#I can watch this on a loop eternally

[justacynicalromantic]

The moment Ukrainian missile hits Russian Black Sea Fleet HQ in Sevastopol, Crimea.

Courtesy of Sternenko.

😍😍😍

The Command of the Special Operations in Ukraine says that the operation, which took some serious planning and timing, recieves the code name Crab Trap - as an allusion to the famous way of catching crabs - when you place a box on the bottom of the sea where crabs dwell and wait for them to gather inside. The strike on the Ru Black Sea Fleet HQ reportedly came during a time when a lot of officers, as well as some high ranking command ones, were gathered in the building.

[drgnflyteabox]

ghost x fem!reader

simon finds a reason to live // stalking, depression, disassociation, simons past child abuse, body horror imagery, you're a single mom, minor sexism-kindaish

Simon's humanity is an external thing, amorphous and disconnected. He might've had a tether as a child, a distinct human softness necessary for survival, but it's since been deadened.

It's not so much a lack as it is a shrinkage. Empathy, emotional intelligence, they come natural at first but terrorize someone, neglect them? They'll turn black and rot as any limb without oxygen.

His father is long dead, he knows this, has read the obituary (full of lies) and pissed on his grave (twice).

And yet his father has the power to strike lightening through the only soft part of him left on any given day, at any given time, at any given place–

His father lives in the way that his heart nearly stops at the shop when the child beside him knocks down a full display of four cheese tomato sauce, glass and red slop crashing to the floor.

Run.

He freezes but his eyes snap to the sound, startlingly loud, mind racing and yet thinking of nothing at all as he feels the fear of god race through him.

Dad's gonna fucking kill you, Tommy laughs raucously.

Simon's never really blamed Tommy, but his voice echoes in his head sometimes too. It does again now, dad's got two tickets for the weekend.

The child takes two steps back, shocked at themselves and the mess and the loud loud sound that has quieted the rest of the store.

He thinks of all the ways he'll step in when the father rounds the corner. Then it's you and his breath goes thin.

"Awe, honey," you say softly. Kindly.

"Oops," the kid says, not a trace of fear in their face.

"Did'ja knock these over, Bram?" you crouch down, careful of the glass, and gently move the boy to the side, "that's okay. Do you remember what we do when we break a glass?"

Simon is still frozen– dumfounded, really. Your patience throws him off.

Fucking moron, his father screams in his head, useless! before he hurts Simon so bad the memory loops and loops, restarting just to torture him.

Fucking moron, fucking moron, useless, fucking moron–

And then you smile sheepishly up at him, eyes crinkling in the corners, and that soft human part of him eternally drifting sticks back to his skin and spreads like a rash.

They don't make you pay for any of the jars, nor do they make you clean up the mess. Still, you crouch again beside your son and explain to him again what to do when he breaks a glass.

Make sure you have shoes on. Don't use your bare hands. Call a grownup.

He's addicted to the sound of your voice. The softness of it, how gently you make sure to speak so that the message is taken in without any kind of fear.

Simon follows your car like the sound of your voice is the warm smell of pie on the windowsill and he's Mickey Mouse floating after it.

Awe, honey, loops through his head. Awe, honey. Awe, honey.

He doesn't make himself known just yet. All he does is note down your address for the next time he's on leave, tells John he's met someone and she's a sweetheart.

When he's back on leave he watches you struggle, and it tears at the new growth of softness.

You work, dropping Bram at school and then spending the day at the office. Then, when Bram is asleep and you've cleaned the house, you open your laptop back up and work a second job.

That just won't do. It takes everything in him not to kick your door down at the weak spot and have you whisper in his ear for a living.

Not yet. Not yet. He tries to loop that, but all he can hear is your sweet voice pleading with the electricity company and it becomes harder and harder.

Please, you say through the bug, I just need four more days. Then I get my paycheck.

Simon thinks about putting his hands around the answering voice's neck when they deny you–

But that's a bandaid solution.

It'll be better to eliminate the problem altogether.

Not the piling bills on your kitchen table that you tuck away when the child goes to school, nor the boss who shouts at you 'til he's red in the face.

No, he'll eliminate the real problem. The way he's seen John do, the way he's seen Gaz take example.

He'll be the man in your life, soon.

[sourle]

Oneshot n Headcanons

WARNINGS: There might be smelling mistakes/mispronouns/ooc. I apologize in advance for those.

Enjoy the show.

You wish you weren't brought into this hell, Looping for eternity for the joy of torturing. Was this really the karma for the things you did in your past?

Was this all just a sick joke as a payback from them?

You don't know.

You wish you could take it back and wouldn't end up here. Being chased around like some kind of toy all for entertainment for the.. killers. You're luckily not alone.. but… they're not all better.

After they know what you did, they turn their back on you. More often than not, they never help you whenever you're in a struggle.

Ignoring you completely.

