pushing you to Tony, the last thing you’re going to do is tell him that.

“Are you sure?” you whisper.

“Yeah. Go.”

You turn and head back inside to see if being with Tony is something you can do. Bucky sighs and kicks round some rocks once you’re gone. He’s slapping himself over this even though he knows it’s what’s best for you. Tony is talking with a group of people when you step back into the backyard. As if he knows you’re here, he looks at you and smiles. He parts from his group and you walk toward him with a shy smile.

“I’m sorry for earlier. Look, Tony, you scare me because you have everything figured out and you’re secure and you don’t have broken pipes and roommates.”

“I don’t have everything figured out. I can’t even talk to my own kid. Will you go to dinner with me Friday night?”

You think back to Bucky and his words. He wants you to do this. If he wanted to go to dinner with you, he’d ask. Instead, he pushed you into another man’s arms.

“Yes,” you smile.

“Great. I’ll call you.”

“Okay.”

x

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[ino-takumas-baggy-sweater]

The Blessing to Your Curse - Part 1 (Ryomen Sukuna x Reader)

Hey y’all I’m back again so soon with another fic, Sukuna’s lover reincarnation (whatever you call it) has me in a chokehold right now and I thought I’d share this with the world. Would like to warn you there is a lot of strange jumping around/pov changes which are indicated by the change in pronouns, I would mark each change but it would get a bit messy after a while so I hope it’s not too hard to follow! ^-^

Reader’s powers involve something I like to call ‘blessed energy’ which is the opposite to cursed energy and is mostly used for healing (reverse blessed energy is used to harm in the same way reverse CE is used to heal) and it’s something I created to use with my writings in the JJK universe. (sometimes I write it a little op because im a self-indulgent piece of shit so for most of what I post I’ll probably dial it back if I use it hehe) The reader has a similar situation to Maki/Mai (MANGA SPOILERS AHEAD) where one twin is restricted and the other has all the energy, and when the one with the energy dies the living twin gains all the power, so I hope that makes sense in context of the story

(PLEASE DON'T HESITATE TO SEND A REQUEST!!!! I'M ALWAYS IN NEED OF NEW PROMPTS AND CHARACTERS TO GO WITH THEM ❤)(I have a post which outlines characters I mostly write for but I'm open to adding to that list!!)

Warnings: mild description of mutilation (sukuna’s transformation), main character death (not described), fluff

Word count: 2.4k

“Ryomen!” You laugh, trying to keep a few steps ahead of the young man who chases after you. Your legs tire easily, body frail and sick despite the immense power flowing through your veins. “I’m coming for you!” He growls playfully, “Better run!” He’s holding back from his top speed, this you know well, but you refuse to let that stop you from trying to keep up with his childish play. Still young, 16 and 17 with him being the older one, you insist that you would rather spend the rest of your life here with him than being shepherded around in the village like a priestess.

This is your only escape from the temple on the hill, only solitude, your time with Ryomen Sukuna is precious and you treat it as such, thinking only of him and his rare smiles. You refuse to let the village’s words taint your view of him, as powerful as he is with his cursed energy there is good in him and you seek to nurture it, for both simple selfish gain and so he doesn’t turn on everyone like they did him. You reach the treeline and race out into the meadow, the grass tall and soft around your waist having stripped down from your daily ceremonial robes into just modest loose undergarments.

He does eventually catch up near the middle of the meadow, springing out of the grass and tackling you to the ground, making sure to roll so you land on top of him and he takes the full force of the fall. The last time you returned to the village after a long day of simple play with bruises and scrapes you weren’t allowed to leave the village for a few weeks.

He’s grown quite a lot larger than you during his time in exile, to be expected when you have to fend for yourself against wild animals and build your own shelter, “You’re getting stronger every day,” You smile, pushing yourself off him and laying in the grass, staring up at the beautiful pink of the sunset. “Well I have to, to be able protect you, I’m not the only thing out there you know,” He says, his tone almost too blasé for what he’s implying. You tilt your head and trace the lines of his tattoos with your eyes, “I know you’re not, but you’re not a thing to me Ryomen,” You murmur, “Please, you’re the closest thing I have to a friend, you’ve always been human to me,”

He meets your gaze, his eyes used to be brown, but the red no longer worries you like it used to, “One day I’ll get you out of that village,” He says softly, his words for your ears and the rustling grass only, “I will take you far away from here and we can live somewhere untouched by the rest of the world,” You sit up, looking down at him as you hug your knees to your chest, “I’d like that,” You say, smiling, “Just the two of us,” Nothing could touch you while you were together, the world stood still for you, not even the scathing remarks you sometimes got from the other young girls of the village could hurt you.

The world is volatile, things can change so quickly. Curses are still so new to the world of humans, sorcerers that act as protectors are only just starting to appear among humans and spread themselves between villages when the day finally comes. The wave of hatred and anguish that came with the curses suffocated everything in its path. You were outside the village when it happened, returning from a visit with Sukuna, and you returned to find nothing but death and destruction. More than half of the village had been killed with no discrimination towards age or gender, and it only soothed you a little to see your old family home empty when you wrenched the door open. No blood nor bodies of any kind. Your parents and sister had made it out alive, but the temple atop the hill that you resided in was completely engulfed.

You weren’t naïve, you did not attempt to return to the temple, but they came for you all the same because your energy was like a beacon for them, and they were programmed to destroy. Running with Ryomen had improved your strength over the time you spent together, you supposed that was one of the ways he took care of you in his silent brooding way, but it wasn’t enough to get you all the way to him. He must have sensed your fear as you grew nearer, your breaths shallow and your chest tight, his eyes are the last thing you remember seeing before your soul was harshly liberated from your flesh.

The smell of blood permeated through layers of warmth that held you in suspension beyond life, but you felt yourself being dragged back to the ground, standing over your own body as you watch the only person outside of your immediate family who ever truly cared for you cry. You had never seen him cry before, it was cathartic to know even he still felt human somewhere inside while holding your weak broken body to his bare tattooed chest.

You felt his cursed energy filling the air like smoke, almost able to see it in the purgatory state you’re trapped in, his body shaking and his muscles twitching. It was like watching someone turn themselves inside out when it finally happened, his body began changing before your eyes, an extra pair of arms sprout from the top of his ribcage just under the normal ones. His face contorts with an agonized cry and one half becomes unrecognisable, the flesh pink and hardened into some sort of twisted mask, and to finish the monstrous transformation a second pair of eyes open under his regular ones.

Drenched in sweat and breathing heavily as he cradles you, you hear him make one last promise, one that locks around what remains of your essence like chains and puts you into a deep sleep. “I will burn this world for taking you from me, I will become the King of Curses, and when you are reborn I shall make you remember, make you my Queen, I will bind myself to you to protect you,” It’s the final part that reassures you he isn’t losing himself as the darkness consumes you, “When I find you, the world will be right once again,”

Now it had been over a thousand years since the light in Sukuna’s life had gone out, reducing him to a killing machine that punished the world for snuffing it out, and he had returned once more in the body of a naive 15 year old boy with pink hair. Having been preserved as twenty separate cursed objects since his untimely death he was eager to resume his self-assigned purge, but the boy had more control over his body than Sukuna could break through, leaving him trapped within his innate domain watching through Yuji Itadori’s eyes like they’re windows.

“I had to do it at least once,” He grumbles to himself as the boy sits up, stark naked, on the morgue table, surprising the three sorcerers in the room with the formerly dead boy. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet, Yuji, come,” Gojo instructs as the boy slips on some clothes handed to him. “Another sorcerer?” He asks. “You’ll see when we get there,” The taller man beckons him and they make their way to a house on the furthest outskirts of the Jujutsu high campus, small in size and surrounded by forest on all sides except for the path leading up to the entrance.

A fire burns in the chimney and the house is warm when the pair steps inside, “L/n!” Gojo calls out. Sukuna’s attention is elsewhere as around the corner down the hall out walks a pure angel, her energy blinding and her form strong. “Gojo!” She smiles, “Who’s this?” “This is Yuji Itadori, Ryomen Sukuna’s vessel,” She bows politely, “Welcome to my home,” She looks back up into Yuji’s eyes as he smiles, “It’s nice to meet you!”

“Enchain!” Sukuna shouts, and suddenly he’s thrown violently to the forefront of Yuji’s mind. His trump card, wasted. He hadn’t considered the potential consequences, it had been instinctual and foolish of him. The girl didn’t know who he was, but he wanted to speak to her all the same. He would make her know. He cannot stumble, he cannot falter, not when she’s right there and all he has to do is show her, “Y/n,” He murmurs. “That’s not Yuji,” She frowns, her voice soft, “That’s-” Before the two can react Sukuna is on his knees before her, holding her hands in his and hiding against her soft clothing. “I’ve…” Gojo trails off, “I’ve never seen that before,” The girl doesn’t let him go, and he feels her power reach into him, feeling around in the darkest parts of his soul, “My Queen,” He mutters, feeling the metaphysical chains around his heart tighten, “Please, remember,”

A fast surge of energy from Gojo causes the man on his knees before you to react just as quickly, pulling you tighter against him and then seemingly teleporting out the open door into the clearing, “It’s rude to attack ROYALTY!” He roars as Gojo steps out the door after the pair of you. Sukuna has planted himself firmly between the two of you, “You sorcerers never learn manners!” Something happens when your skin next touches his, his hand shooting out to catch you by your wrist as you fail to keep your balance.

A flood of memories that don’t belong to you, in fact, ones that belong to him. You see yourself, weak and frail but smiling widely, Sukuna as he is in front of you now not as he is described in sorcerer texts. A regular human man with an abnormal amount of tattoos, fiercely protective and full of love for the only person who still sees him as human. You vaguely feel yourself fall to your knees as everything from the day he was exiled to the day you died returned to your mind. You knew that despite the life you had lived for twenty years, you were in fact over a thousand years old.

This wasn’t your life, this wasn’t your body, it was hers, but you are her. You can feel the chains, too, the ones he put there the day you died to ensure that you would return. “The world took her from me, and the world paid the price, now BACK OFF!” His words shake you out of your visions, his hand still clutching your wrist as your head hangs weakly.

“Come now, Sukuna, taking hostages isn’t your style, you know that,” Gojo bargains, “Let her go, and we can fight like men,” You shake your head, “No,” You murmur, “No, Gojo,” You finally look up into his eyes, slightly uncovered as he prepares to fight, “He’s right, I know who I am, I know where my clan comes from,” He doesn’t make a move towards you and you take the opportunity to speak again, “My mother was blessed, her child would calm the beast, but she had two and one was weak in body strong in energy, the other was lacking in energy but strong of body,” Your sister had been the one the clan records mentioned, nobody remembered the girl who died alone in Ryomen Sukuna’s arms.

“I am the Queen to Ryomen Sukuna’s King,” You breathe, feeling his grip on your wrist go lax. His energy dies away and he falls to his hands and knees, but the tattoos are gone. “Yuji!” Gojo’s shoulders finally relax and he recovers his eyes, “What happened? How did he get through?” “Don’t ignore me, Satoru,” You state firmly, “Sukuna will not be a threat while I am alive,” “Can you guarantee that?” He’s always been intimidating, but this man was a part of your training as a sorcerer, and he can be rational when he wants to be.

“You’re an imbecile if you think I’m going to go back on a binding vow,” Sukuna spits from Yuji’s cheek, the boy not even having a chance to get a word in, “She is the only thing in this forsaken world I care about and you’re not about to take that away from me just so you can pretend like you’re the saviour of humanity,” You don’t remember ever being as harsh as Sukuna is right now, but his rage fills you with confidence and admiration, “I can guarantee humans will not fall as long as I am alive, his vow makes sure of it, though I’m sure he would not need it either way,”

The secondary eye on Yuji’s cheek closest to you locks its gaze onto you, “Ever so cunning, I wish I’d had the chance to nurture your hatred towards the village, maybe you’d be more open to killing,” He sounds almost wistful, “But alas, I did make a promise, and I intend to keep it, no matter how idiotic I think you sorcerers are,” You finally move to stand back on your feet, helping Yuji up with a tentative smile, “It’s nice to meet you Itadori,” You murmur, “I’m sorry you have to listen to that punk, you come to me if he gives you trouble alright?” The boy nods, his previously cheery demeanour replaced with something mellower and he seems deep in thought as he looks into your eyes.

“He really loves you,” He murmurs in disbelief, “I didn’t… I didn’t think he was truly capable of love, after what he did to me,” You shrug, “It’ll make sense one day, but I’ll let him be the one who opens up, it’s not my place to air out thousand year old dirty laundry with people who are long dead anyway,” Your words hang in the air as Gojo finally sighs. The discussion and conclusion are finalised when he leaves, Yuji will live with you and you will suppress Sukuna’s energy. You will keep the world safe by preserving your life, lest another binding vow come down upon your departing soul and the King of curses be forced to unleash his merciless fury once more.

Sukuna is a little shit and out of character because it’s my fic and I get to write the male love interest however I want (I tried besties :( I don’t like mean Sukuna but I do love “I hate everyone but you” so that’s what you get) also I wrote this instead of sleeping at 2am, the brainrot is real and this will probably end up being a series because I can’t control myself

Part 2 here!

Post dividers from @cafekitsune

[meiplays]

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Title: Still Hungry For You

Pairing: Vampire!Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader

Setting: After Season 6, Episode 5 – “Live Free or Twihard”

Word Count: ~3,000

Rating: SFW (emotionally spicy, neck kisses, vampire kink energy, angst/comfort)

Tags: #vampire dean Winchester #exes to tension #hurt comfort #season 6 inspired #blood bond #neck kisses #he came back

POV: You’re home alone, your husband's off “working late” (again), and you're just trying to hold things together for your daughter. Then Dean Winchester—your ex, the man you haven’t seen in years—shows up at your house. Soaked, dangerous, changed. He’s a vampire now. And he’s hungry. But not just for blood—for you.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

You hadn’t seen Dean Winchester in three years—not since you walked away.

Not since you told him you couldn’t keep waiting for him to come home in pieces.

And yet, here he was, standing at the foot of your bed, soaked in rain and blood, not breathing like a human anymore.

You sat up slowly, breath caught in your throat.

“Dean?” Your voice was barely a whisper.

His eyes glinted silver in the low light, glowing faintly like an animal in the dark. You recognized that stare. You’d seen it in your nightmares after that one time—that time—when he called to tell you something had happened. Something bad.

But this wasn’t a call.

This was real.

“I shouldn't have come,” he rasped, voice deeper than you remembered. “But I needed to see you. Just once.”

Your breath hitched. You knew when this was from. “Boris.”

Dean’s jaw clenched. “You remember.”

“I watched that vampire nest case on the news. Ohio, right?” You blinked. “So this is… right after?”

He nodded once. “Sam let it happen. Said he wanted to ‘see what I’d do.’” He said it like it tasted foul.

“And you’re still—?”

“I’m fighting it,” he growled. “But it’s in me now. The hunger. The speed. The smell of blood. It's all louder.”

You shivered. Not from fear. From something far worse.

Want.

You’d always wanted Dean. But this version? All danger and regret and feral restraint?

It made your chest ache.

Your husband wasn’t home. He rarely was anymore. You didn’t ask questions you didn’t want answers to. You’d been alone for years in this marriage, really.

And Dean? Dean had always made you feel seen—even now, with a monster in his veins.

Your fingers clutched the edge of your pajama shorts as he stepped closer, boots wet, breath shallow.

“I almost didn’t come,” he admitted. “Didn’t want you to see me like this.”

“And yet here you are,” you whispered.

He looked at you then. Really looked. “You always did wear those little pajama sets when you were mad. Or lonely.”

Your cheeks flushed. “Don’t read into it.”

“I already did.”

The silence stretched. Your heart pounded. You knew he could hear it.

“I thought of you,” he said suddenly. “When I felt the blood hit my throat. When the change started. I saw your face.”

You stood up on shaky legs. “Dean, I have a daughter now.”

His expression cracked. “I know.”

“She’s not yours—”

“I know. But she’s still... she’s still a part of you.”

You crossed your arms, trying to stay grounded. “So why are you really here?”

Dean swallowed hard. “Because I don’t know how long I can fight this. And if I’m gonna lose myself, I wanted to see you once more. Smell you. Hear your heartbeat. Touch your skin.”

You stepped closer. Slowly. “Dean—”

His hand shot out, but he stopped himself just before grabbing your wrist. His fingers hovered near your pulse.

“I can hear it,” he murmured. “Your blood. It’s screaming at me.”

You shivered. “Then take it.”

His eyes snapped up.

“What?”

You tilted your neck ever so slightly. “I trust you. Even now.”

“Don’t say that,” he choked. “I’m not safe.”

“You’re Dean.”

That broke him.

He reached for you, pulling you flush against his chest. His skin was cool. His arms were warm. You melted into him instinctively.

He pressed his nose to your neck and inhaled—slow, shaking. His lips ghosted over your skin.

“You smell like heaven,” he growled.

“Then taste it.”

The bite, when it came, was more like a kiss. A sharp, hot kiss that made your body arch into his. His arms locked around you, holding you like he was terrified of letting go.

You gasped—but it didn’t hurt. Not really. It was deep. Intimate. Like something ancient was awakening in both of you.

Your hands twisted in his jacket. “Dean…”

He groaned into your skin. “You taste like I remember. Warm. Real. Home.”

When he pulled back, his fangs retracted, and he looked dazed. Hungry. But not for your blood.

For you.

Your fingers brushed the blood from his lips.

“I missed you,” you whispered.

“I never stopped,” he said.

The bedroom light flickered from the storm outside. The baby monitor hummed softly in the distance. For a moment, nothing else existed except this—your body against his, your pulse in his mouth, your history pulsing between you.

“You gonna disappear again?” you asked, voice thin.

His hand cradled your cheek. “I don’t know how to be around you without wanting everything.”

You stared at him, breath shallow. “Then take everything. Before it’s too late.”

And he did.

Not in a way that crossed lines. Not in a way that broke vows. But in a way that reminded you what it meant to be wanted. To be known. To be seen.

He kissed your neck, your collarbone, the hollow behind your ear. He whispered your name like a prayer and a curse. You held onto him like a lifeline.

And when the sun broke through the curtains hours later, he was gone.

But you weren’t alone.

You had the mark.

You had the memory.

And you had the promise that if the hunger ever returned… he’d find his way back to you.

End.

~

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[messiahzzz]

You’re one of the most annoying people on this site. And that really says A LOT because WOW! Shut the Fuck up about Gale wanting to be a father or not. He never says that he doesn’t want to be one. You projecting things onto him doesn’t make it Canon.

on a serious note: i’m certainly not the one that continuously brings up this topic unprompted. i personally really don’t understand the entire controversy around the topic or why fandom feels the need to rehash this conversation almost weekly. i truly believe that there’s nothing more of value to learn from it, to address, or add to it… yet fandom won’t let it rest.

to once again clarify: what i mean by “gale wanting to be a father isn’t canon” is that there is no evidence/neither hints anywhere in any of the dialogue that support the contrary. characters like h*lsin, w*ll and la*’zel have entire adoption subplots. all of them mention their children explicitly during the epilogue:

narrator: *your soul warms thinking of lily aurora ravengard, your adopted daughter. a treasure of a girl, found at the entrance of the open hand temple - one grey eye, one brown.* w*ll: ah, the girl could melt the staunchest heart. she might even have brought a smile to old withers' face! w*ll: but tonight is for us - and lily's only four months of age, besides. i promise, the temple will keep her in good care.

player: and our little hatchling? is he safe? la*'zel: of course. i have complete trust in our newest allies. xan is in fine hands tonight. la*'zel: what a wonder he is. he will be a fine warrior, if he chooses. or a poet, or an explorer, or a scholar.

h*lsin: being away from it... i cannot help but worry how they will fare in our absence. player: we'll be back before they know it. h*lsin: i hope so. the children shall miss their bedtime tale tonight - though perhaps i can glean a few new stories from our friends here, to make up for it.

even shad*wh*art has a line where she briefly mentions that children might be a possibility for her in the future.

shad*wh*art: and i get to see my parents almost every day - i need to make every moment with them count, after so much was stolen from us. but they're doing well, [...] shad*wh*art: who knows? perhaps they'll have grandchildren before long.

gale in comparison? he has none of that. he remains childfree during the entirety of the game + epilogue. in fact, his line in the epilogue that addresses the topic of grandkids is this one:

tara: this is why mrs. dekarios and i will be waiting an eternity more for grandchildren. nodecontext: self-pitying gale: psst! shoo, tara. nodecontext: shooing away tara like one would a naughty cat.

i already wrote a post about this entire discourse here [x] but to repeat myself once more: all of the dialogue that vaguely addresses the topic of children in any way in regards to gale are these snippets

player: gale… how would you feel about having another person in our relationship? gale: what, like a child? i’m not quite sure i’d consider myself father material, plus our current lifestyle isn’t exactly what i’d call settled…

gale, upon spotting oliver during their game of hide and seek: ah, i have you! just a shame i don’t want you.

gale treating the children the group comes across with respect isn’t an indicator either. this is a courtesy gale extends to everyone he meets. he’s a character that approves of a protagonist who systematically commits good deeds. whether it’s sparing animals, helping without compensation in mind, or aiding children. wanting children to be cared for… and you know… for them not to die is common etiquette that every adult should extend to a child in need. those are not “dad goals!!!” it’s quite literally just basic human decency. gale is genuinely kind and caring to everyone he meets, there is no reason why this also wouldn’t apply to children.

i often see fandom mention his encounter with mol at last light and how excited he is to talk to her. which i think greatly misinterprets the context of the scenario since he didn’t have much of a reaction to mol before either — gale is ecstatic about lanceboard. again evident by his reaction to the party finding the life-sized board during the wyrmway trials, and how he immediately offers to give tav pointers. explaining different approaches to them in enthusiastic detail if they allow him to. the man just really likes lanceboard… as well as being the smartest person in the room.

gale: ah, lanceboard! why, this might just be the highlight of our misadventures to date.

gale: lanceboard happens to be a game with which i have more than a passing familiarity. might i offer a suggestion? nodecontext: gale's a badass lanceboard player, anticipating showing off

if you want to headcanon your tav and gale raising a big family together that is more than fine and no one is stopping you. whatever you want to happen to these two after the storyline of the game is up to your respective fantasies. no one is policing you on what you should do with your own character. go wild and create whatever fan content you wish, no justification required.

yet once again, as there is no mention in canon anywhere — neither in the main game nor the epilogue — that this is something gale would ever want (whether that may mean immediately or somewhere down the line) gale wanting to be a father remains a headcanon. while gale being childfree is explicitly shown in the game, in strict comparison to other companions that either have children by the end of the game or voice the desire to (eventually) have them.

my personal preferences are of no relevance here whatsoever. i care about accurate and correct characterization and will point out inconsistencies/false information no matter the topic. i, for one, want to appreciate these characters in the way they're written, not how i ideally want them to be.

[anemonelovesfiction]

I (Don’t) Hate You

Spider Socorro x Fem! Human Reader

Warnings ⚠️: Eating out, Fingering, Penetration (P! In V!)

MDNI 🔞

Literally noticed the lack of Spider fics and decided to write one, it’s technically an “enemies” to lovers but I’m not sure exactly how that pans out

Not proofread I’m lazy… and once I finish writing I like to get this out to you guys as soon as possible.

Word Count: 5k

Max had asked me a question about potentially working with Spider for some kind of project that he and Norm had been wanting to test out, some kind of scientific hypothesis that if something then something- to be fair I wasn’t really the best at listening once someone was to mention Spider and I doing anything together. It wasn’t that I was willing- wait- it totally was. I just couldn’t see myself actually doing anything remotely scientific with him when all he cared about was chasing after the Sully children and pretending to be one of them, he didn’t think in a scientific way, meaning this project was dead from the beginning.

“Well, why not?” Max asks after I had told him no in a serious tone, having taken into account that he’d managed to drag Spider away from the Sully’s long enough to ask me this question, but I wasn’t really in the mood to have to explain everything to him, scoffing at his question before answering.

“Because I don’t do well with idiots around the lab all day,” I had a lot more to say than just that, but felt it was better to keep my answer short and simple, I held my nose up high not really wanting to listen to any reasoning Max might have had to proving that this was worth trying, I was also mentally exhausted from the back-and-forth Spider and I usually did and it wasn’t beneficial to anyone involved.

“And I don’t do stuck-up bitches, yet here I am.” Spider speaks up for the first time since being here and I was genuinely shocked, my mouth hanging open at his comment, to be fair this was expected of him, he never took anything serious and it was starting to show, I’d never even hung out with him and I was being proven right, his smirk was starting to make an appearance on his face and his arms crossed against his chest.

“Spider,” Max started off, the tone in his voice indicating he had been warning him to knock it off, but I’d had enough.

“You’re such a dick, you know that?”

“Y/n!” Max yelled before I crossed my own arms.

“You think that just because you put on some body paint you’ll be able to be one of them? News flash, you aren’t, you never will be, just because everyone in here didn’t want us when we were born doesn’t mean someone out there will, think with your brain and stop wasting everyones time.” I rolled my eyes as I spoke my heart out, seeing a certain look of disappointment flash on his face before it was replaced with one of anger.

“The only one wasting anyones time here is you, you think you’re one of them? You aren’t, you’re the annoying reject they had to train, at least the natives care about me, nobody cares about you.” Spider was quick to retaliate and I could feel anger bubbling within my body as he spoke, ready to strike back with hurtful words of my own, without thinking about anything I’d been saying and spewing the hate right back to him.

“At least my parents-”

“Thats enough!”

I gasped in sharply as I felt my arm getting yanked, a big blue hand had wrapped itself around my bicep and began quickly walking toward the opposite direction, my legs having no choice but to follow blindly at whoever had just stopped our conversation, sentence dying on my tongue before I was shoved inside a room, falling onto my bottom, the big blue face I’d come to recognize as Norm in his avatar state was the last thing I saw before the door closed.

I only stood and walked back over to the door and attempted to punch my security code on it to get out, eyebrows furrowed in anger at having been tossed in here like I was a wild animal, but to my surprise the keypad blinked red three times, signifying that my code was not validated.

“What-“ I stated before typing my code in again and watching the light blink red once more.

“Norm!” I yelled through the room I’d been tossed in.

“We’re tired of hearing the two of you squabble at one another like its a fucking world war, we’re going to be leaving the lab for an hour so you can get everything out of your system, you guys have better made up by then.” He yells through the door before I can hear receding footsteps, it wasn’t until I turned around at his words that I realized Spider had also been in here.

Time had gone by slowly, I could have sworn I had been stuck in here for the allotted time Norm had stated, but luckily I had been wearing an old wristwatch that still worked, the time on it reading fifteen minutes past when we’d first been placed in here. I could only count the tiles in front of me so many times.

My eyes land on Spider as I see he’d backed up against a wall, hands crossed over his chest, a leg propped up against the wall, I wanted to yell at him but I didn’t have it in me to start another fight.

It wasn’t my intention to have gotten him angry, but the fact that we’d both been seething from what we had said earlier kept the both of us quiet, every time I glanced up at him I could feel a sharp heat slicing through my stomach as I thought up of a quick witted response to whatever it was he’d decided to say.

“Are you going to keep staring at me or are you going to say something worth of my time?” He asks without so much as a glance in my direction, I scoffed but turned my face away from his.

“We wouldn’t be in this mess if you kept your mouth shut.” I stated as my anger begins to simmer in my vessels, attempting to hold back more of the nasty words I had to say.

“You’re joking, right?” He chuckles darkly as he turns to look at me, leaning against the wall with one foot up, arms crossed against his chest again.

“If you hadn’t called me an idiot I wouldn’t have had to call you a stuck-up bitch.”

“Are you really saying this is all my fault?” I ask as I start closing the distance between us, knowing better than to get close to him right now, but my anger was starting to rise to an all-time-high with him.

“If the fuckin’ shoe fits.”

“I can’t wait until we get out of here so I don’t have to see your stupid face.” I stated as I finally catch up to him, neck straining slightly at how tall he was, for being out with the natives he grew taller than any of us that stayed in here.

“My stupid face, what are you, three?” He asks as he looks down at me, smirk forming on his face, feeling helpless in this situation and wanting to throw a tantrum, but composing myself as much as I could.

“Wipe that stupid smirk off your stupid face.” Well, there goes my composure, straight out the metaphorical window, and I do admit my comebacks need some work, I did sound like a three year old.

“Or what?” He leans down with a scowl plastered on, his face centimeters away from mine, and I’d made the mistake of looking down at his lips, realizing how full they were, my own scowl dropping as I observed his lips, eyes meeting his and seeing he too had dropped his scowl.

I blinked before he’d closed the distance between us and his lips were on mine, I’d closed my eyes out of instinct, letting myself get lost in the kiss we’d shared, a lot of rage melting away as our lips moved against each other. His hands had been quick to be placed on my waist as he deepened the kiss, effortlessly pulling me closer toward his body, and the warmth radiating off of him had temporarily rid me of the goosebumps I’d gotten from being trapped inside this metal box.

He’s quick to switch our positions, my feet almost stumbling until the back of my waist was pushed against the wall he’d been leaning up against, he’d used his hands to guide themselves on my shirt, tugging on it from behind as I moved my hips out of the way for him to gain better access, accidentally grinding myself against his length.

He let out a hiss as he disconnected our lips, quickly redirecting his lips toward my jaw, inching toward my neck in a teasing manner as he untucked my shirt from the pants they’d been in. I raise my arms up almost instinctively and he begins bunching the shirt in his hands before lifting it off my body, he tosses the shirt back and places his hands on my breasts as he finds my pulse point and sucks.

“Spider~” I whine as his hand snakes underneath the bra I had been wearing and uses his thumbs to caress my nipples.

“I like you better when you have nothing else to say,” He mutters before reaching one hand around my back to unclasp my bra, and I’d be lying if I didn’t say it was quite a turn on to have witnessed him doing it one handed.

I’m quick to shrug the straps of my bra off and toss it toward one side, not giving him the satisfaction of having said anything else, my own hands reaching for his cheeks as I bring his mouth onto mine, feeling his tongue swipe against my bottom lip, I gasped and feel as he slides his tongue inside my mouth and finding mine before licking it.

“Mm,” I squeak out and feel his hands on my hips again, one hand snaking up to pinch my nipple, as the other caresses my hip lightly. His lips once again traveling off of my own and down toward my neck, skipping over the pulse point he’d suckled earlier and heading towards my collarbones.

I could anticipate his lips getting closer to my breasts and pushed my chest into his face, earning a chuckle from him as his other hand abandons my hip to pinch my other nipple, a low moan reverberating inside my throat.

“You like this, don’t you?” He asks rhetorically.

“Spider,” I whine as I crave his attention on my nipples once more, my face feeling flushed with his words, avoiding eye contact from him until one of his hands grasp my chin gently.

“Tell me what you want.” He mutters low enough for me to hear, but clear enough to have made it a demand, I could only whimper as I look into his eyes, already darkened with lust.

I whine again after a pause of silence, attempting to move my hips to grind against his, only to feel one of his hands coming down to press against my hip, making my ass touch the wall behind me.

“Don’t make me ask again.” He’s clear in his statement and I swallow another whimper, attempting to appear bold as I bite my lip with indecisiveness.

“I want you,” I admit, seeing a smile grace his features, I’ve just come to the realization that I’d enjoyed seeing his smile, his eyes bounce between mine before placing his hand on the babd of my pants, silently asking permission, my heart beats faster upon this action, nodding almost too quickly.

He grabs my pants full force and unbuttons them, pulling them down my legs and stopping once he reaches my knees, given they were khaki shorts I shimmied my legs, taking a step out of them, using my other leg to lick them off God know’s where.

“You’re absolutely gorgeous,” He responds and I can feel my lips curl into a smile, he gently places his hands on the waistband of my underwear, a look on his face telling me he’s silently asking for permission to pull them down, I could feel my face heating up at how much of a gentleman he was.

I give him a small nod before feeling him start to slide my underwear down with a sense of desperation, only managing to bring it down past my knee’s before he’s back up again, I take it as my cue to kick off my underwear the same way I’d done with my pants, not really caring where it had gone.

I feel him dip down slightly, face coming toward my chest as he places his hands behind my thighs, I immediately jump and feel his strong arms wrap themselves around my thighs, but he doesn’t stop lifting me up to wrap my legs around his waist, but rather settling me up so high, my back is leaning against the wall and my legs were placed along his shoulders.

“Spider,” I stated uncertainly, the cool metal starting to cool me down and bring me back to my senses.

“It’s okay, I got you,” He gives my thigh a comforting squeeze.

“Aren’t I too heavy?” I asked as the uncertainty had started creeping through my mind.

He only keeps his eyes on me as his face comes close to my cunt, the heat that had started dwindling with the coolness of the metal on my back was starting to come back, and the moment his tongue comes out to lick a fat stripe against my pussy has me gasping lightly, immediately biting my lip in an attempt to control my hips from thrusting in his face.

The second lick he does has a moan tickling the back of your throat, his tongue flattening to cover more of the surface area, I was tempted to toss my head back, but the hold his dark chocolate eyes held on me kept me locked into place.

The third lick was starting to drive me wild as he finally delved his tongue in, tasting my juices and allowing the tip to flick against my clit, a moan I’d cut off had slipped out as I shifted my weight slightly, lifting my hips up a bit and watching his eyes crinkle as he smiles.

“Spider,” I breathe out, unsure of what it was I was even asking for, until he finally dips his tongue back on me, honing in on my clit, circling his tongue around it.

I allowed myself to throw my head back, feeling as my hand lifts up and grabs a fistful of his dreadlocks.

“Oh fuck,” I whined, rolling my hips against his tongue as I closed my eyes, losing myself in the pleasure, the grip on my thighs getting stronger as he attempts to hold my hips still.

He doesn’t waste any time in moving his muscle faster, my hips fighting against his hands, a growl dripping from my lips as I squeeze my eyes tightly.

“I’m coming-“ I grasp his dreads tightly as I feel my walls closing over nothing as he continues to bring me pleasure by continuing to lick me, holding me steadily as he allows me to ride out my orgasm.

Once I’d felt like I had enough I loosened my hold on his hair and paw at his forehead to get him to stop, he brings his own face back and I felt spent, dropping my hips in a slumped position and noticing the shiny cum on Spiders mouth and chin.

Taking a second to catch my breath I continue staring between his eyes and shiny mouth, a smile forming on my own lips as a thought came to my head, It wasn’t my intention to piss him off but I could have a little fun teasing him.

“Enjoy your meal?” I stated and watch him smirk, affectively letting go of my thighs, I yelp and jump slightly at the feeling if my security being gone before he places his hands on my waist, carefully setting me down.

“Spider!” I angrily stated while playfully hitting his shoulder.

“I like it better when you’re moaning it out instead,” He corners me against the wall before planting a quick kiss on my lips, hands finding my waist, thumbs rubbing against my skin deliciously.

“Why don’t you,” I trailed my hand down his abs and place my finger on the band of his loincloth, watching as my eyes trailed down alongside my hand, linking my finger in it in and tugging at it slightly before my eyes meet his.

“Take this off,” I began as I use my other hand to repeat the action, now gently tugging on his loincloth, practically begging it to come off.

“So I can please you.” I ended my comment by taking both fingers out from the band, and using one hand to cup his hardened length, eyes coming up again to meet his, only to find him looking down at my hand, lips caught between his teeth.

“I have a better idea.” He mumbles as he settles his body to sit flush against mine, he didn’t seem too concerned with discarding his loincloth as he brings his lips on mine once more, igniting the fire in my core.

His hands aren’t gentlemanly as they roam around my body, greedily mapping out my body as his tongue dances with mine, his knee digs itself between my legs and I’m forced to spread myself just so he can fit in, not minding this situation one bit as one of his hands dive deeper.

He manages to slide his index finger between my slick folds, brushing up against the clit he’d abused earlier, a muffled moan coming from me while his lips were on mine, his hand working its way further down until he shoves his finger in without warning.

My gasp gives him a second to shove his tongue back down my throat, my legs spreading further to allow his hand enough space to work its magic, another muffled moan slipping past my lips.

“Spider~” I moaned again as I move my head toward the side with his kisses leading to my neck once more.

A second finger finds itself shoved inside my pussy and a long moan follows after, the way he’s allowing me to adjust to the sheer size of his fingers was more than generous, slowly inserting both fingers and feeling the delicious stretch filling my senses, his mouth connecting with my nipple had fueled the fire stirring in my belly.

“Spider please,” I whine as his fingers are moving terribly slow, I could take his fingers moving faster as I usually did this to myself, but having someone else do it felt so much better.

“Yeah, What do you want?” He asks as his fingers start going faster but even then it wasn’t enough, my knees still buckle under the pleasure and I was having a hard time concentrating on standing, but I was craving more.

“I want you to fuck me-“ I stated, feeling my face growing hotter at my own words, not caring at the moment as I knew what I wanted.

He doesn’t say anything but curls his fingers inside me, hitting a delicious spot that made me see stars, I could only throw my head back.

“Spider!” I moan again, letting a longer one roll out of my mouth as I desperately attempt to scratch the itch of my growing orgasm, my own hips snapping against his hand to meet his thrusts and feeling as though something was missing.

“I like when you say my name like that,” He speaks rather huskily, taking his fingers out of my cunt, bringing his fingers toward his mouth and letting a moan of his own sneak past him.

“You taste divine,” He mumbles as if he hadn’t just ate me out earlier.

“Please take this off,” I whine as my fingers sneak into the waistband of his loincloth, tugging rather harshly just to hear him chuckle at my desperation, I only found my eyes drifting up to meet his.

“Please,” I find myself begging silently, my voice barely above a whisper, seeing his eyes soften as he brings his hand toward my cheek.

“Lie down,” He seems to accept what I’d been wanting as his other hand reaches where his loincloth is tied, nodding at his command as I bring myself down to the cold floor, lying down and watching as he settles onto his knees on the floor, pulling on the string and watching as his loincloth finally slides off his body.

I watch as his cock springs up, slapping him in the belly, precome coating the tip and my breath being dragged out as I stared. The tip of his cock was rather big and he was thick all around, sure he wasn’t as big as my forearm, but staring at him made me question if it was going to fit.

“Like what you see?” He asks cockily, his own hand coming down to squeeze his balls and the base of his cock all together.

I could feel the saliva coating my mouth as I desperately wanted to taste him, feeling myself gulp rather loudly before my eyes go up toward his again.

“Is it going to fit?” I asked with uncertainty, feeling my legs closing subconsciously, I watch as his eyes trail down toward my legs, then back up toward my eyes before he crawls up toward me, his body hovering over mine as he leans down to kiss my forehead gently.

“We can stop if you’d like,” He begins but I shake my head.

“N-no, I want to, I’m just nervous.” I was quick to answer, not wanting to ruin what we had going on at the moment, placing my hands on either of his cheeks and using my thumb to caress his face.

“I trust you,” I stated and feel him nod, his dreads forming themselves around his face so perfectly, I smiled while spreading my legs wider to fit him in.

“This might hurt at first,” He begins as he grasps his cock with one hand, placing it close to my cunt and pushing his cock between the lips of my slick, the head of him rubbing against my clit.

“That feels good,” I moan and feel him continue to stimulate my clit, my legs spreading wider, my eyes closing softly as I focus on the pleasure.

“You ready?” His husky voice breaks me out of my happy place but I nod.

He slides his cock down and I feel it catch as he slowly pushes the tip inside, the stretch feeling wider than that of his fingers, but the feeling was incredible.

“More-“ I shimmy my hips down closer, feeling more of his cock sliding in, the stretch starting to feel like a lot but my desperation to fill all of him was consuming me.

“This feels so good,” I hear him strain, his hands coming to grasp my hips rather harshly, he squeezes harsh too but refuses to move.

“Spider more,” I beg as I attempt to shimmy myself further but feel him holding me into place.

“I need a second,” He groans, my eyes open as I see him struggling to take a decent deep breath, his dreads threaten to tickle my nipples as his head is hanging low.

“Don’t hold back!” I whine as I attempt to move my hips for more stimulation and feeling frustration bubbling beneath the surface.

I can hear him growl as he slides himself the rest of the way in, the breath that had been in my lungs suddenly leaves as I feel his entire length inside me.

A low groan leaves his lips as he ruts ever so gently into me, his hands still holding into my hips harshly, his grunts coming out rhythmically before taking his entire length out and shoving it back inside.

I moan louder than I had in previous attempts as his entire cock stretches me out deliciously, a bit of pain bringing a stinging sensation, but it was all welcomed as he begins to set his own pace.

I find myself wrapping my legs around his waist, he suddenly picks up the pace, causing an obscene sound to come from my pussy, a warmth filling me up as he continues his thrusts.

“You feel so good, so tight, fuck!” He exclaims as he plants his knee’s down, hand trailing from from my thigh, down the swell of my ass and trailing past my leg, tugging at it to get me to unhook myself from him.

I take my legs off his lower back to appease him, but watch as he grabs my legs by my ankles, pushing them up toward my face and essentially folding me in half. The feeling of the tip of his cock kissing my cervix is the only feeling I could focus on.

He tightens his hands on my ankles and begins to drag himself out of me, and smirk as he slams himself back into me.

“Spider!” I whine as I feel him reaching my cervix, my special spot, and places I had no idea existed inside of me.

“You gonna stop being a brat to me from now on?” He asks me loud enough to bring my attention towards him, moaning out as he thrusts back into my half bent body, unable to think properly.

“Give me an answer, pretty girl,” His hips still and a rage settles inside me, his hands loosen around my ankles as he runs his hands down my calves, now placing his hold on the back of my thighs.

“N-no,” I mumble, seeing him smile, his grip on my thighs tighten and he starts thrusting into me almost primally, his growls being heard in my ears as his cock assaults my cervix, the feeling of it being hit continuously starting to draw my orgasm near.

“I’m close,” I squeezed my eyes tightly to focus on the pleasure, feeling as they roll back into my skull as I see starts forming in my vision.

“Thats it, baby, squeeze my cock dry.” His words drive me closer to the edge as I feel it begin to flutter around him, his thrusts never ceasing to bring me pleasure.

“I’m coming,” I cry out as he thrusts in one last time, feeling my walls contracting against his cock, stuck in a state of ecstasy, a high pitched whine leaving my lips as I’d came.

A sudden warmth entering my cunt as Spider empties his cock inside me, a drawn out moan escaping him as he attempts to thrust deeper into me.

It hadn’t taken long for us to untangle our limbs and put our clothes back on, but I did feel slightly dirty knowing there was no possible way for me to clean myself up, feeling as his cum slid out of my cunt and into my underwear, a lovely stain I’d have to deal with cleaning out later.

“How long do you think it’ll take for either one of them to come back?” I asked as I finally find the courage to look past my hands and up to him.

He only shrugs and it appears he’s been biting his lip, unsure of what to say or how else to keep the conversation going, but the quiet we’d marinated in had been welcoming, there was nothing awkward about it.

Just then my ears jerk slightly at the slightest sound of someones footsteps making its way in the lab room we’d been in.

“Wanna know how I know you learned your lesson?” Norms voice is heard from the other side of the door, a rhetorical question since he never expected the same answer to come out our mouths, so he answered his own question aloud.

“Because I don’t hear you yelling at each other,” He mutters and just then a beep is heard, the door opens up automatically to show us a human Norm standing on the other side.

“Can we go now?” Spider asks with an attitude lacing his tone, I nervously look over at him before my eyes shift to Norm exhaling loudly, had everything we’d done just been a one time thing?

“Promise not to put up a fight the next time we ask you a simple question?” Is his sassy reply and I felt my eyes rolling as I walk over toward the exit, arms crossed as soon as I stand close to Norm, seeing Max behind him.

“The next time you lock us in here without a toilet or running water I’ll make sure to castrate your Avatar.” I threatened before pushing past him and walking out.

I didn’t bother turning around to know that the footsteps behind me were Spiders.

“Hey, you okay?” Spider asks once we’re within an earshot from Max and Norm, I could feel him grasping my arm gently, and I turned my body to look at him, seeing genuine concern from his eyes.

“I’m fine,” I sigh out and feel him wrap his arms around me in a hug.

“I hate you,” I mumbled into the hug.

“I don’t hate you.” He replies and I smile.

__________

“So what do the results yielded from the study conclude for our hypothesis?” Max asks from behind Norm,who turns toward Max with a smile gracing his features.

“It would prove it correct,”Norm couldn’t fight the small laugh that had decided to come through his lips, his face slightly brightening as his cheeks reddened, the two of them now smiling.

“It smells like sex in there, do you know how hard it was to keep a straight face the whole time, I was literally dying!” Max mentions as he comes close to his colleague, hand coming up to clap his shoulder twice, the two of them turning around to document their findings, opening a folder on the tablet, the hypothesis in bold.

If two people who quarrel with one another over stupid things are trapped together in a room with no way to track time, then they are more than likely to sleep with one another in said room after realizing there is no way out.

[thatanimeramenchick]

Yandere! Lucifer visits the Hazbin Hotel because his daughter called him, but there he meets a human! Innocent! reader and Yandere! Alastor... Where the two of them start fighting over the reader...

Yandere Alastor vs Lucifer and Human Reader

Ha ha ha, I live for the chaos that this would be.

---

“You mean, she’s alive? Not an official sinner?” Lucifer asked.

“Yep,” said Charlie, “Um… we’re not quite sure how she got down here, to be perfectly honest, but she definitely doesn’t fit the sinner criteria in looks or attitude.”

You hesitate before you give a small curtsy to the king of hell. You weren’t sure if the act was going to count against you when you actually died for real, but who knows, maybe he’d be as nice as Charlie was? Either way, Charlie was a good girl, and you wanted to help her out. Surely no one could blame you for being kind to someone, even if that someone is the King of Hell himself.

“Nice to meet you, your highness,” you say, voice timid.

“It’s been such a long time since I’ve seen a… living human,” Lucifer said, circling you, as if you were a rare exotic animal, “It’s been decades. Centuries even. And you don’t know how you got down here?”

“No, your highness,” you said, “I really don’t know what happened. I-I just ended up here somehow.”

“And no way to get back home either, I’m assuming?” he said, “How odd. Must find it terrifying down here, not to mention dangerous.”

Charlies chuckles a little, but you see a certain nervousness in her eyes. Your safety had been the talk of many stressful meetings.

“We do keep her as secure as we can,” she said, “Considering she’s so vulnerable down here she stays in the hotel pretty much all the time.”

“Ah, yes,” said Alastor, who seemed to be butting into every conversation poor Charlie was trying to hold with her father, “This little lady here, I assure you, she is under the strict protection of the hotel. The very best, as I tend to her safety personally.”

He wrapped his arms around your shoulders as he said it, pulling you closer to him. The touch startled you, as he wasn’t one for physical affection. In all honesty, you don’t recall him ever touching you in any way ever other than the brief handshake you had shared on meeting. You tense a little at the unexpected contact.

Lucifer’s eyes turn to Alastor and narrow. He looks at him like one would look at a spider crawling on the wall. A chill runs through you with the amount of malice in his eyes.

“… I’m sure you do,” he finally said.

His eyes return to you, a hint of curiosity in them, most of the malice gone.

“But! I’d be more than happy to assist in this matter,” he continued, “I’m not sure if there is anything we really can do as far as sending you back up to earth, but I can do my best to make sure you stay safe. Demons are fine and dandy, but there’s nothing like a royal seal of protection. You haven't made a deal, have you?”

As you shake your head, Alastor’s grip tightens, making your shoulder ache. You worry he’s going to claw through your blouse and into your skin if he’s not careful.

Saying you were uncomfortable would be the understatement of the year.

Lucifer Morningstar

Lucifer would have a clear upper hand in this situation, and oh, the nostalgia you would bring! He’s had plenty of experience getting innocent, naive human women to warm up to him, both in the romantic department and outside of it. While he is a bit out of practice, if he actually tried, I could see him using all of his experience, charm, and knowledge to seduce a shy girl out of her shell.

If you’re still a living human, he’s going to be quite protective of you. You want to leave the hotel? Have you gone straight mad? Honestly, if he had it his way, Charlie wouldn’t let you out of your bedroom with those nasty sinners crawling around the hotel. Do you want to end up as corrupt and filthy as the rest of hell? Perhaps he can talk to Charlie and convince her that you need to be taken somewhere more… secure.

Once he finally moves into the hotel, the real battle is going to begin. He'll be seeing you regularly and therefore make it impossible for him to push you out of his mind. And he has to put up with Alastor's antics now on a daily basis.

While he'd like to think he's levelheaded and mature, I can see arguments with Alastor quickly spinning out of control and getting very personal and very nasty fast. The only thing holding him back from just killing him after a certain point is the fact that Charlie likes him as much as she does.

Alastor

Part of me would wonder if he actually even likes you or if he just wants to mess with Lucifer tbh.

All jokes aside, Alastor would be pissed. He knows that Lucifer is more powerful in every sense of the word, and he can’t do a thing about it. Well, at least nothing that really matters. He’s simply going to have to be more charming than Lucifer is, to the point where you prefer him.

He’s going to pull out all the stops of being a suave southern gentleman. While Lucifer will try to wow you with bombastic displays that only he can provide, Alastor will offer himself as the sweet, traditional lover that has your back. He's a distinguished romantic compared to this circus leading clown. At least that's what he'll want you to think. When it comes down to it, Alastor has far less experience than Lucifer with women and romance.

Also I see him as being one of those people who’s like, “Since I know I can’t lift myself up more, I’m dragging this asshole down to my level.” Verbally throws barbs at Lucifer, both to piss him off and to try to make him look worse in your eyes. He’d have a real hayday if he can provoke Lucifer into saying or doing something that scares you.

Even when Lucifer’s not around though, he’s the type to plant ideas in your mind that the king of hell is simply not a good match for you. He’d use his verbal skills to make Lucifer look less attractive in your eyes or to make you feel like it would be unwise to get in a relationship with the literal Devil.

I’d like to think you’d turn them both down, but they’re both too polite towards women to be that forceful with you, so instead they just butt horns for what feels like eternity over who should have you. Clearly it’s the other guys fault that you don’t want him, not yours! Then when you finally die, you go to heaven, leaving them both quite upset about the whole situation.

But if things did get ugly and push came to shove, Lucifer would definitely win. At this point in the game, Alastor doesn't stand a chance. Hope you enjoy solitary confinement!

[willardsrestwidow]

❝We hold it in our eyes, the answer to it all❞ - Molly O'Shea x Fem!Reader

Pairings: Molly O'Shea x Fem!Reader, Molly O'Shea x (if-you-squint-your-eyes)OC!Reader.

Synopsis: After years of living as a hermit in a secluded hut in the woods, you finally find freedom, only to stumble into a life of crime. Stealing was nothing new to you, but joining a gang of outlaws changes everything. For the first time, the allure of shimmering gold pales in comparison to the captivating gaze of a certain pair of Irish green eyes.

Word Count: 5,3k

Warnings: Dutch, toxic-relationship, couple arguing but no physical violence, Dutch again, and eventual smut - oral, fingering; wlw sex basically.

Please only read if you're +18!

A/N: girlies and pals, I'm down bad for this woman, and that's that ig. I never wrote for rdr buuuuuut ive been a reader for a long time now. And speaking of long things, it's 5k words yall.... the thirst was IMMENSE!!!

Eyes were the windows to one’s soul.

It was what you were taught still as a youngster living out in the woods with your Pa.

When hunting, you just had to look into the animal’s eyes to know what sort of prey they would be. The slight convulsing of the irises, he’d say, was an indication of weakness. A fixed gaze on something else or complete disregard for human presence meant you’d need more bullets and more air in your lungs to chase the creature through the difficult terrain. And, of course, there were the eerie stares that seemed to pierce your soul — slit pupils or fully dilated ones — creatures you would encounter only three times in your life. Pa would mention bears and alligators, foul beings not to be trifled with, and a secret third one he would take to his humble grave, never to be revealed.

Well, regardless, the hunt had grown in you over time until Pa’s death, coinciding with when your needs began to grow beyond nature’s boundaries. Like a fish drawn by the shimmery light in the ocean, you took the first step out of the small shack, not knowing it’d would be the last time you set foot there.

In civilization, you found the same types of stares in store clerks, rich folk, and equally petty thieves. For once, a bullet between their eyes was not the ideal route for most encounters, if what you faced could even be called that. You began small—a poacher with a weakness for beautiful women, using the night and darkness to act upon your urges. There was no need to grow in what became your dark habit, to seek fame or further luxuries. You were content with sleeping in a different place every night until a late-night robbery got the entire sheriff’s ‘cavalry’ tailing after your sorry-ass. In the end, you rode your stolen horse off a cliff, resulting in multiple mild injuries, including a sharp stick in your thigh that rendered you bedridden for an entire week.

Bedridden, that is, because fate granted you a chance by sending a group of broad-shouldered figures mounted on horses your way. Or perhaps it was the other way around. It was while being spoon-fed by a lovely girl with dark features that you learned to whom you owed your gratitude, and the name rang a bell, if not several.

“I ain’t cut for washing clothes by the riverbank like they do. I mean, I can, but…” you recalled saying one sunny morning, the sunlight shining upon Clemens Point, to the only person you’d seen listening to others: Arthur Morgan. His hooded, blue eyes seemed to be everywhere around camp as he listened to you, even on Mary-Something, who was mindlessly reading a novel on her break. You couldn’t tell for sure because the man wouldn’t stay in one place, forcing you to keep chasing after him. Your lungs cried for help as you continued, “I just… hah, I can be useful outside camp too!”

“What they been feedin’ you and Miss Adler, huh? Look, if Dutch ain’t lettin’ you out, maybe you should try winning his trust,” Morgan mumbled over his shoulder. “Now, if I were you, I’d start with that laundry basket.”

“Did you start with laundry too? Uh… Morgan?”

Thus, your first, real week was marked by incessant running after dirty laundry and helping Pearson with cooking — which, in hindsight, was as tiring and demanding as any other job. Oddly enough, you couldn’t catch sight of Dutch or even enter his luxurious tent, the same being kept with its flaps down at all times as a high-pitched opera always emanated from within.

Like a trapped hummingbird, your patience began to wear thin. Dangerous thoughts of returning to the woods plagued your mind for a full night, but a warm morning opened your eyes to a bigger catch.

“Can I smoke in silence, woman? In God’s name, be quiet!” was the first human sound to be heard from a tent far from where you were, early on, gathering the rags sprawled around a sleeping Uncle. The gravelly tone with a slight crack in some words made you perk your head up and forget your duties. You couldn’t understand the stance your body took, as if you were young again, with a gun bigger than your body, which could just as well have been the damned laundry basket, and back out in the silent woods. You allowed the memory to take over, and careful steps to take you just about as close as a hunter could get to a creature.

An irked Dutch, deep creases carving his forehead and squinted eyes barely visible, tried to light the fat cigar hanging from his lips in front of his tent. A few feet away, Hosea sharpened his knife, and a determined Grimshaw marched across camp, though neither seemed to be part, or concerned about what soon followed.

From behind one of his shoulders, a flash of red, curly hair appeared and then disappeared. You figured it was his woman — the name failed you at the moment, but the intriguing freckled face, often marred with sadness, did not. “Charles saw it too, y’know?” she sounded from behind him, surely standing on her tiptoes for you saw another glimpse of her hair. “Charles, and Tilly, and John — bleedin’ John who’s never here has seen it. Everybody saw how you ate her with your eyes!”

“You’ve been on it since yesterday,” Dutch answered, his face showing neither sympathy nor worry about her tone. “Go get some rest. Lord knows you need it.”

“Ah, it would be easy for ya, wouldn’t it? Surely if I slept, if I disappeared, if I died, you’d be free to roam this earth after each pair of legs that may captivate ya.”

The vainglorious leader, now with a successfully lit cigar between his fingers, turned his back to you to direct his next words to the afflicted woman. “Die you shall if you spend another night wide-awake, thinking absurdities like the one you speak of.” Being met with an audible groan, he continued, “Rest, Miss O’Shea. Hopefully you oughta wake up more elucidated.”

Perhaps it was for the better that the broad-shouldered man kept her reaction veiled behind his physique and muffled her muttered response with an audible exhale. No, no 'perhaps'—it was meant to be, for it built the perfect suspense, pushing you just a tad closer to the scene in order to experience the long-awaited climax in the first row.

And, boy, did that also serve to wake the entire camp up.

Your ears caught the words, “You will know I didn’t cross the Atlantic to be your gimcrack,” before a satisfactory crack pierced the air. Angling your curious body, you were blessed with the view of the Irishwoman’s heels stomping on Dutch’s opera shellac record, straight out of his gramophone. His reaction was as expected; he let out a roar, dropped his cigar—which dangerously disappeared between his tent’s loose floorboards—and lunged at the redhead. At that very moment, you too dropped what you’re holding and charged forward to her aid, only to be rooted in place by a firm grasp on your upper arm. You turned to confront the new target of your rage, but upon facing a huffing Arthur Morgan, the grumbles emanating from within your chest ceased.

“I wanted you to feel it for yourself, but I don’t think you even have a heart to love a ting in the first place,” O’Shea continued, sounding ten paces farther away. “I’ll break whatever you own, and hope one day your pain will come near mine!”

A glance behind your shoulder was enough to spark another fire in you; the man’s big hands were then wrapped firmly around her arms. And you were sure to have convulsed under Morgan’s grasp. Alas, the sight wouldn’t come near as infuriating as the hushed threats against her ear, and ultimately the release of her as if she wasn’t worth his time. Before gathering with a somber Matthews, who was drawn in by the fight, Dutch turned to the disheveled one to let out a last hiss, “I dare you embark on the first ship back to your land,” and riveted his warning gaze towards you.

“Brown bears; damn fools, they is! If you drop on the ground and hold yer breath, you’s fine. Just never run away from one,” your old Pa said to a younger you one fine morning, while you’re out on the porch, cleaning his rifle, as he rocked on the creaky chair. “And then there’s alligators, who’s cleverer… Yer old Pa has a few scars with a bunch o’ stories along, uhum. Those ones will test yer body—have you runnin’ from side to side, jumpin’ on trees and all that good stuff. Thing is, ya can live from an encounter. Butcha won’t be runnin’ from the third one, I’ll tell ya. Ah, better yet... Heh, let time teach ya this lesson.”

And it did. For now, the third creature, the deadliest of all, was staring right back at you, its eyes reflecting a darkness you had never known.

It felt like ages had gone by when Linde broke the intense eye contact to march away from the troubles he created, a sigh of relief exiting your lungs as he did so. O’Shea remained silent after the entire ordeal. Still having to reclaim your freedom from Morgan, you watched her kick one of the record’s pieces and wander in circles inside her tent, finally resorting to sitting on her shared cot and burying her face in her hands.

“Grimshaw’s in need of more hands to clean them rifles,” Arthur finally said, oddly softly, as if he spoke with a child. Though you’d never heard him talk to Jack like that before. “Go on, then, girl.”

To say you were willing to risk your position in the gang to go running toward the weeping woman was an understatement. You were willing to risk your life, even! But… then what? You grew up around the silence of the woods, the teachings of your father that only served for hunting, and the bloodshed of innocent creatures — gallons after gallons of blood. Trivial aspects of life, like comforting one another or curling your lips around sweet words, were beyond your reach. So what if you ran toward her? So what if you took her freckled face out of her hands into your roughened ones? Could you muster the correct words to soothe her ache?

Thus, for a second time, you followed Morgan’s advice and stomped your way toward Susan Grimshaw and the many rifles on the table. The smell of gun oil and grease that would define your afternoon was never strong enough to erase the memory of the woman’s pale-green eyes, or how they danced nervously when she looked at her man.

✤ ✤ ✤

Tilly had come to you when the sun was setting in the plains’ horizon with a pleading look to her kind features. Her gaze would fall on the black grease coating your numb fingers, for a second thinking through on her request, but surrendering to her hidden urges.

You were to resume the laundry you left behind.

“’Course, anythin’,” you mumbled when wiping the sweat of your forehead with your wrist.

Your legs took you close to where the damned laundry basket was, curiously outside Dutch and O’Shea’s tent. You swallowed dryly, and without realizing it, you were tiptoeing toward the flaps-down tent.

For the first time since you joined the outlaws, an obnoxiously loud opera wasn’t resounding from the infamous gramophone. In fact, nothing was sounding from within—not even the muffled whimpers of a heartbroken and awfully tired woman. But it was the glow of a lamp seeping under the tarp that kept you on edge, enticing you to approach and press a curious eye to a single hole in the fabric separating you from…

…no one.

The stage for the early, rather disturbing event was lacking its main protagonists—whether for the worst or the better. You knew the leader had fled camp to trail trouble in some corner of the heartlands. Now, the whereabouts of the red-haired lady were truly unknown.

You knew how to look for tracks, traces of wandering life, and you did your best to find those in her tent, snooping through her belongings with a special focus on her clothes poking out of her bag and how flowery they all smelled… yes, all of them. Nevertheless, your time spent rummaging through her trinkets and personal items gave not a single clue about where she could be hiding.

For the bleak moment in hands, you found yourself fond of a golden necklace you’d seen around her neck that morning, the very same one with the oval red stone that hung tantalizingly near her freckled bosoms, calling curious eyes to ogle. Without much ceremony, you swooped the necklace into the old pouch strapped around your waist and headed north, toward the riverbank.

Arriving near the flowing stream, which served that night as a mirror for the stars above, you set the wash tubs, basket, an oil lamp, and your numb behind on the gravel, mentally preparing yourself for the pile of worn undergarments before you. You cussed under your breath; your fingers ached, and your hands bore light scars from the week of rough washing. The weight of leaving Pa’s shack to pursue what had become a living hell felt tenfold heavier upon your shoulders. Your posture sagged, you sighed, and you felt as though the cries of distant coyotes were the ones your lips wouldn’t dare utter, but were tempted to.

Your hands reached for the necklace again, bringing it before the faint glow of the crescent moon and the lamp you had brought along. You watched the gold chain dance between your fingers, the red stone resting in your palm, passing on the warmth you needed at that instant. And how odd it was that upon bringing it to your lips, you could hear its owner’s voice engulfing the open space around you.

“I bought it back in Galway while waitin’ to board the ship to America. An old gentleman was selling his families remainin’ heirlooms to pay for his daughter’s treatment. I thought it was in good condition, so I bought it.”

“Mhmm,” you replied, half-lidded eyes following the hypnotic dance you forced the necklace to make. From side to side, front and back.

“It’s true,” O’Shea’s voice resurfaced from somewhere, carrying frustration at your indifference. “That purchase was the best, and single good choice I made in my entire life. Needless to say, I want it back.”

The third time you heard that outlandish accent, it began to dawn on you that perhaps it wasn’t just a figment of your imagination driven by the guilt of stealing the woman’s necklace, but rather her real presence nearby. You whipped your head over your shoulder and saw a very real O’Shea leaning against a tree, a cigarette nestled between her fingers. Just how had you not seen her before was beyond your mortal comprehension, but there she was, enshrouded in a thick curtain of mystery.

“What’s your name, hm? I don’t believe even he knows your name.” You weren’t sure if by ‘he’ she meant Dutch or God himself… both options couldn’t be far from the truth.

“It’s… It’s…”

“I saw you earlier today,” she interrupted, saving you from the struggle of letting your name roll off your tongue, which on normal days was as easy as breathing. But the woman seemed too engrossed in her own battles to notice the unpleasantry. She then took a long drag from her cigarette and placed a supporting arm over her stomach. “What would’ve you done if Arthur hadn’t stopped you?”

Long gone were the days of washing, you thought to yourself. It was high time to seek after what truly mattered to a low-life like you. So, taking the rickety lamp, you set sail over to where she was standing, letting the crickets and hoots fill the night air while ideas blossomed in your mind. One of them was stopping just an arm’s length from her and motioning for the cigarette in her hold. You proudly watched as she guided the tobacco-filled roll to your lips, and soon enough, felt the bitter smoke fill your lungs.

“No good, that’s for sure,” you replied huskily.

“Well, I must know. Should’ve I been the object of your anger, that is.”

“I would make him learn and remember my name for centuries to come. Not the other way around.”

The shadow your body casted over O’Shea’s was not enough to hide the raise of her eyebrows, like she wanted to believe it did. Had you just then impressed or utterly disappointed her continued a mystery, for she took on the duty of raising her walls even higher — a delectable challenge for you to indulge in.

“Hmph,” she shrugged lightly, busying herself with extinguishing her cigarette. It wasn’t until her perfectly pointy nose was breathing hot air against your exposed clavicle that you saw fit to place an arm on the tree above her head, in an effort to stop leaning onto her petite self. Though she didn’t seem to mind at all once she continued, “Can’t say gracing him with the knowledge of your name would be a good offensive. Other than terribly tamed, is quite… unfair, no?”

“Right,” you chuckled, taking a deep breath in anticipation of what was about to happen. First, you took the same hand that held the cigarette — soft to the touch, as you’d imagined — and placed the valuable necklace in it. Once your gaze returned to hers, your name slipped past your lips without further hesitation.

“Right,” she echoed, her tongue sliding across her bottom lip as she watched you step back, providing more space between your bodies. Suddenly, the cold air was unbearable to the Irishwoman. “You, erm…. You don’t have to meddle in mine and Dutch’s affairs anymore. I’m sure one day we’ll be back to normal again, and all shall be fine. I’m tempted, even, to say you shouldn’t have interfered in the first place.”

A chuckle paved the path for your tease, “I see a perfectly normal woman standin’ before me.”

“I bet me honor if somebody were to demand you to point at Molly, you wouldn’t know it is I, sweetheart.”

“Aha! That’s ‘cause I’d never raise a finger at yo’self! Now, if we’re talking about the high-and-mighty Dutch —"

"He loves me!" Molly yelled, her fists curling defensively in front of her torso. To you, this seemed like a stance ready to strike or flee. But instead of running, as her posture suggested, she marched toward you and used her fists to shove you. Though not hard enough to make you fall, you stumbled backward, feeling the pain her hands inflicted on your chest soon after. "You have no idea how I crossed the Atlantic for him, how I left everything in Ireland to follow him. I’ve shed who I was, who I could even become, just to fit here with him. Go ahead, join the others as they laugh at the fool I am! Surely that's what they’re all doin' now!”

Her body trembled like the tiny flame inside the lamp swaying in your hands. Just as you had once wished as a child, you wanted to reach out and touch it, despite all the evident warning signs. You remembered watching Pa extinguish a candle with his thumb and index finger while you soothed your own burned fingers. Back then, you attributed that ability, and that alone, to men — to control fire — and how you envied them to have touched what you could only dream of.

Luckily, the world seemed on your side for once when a distinguishable crunch sounded beneath your boot. You looked down to find the necklace which had been sacrificed during her outburst. Before she took notice of it, you snatched and carefully placed in her hold again, oddly welcoming. “Indeed, buyin’ this necklace is worth the title you gave it,” was your final comment on the matter, a prolonged silence being the deserving answer. “Well,” you sighed, “why don’t ya stop by my tent one of these days while you wait to become normal again? I ain’t got much to offer, but…”

“What, am I supposed to greet Tilly on me way in? Isn’t she the one you share your tent with?”

It wasn’t coarse or unpleasant in the least. The comment was, by all means, very ‘Molly’, and was met with nothing except an affectioned smile.

“Yer sayin’ the offer interested the likes of ya?”

O’Shea’s eyes wandered over the plain’s surroundings, blinking at every tree as if they were her audience, darting from the starry sky to the plain river behind you. She wasn’t pondering the question, no; she was grounding herself. When her gaze returned to you, her gentle green eyes flickered slightly, a maddened waltz not from fear of you but from the turmoil within her. You could only watch as she reached a personal conclusion, her nostrils flaring as she took a determined gulp of breath.

“What I am saying is mine’s far less crowded.”

✤

Much like a drunk bastard forced to go a minute without a drop of alcohol, you found yourself weak in the minutes it took to wash your face in the communal bucket of water and change into something less worn out. Your mind had come to terms with “Molly” being the only name that mattered, and from the vast knowledge about nature and hunting that once occupied your thoughts, now, nothing outside the realm of 'her' held any importance. Obviously, the feeble state of your mind was kept a secret as you marched towards Molly’s tent. The strength with which your boots left several holes in the patch of grass made most onlookers think a fight was brewing.

But all that energy died out once you stopped by the quiet tent.

What if it was a trap? Your primal instincts questioned as you crossed your arms and bit your bottom lip. What if Dutch were standing behind those closed flaps, his 5'11" frame proud and undoubtedly satisfied with his recent catch?

You began to taste blood.

Oh, but what if she was alone, after all? What if you came all this way, bent over backwards, only to be denied what you've been craving? Would you bite the bullet or would you die with it lodged in your head?

The inner dispute, loudly resonating across every corner of your mind, left almost no space for the muffled voice coming from within the tent.

“Didn’t take you for a quitter,” Molly said, her tone mirroring the one in your head — ardently desperate. Surely, the big shadow your body cast over the white canvas gave away your presence, not to mention the questions of several gang members about your incessant pacing, for she quickly continued, making it clear she was speaking to you, “Call me old-fashioned, but whatever you came here to do, you must to do facing me. Otherwise, be on your way.”

“Damn, you seem set on the idea that folks laughin’ at ya. Hell, do ya think I’m too? ‘Cause if so…”

“I can guarantee the only ting I’ve got me mind set on is that I don’t want to be lonely any longer than I’ve been.”

“Why, ain’t that…” you began, yet much like the chaos previously flooding your head, it watered down into pure hollowness. The sadness inflicted through her words carving unbearable holes in your insides. “I’m heading in.”

For once, the cluttered interior with its woodsy scent and Linde’s riches on display did not capture your attention. Instead, it was O'Shea who was quietly sitting on a stool, her back turned to you, holding a small pocket mirror angled to reflect your entire figure as you entered.

It took you a moment to fully take in her appearance: her delicate frame clad only in white undergarments, her hair braided to the side to showcase the golden necklace resting around her neck, and her bare shoulders rising and falling with the slow, hypnotic rhythm of her breathing.

The steps you took towards her had caused cracks from the loose floorboards, but even then, even if a gunshot sounded from within the tent, you wouldn’t have taken your eyes off the figure before you.

“For your information,” she began with a tilt in her tone, “he never hurt me. Physically, that is. He never made me regret me choices, either. I love him. I painstakingly love him; with all my heart, in every breath I take.”

Sacrificing your knees, you leveled your face with the back of her head, fingers aching to touch the crook of her neck and her soft hair but instead choosing to play along with her game. “That sounds like a big ordeal.”

Once again, she used her mirror to gaze at you, but you could only see her parted, red lips reflected in the tiny surface. You watched them exhale a shaky breath, if not for the sudden lack of oxygen felt inside the tent. “That it is.”

“Then you must be tired of lovin’ too much and receivin’ nothin’ in return...”

Whether it was from the drunken haze her scent indulged you in, or from the deep-seated urge in your heart to make her forget about Dutch, you wasted no further time and pressed your lips to her bare back, prompting a short melody to slip past her lips. Her skin, as expected, was on fire, as if each freckle was an ember in the bonfire that Molly O’Shea has become. And of course, it drove you crazy, urging you to plant more kisses across the small region until she graced you with a proper answer.

“Tired? I — Ah — am nothin’ of the kind. All this lovin’, all this sacrifice will eventually pay off.”

You grinned against her skin, teasing a small area with the tip of your tongue and finishing with a light bite. “You know, lovin’ someone shouldn’t involve sacrifice. You're puttin’ in overtime, honey. Maybe it's time to find some shade under someone else's tree,” you rasped out.

The pocket mirror shook, and in the exact second your eyes poked out from behind her shoulder you saw a glimpse of her closed eyes, “What do you suggest, then?”

“I think the woman ‘fore me was promised many things already, hm?”

“It pains me to say this,” Molly mumbled with a single nod, dropping the mirror to reach out for your compliant hands, intertwining them with hers in front of her. “But you do know me so well.”

Never before had you tasked your lips with such a delicate mission as trailing kisses from her shoulder to her neck. It was a challenging endeavor, especially since with each touch, the Irishwoman would gasp and lean further back into you, igniting the flames of what had once been an innocent and rather controlled fire between the two of you. When you reached her ear and playfully bit her earlobe, she had surrendered completely — squirming, moaning, and despite her efforts, unable to conceal the squeezing of her thighs from your hungry gaze. And you ventured to the edge of boundaries, indulging in the pleasure of sliding the straps of her nightgown down, unaware that gravity would reveal more than just the skin of her shoulders.

As for Molly, she loved how the realization that her breasts were bare had you scrambling to your feet and circling her body. Finally, driving someone crazy wasn’t met with dire consequences; instead, it brought a familiar blush to her cheeks and made the remaining clothes draped over her curves feel too tight.

“Damn me,” you choked as you sunk to your knees again, throat bobbing several times with the moans you successfully strangled.

O’Shea smiled for the first time before your eyes, leaning forward just to tease what had your mouth rapidly watering. “Someone definitely will, sweetheart. Perhaps even God himself. But I honestly couldn’t give a bleedin’ damn.”

“And to me? What’ll you give?”

Her hands suddenly flew to your hair, fingers getting tangled in the mess of knots, adding to the delicious pain as she pulled them against the roots. Soon, you understood her message and leveled your face with hers, closing any distance as she pressed her lips to yours, inviting your body closer with the opening of her legs. When her lips parted between kisses, not for air like you had thought, she blurted her answer…

“Everything.”

You had no exact answer, but you figured that the second you began flicking her nipples, to outright tugging on them, Molly had to internally scream at each of her bones to support the weight of her flesh as it seemed to feel tenfold heavier. Needless to say, the second your mouth left hers to envelop one of her hardened nubs, the woman couldn't hold her tongue any longer. A loud moan tore itself from her throat, echoing throughout the room. The sensation was overwhelming, causing every nerve ending in her body to spark alive with pleasure. The grip she had on your hair tightened, pulling slightly as if trying to force your head down even further onto her nipple.

Feeling emboldened by Molly's pleas, you slowly ventured your fingers downward, past the hem of her nightgown. Your fingertips brushed against the delicate fabric, teasing her further before finally dipping below into the wet mess she had been housing between her legs. Your fingers slid easily through her slick folds, the warmth and wetness enveloping them almost immediately. Molly's breath hitched, her body stiffening beneath yours as you explored her most intimate area. Her inner walls clenched around nothing, desperately seeking something — someone — to fill them.

You could practically hear the desperation in Molly's ragged breaths, her body writhing beneath yours as you continued to tease her clit with your fingers. “You're makin’ me crazy,” you gasped, though the swell of her breasts, which your face had been wantonly buried in, muffled each of your words. Regardless, every brush of your fingers against her sensitive clit sent shocks of pleasure coursing through her body, causing her to buck and writhe beneath you. The feeling, you came to understand, was more than mutual.

“You’re wasting your breath on something useless as words,” was all Molly managed to get out. Her hips jerked upwards involuntarily, seeking friction from your wandering hand.

Taking advantage of her exposed position, you shifted down, trailing kisses along the valley between her breasts, to her stomach, down to her mound. With deliberate slowness, you replaced your fingers with your mouth, swirling your tongue over her swollen clit.

Molly's reaction was immediate and visceral. Her hands sought support at the edge of her stool, her knuckles turning white.

Your tongue worked tirelessly over her clit, lapping at the throbbing bundle of nerves with relentless determination, releasing sinful sounds into the warm air. With each flick and suckle, Molly’s breathing grew heavier, her moans louder. Then, without warning, her entire world narrowed down to the point where your mouth was touching her. Every worry, every heartache seemed to fade into the background, allowing her the rare moment to exist outside of thoughts about Dutch, her family back in Ireland, and the love she had longed to experience. Her back arched off the stool, her core clenching and releasing in rhythmic spasms as she came hard. And hard she came.

You couldn't control yourself either. The same whirlwind that had clearly swept through the Irishwoman had also affected you, though the chaos it caused within you wasn't as visibly exposed as it was on her. In other words, even the sweat coating her freckled skin deserved your appreciation, as it added a glow to the already god-like figure looking down upon you with something akin to adoration.

“Will you stay the night?” Molly purred tiredly as you took on the duty of securing her weakened body into her shared cot. Your eyes glimmered with lust as she wrapped her arms around your neck, planting open-mouthed kisses on your skin. Alas, even that seemed to wear her down completely. Gently, you laid her bare body down on the cot, unable to resist giving her one last kiss, though you kept it brief.

“Ah, don’t go playing games now,” she chuckled upon seeing you fix your clothing and ready yourself to leave. “Stay.”

“I’m gonna take ya outta this sorry life…”

“Mhmm.”

It was your turn to chuckle at the utter beauty of her sleepy face. “I’ll try with all my might to give Molly O’Shea the life she deserves.”

Her face suddenly grew grim, though her tiredness limited the severity of the grimace she meant to flash you. “Promises…” she breathed out, her eyelids growing heavier. “Promises,” she murmured before surrendering to the strong force pulling her into the depths of slumber, but not before a final, “promises,” slipped past her lipstick-smudged lips.

On the nightstand beside the now-sleeping figure, along with an oil lamp, was a forgotten glass of whiskey with a residual liquid resting at the bottom. There were no traces of red lipstick on its round edges, so you figured, as you brought the glass closer to your face, that it belonged to Van der Linde. Not that it gave you any pleasure or — God forbid — played into any fantasy you might’ve had for him, but taking the glass to your lips, feeling the bitter liquid burn down your throat, and later placing it back next to Molly’s spent figure felt like fulfilling a duty.

With that in mind, you tucked the woman in, giving her forehead one last kiss before making your way out.

The camp, much to your relief, was still buzzing with life. No one seemed to have any idea of what had transpired inside the tent, including the newcomers who had just arrived.

Yes.

Just as you stepped outside the tent, Dutch and four other men rode into camp on their horses. Some people welcomed them, while others, like you, stood their ground. It was dangerous, and you knew it: standing there in the predator’s den, bearing nothing but a victorious smile on your weary face as he made his way to his resting place. But old Pa didn’t know — and how could he? — that the deadliest creature was, in fact, an easy kill.

Only, it wouldn’t take a bullet or an arrow.

It would take some cunning and the golden necklace tangled around your fingers.

[haveyouusedthispokemon]

FAQ

[Art by @kagooleo] Hey there! Welcome to the world of Pokémon Polls! Everyone calls me Hyutp, and I'm the professor's aide. To paraphrase Professor Juniper, this world is widely inhabited by mysterious creatures called Pokémon! They come in many shapes and live in many different places. We humans live and work together with Pokemon; we complement each other in many ways. My main point of focus is how people and pokemon interact as a whole! We may all face similar challenges, but who and how we choose to deal with them can be entirely different. But that's enough about me; I heard you had some questions?

Hey, what do shiny pokemon have to do with this?

Well, the current set of polls was chosen per popular vote! The idea is to find out how frequently people encounter Shiny pokemon, intentionally or unintentionally. With the information we get out of the polls, we can loosely infer how desired some shiny pokemon are and compare it to what shiny pokemon people actually have acquired.

Does it matter where I got the shiny pokemon?

We accept shiny pokemon from any source! Main game, side game, fan game, mods or cheats. If it has the shiny Pokemon as presented and a ‘luck’ factor at base, I’d say it counts.

What about how? I chained/soft reset/matsuda method bred/etc. for it, but I don't see the option?

Well, the 'how' is less important in this instance. This decision was made mostly because of how diverse shiny hunting is, even if we stuck with just the mainline pokemon games! If we listed every method, it would wind up changing the focus from ‘intent to find’ to ‘preference of hunt.’ We may do a follow up to this where we specifically focus on how people hunt, but for now, the fact you specifically looked for it is more important to us than how you searched for it.

What if I found a shiny for a pokemon while actively searching for a different pokemon?

Then it sounds like you found it by chance! Even if you did something to increase your shiny chances, it wasn't the one you were aiming for! So it would be by chance.

Actually, how do I define 'intent'?

That's pretty hard to answer! It varies case by case, and you're free to send either an ask or direct message and I'll be happy to offer suggestions or make an argument for one side or another. At the end of the day, however, you are going to know better than me what your goals were. Vote how you feel best fits your situation; I'll have full belief in your decision. ^^

I no longer have the shiny, how should I vote?

There's a couple of different answers for this one! If you simply evolved the shiny, how you met them would carry from what stage you met them. A Butterfree you caught as a Metapod would have the same answer for both of them, but you could not say the same for Caterpie (unless you have a separate one). If you lost them through a deleted or lost save file, then they're still with you in spirit! Feel free to vote as though you still have them. If you traded them away, the suggested option is to vote based on what you traded for. If you traded for a different shiny, that new shiny will have a specific vote. If you wonder/surprise traded or gifted the shiny to someone else, you can vote for one of the 'no' options that best fits your situation.

Where did you get the pictures for the polls?

I list and link my sources on this post! I do resize all the pictures and edit sprites from gen 1-4 to be non-looping if they're animated. I make minor edits here and there for better viewing as well, but try to keep it as close to game-accurate as possible.

Why do the non-looping gifs?

The mainline games for gen 1-4 did not have looping animations, so the non-looping gif is meant to imitate an encounter in those games. Also, it felt like an interesting way to make the blog a little more unique and cool!

Why aren't all the photos animated?

They don't have a gif, yet! I aim to use the gifs when available, or sometimes make them myself, but there's not always time to do so before the poll is posted or is not readily available.

Did you mean to post the non-shiny version?

I did indeed! That's part of the little premierpoll minigame, as explained in this post.

I don't see my question on this list?

Please ask then! Whether it be through the askbox, or direct message ^^