You hate it, you don't like it. It's what makes the loop hell WORSE.

The way the other survivors treat you. Elliot never bothered to offer you a pizza. Shedletsky would just watch you getting chased alongside Guest. HECK, even 007n7 ignored you COMPLETELY.

It was exhausting, especially when all you wanted was a new beginning. Without the constant nagging of what you did.

You approached Taph, tapping him on his shoulder. “Hey— May I ask you something?—”

“🧍‍♂️🤷‍♂️👉👷‍♂️❓” (I don't know as well, maybe you should ask Builderman) You nod at his answer, giving him a thumbs up and left. Glancing back to see he gave you a thumbs up as well.

You next walked up to Noob, “Sorry to bother you… but do we have a plan for the next match?—”

Upon hearing your voice they flinched, they didn't seem to hear you but he just nodded quickly. “Y-you should ask Builderman about it, I'm s-sure he has m-more.. information.”

You watch as they speed walk away, slipping a bit.

You brushed his silly actions and went to find Builderman. He is outside the cabin with Shedletsky, seemingly in a conversation as Builderman checks over his new invention.

You approach the two and once you get closer, they turn their attention to the footsteps coming closer.

Shedletsky looks.. rather wary, whilst Builderman has that unreadable expression. You hope that's not hatred.

“Uhm— Hey, Builderman.. Can I ask about the next upcoming match’s plan?”

He didn't answer you outrightly other than letting out a sigh. A small silence overtook before Shedletsky finally spoke up, “We're still trying to figure out who's going to be picked next. Though I believe you won't be picked. Luckily.”

That smidge of disappointment in the last word already says you're not welcome in their presence. You hum with a nod, bidding farewell they didn't respond to and left.

You sat in the living room of the cabin, staring into the fireplace, waiting for the match to start to explore more of the camp, place, whatever people call the area around the cabin.

You don't know what else to do to spend the time, you've got no one to talk to as of now. You've already asked if there's a plan— like every other time before a match. And you can't think of doing anything else.

You might try and find Dusekkar for a small chat, but even so he will, like others, find an excuse to get away from you.

What are you, some kind of plague infected robloxian?

No matter, you'll just wait for the match whilst watching the endless fireplace.

Headcanons

Survivors

Noob

They don't hate you. More so terrified of your capabilities, judging from your past.

Would avoid you every chance they can.

They did try to push away their fear go try and bond with you, maybe. But Guest held him back for 'caution'

Elliot

He hates you. Deeply.

He's frustrated towards what you did to his workplace. Outright unforgivable.

Does not trust you one bit.

REFUSE to heal you even as you're low.

Shedletsky

He's wary. Does not trust you.

Would often watch you from afar though never try and make a conversation with you.

He does not hate you.. maybe a little bit.

Only helps you when it's only you two left alive.

Builderman

Hatred.

He's seething whenever he sees you.

Never tells you where the sentry or dispenser is at. Leaving you wounded most times.

Definitely is the one who told Dusekkar to never help you when you're chased.

Dussekkar

He doesn't hate you. Just a smidge of dislike. Though he does love to talk to you. Once in a while.

Is curious how you are able to do what you've done in the past

The closest to neutral.

Doesn't mind you, though he can't say anything for the others. Especially Builderman.

Chance (pink day Chance yass)

THE MOST NEUTRAL

Like Dusekkar, he doesn't hate you or dislike you.

The closest you think as a friend in the hell.

They do enjoy talking with you!

Though he can't ignore what you've done in the past.

They does help you, Often!

Maybe the only one who helps. Or is he? (Vsauce music started playing)

Two time

Thinks you're a demon coming for them.

Will watch you like a hawk.

They tried to sacrifice you once. Though Taph stops him by knocking him out.

Also tried to give you to the killer aka Jason. Jason ended up targeting Two time.

Guest 1337

He's neutral. Just distrustful of you in every aspect.

He has respect for your.. powerful doing in the past. Though he can't say he's not wary of your capabilities.

The second most to help you. Even though most of it is just him watching you getting chase.

Taph

He actually likes you.

You both would talk often and he loves teaching you sign language!

You both have the closest bond, aka best friend!

He does not care about your past, it's the past after all.

007n7

No emotions.

He sees himself in you.

He understands what you're going through.

Thought.

He respects you for your determination.

Often leaves medkit or bloxy cola near your spawn place.

He does give it to you directly. Once. Elliot glaring at him, whispering he needed it more than you as he can't heal himself.

Chance shut Elliot down by mentioning how he doesn't heal you at all.

Killers

1x1x1x1

She's intrigued by your past.

Though he doesn't care and would kill you whenever.

They would often leave you as the last man standing. Though you don't understand why.

John doe

Absolutely doesn't care.

L + Ratio. Die.

c00lkid

Thinks what you did was cool!

He's impressed how you have done it.

Would often target you first to see if you're as powerful as the story his father told you about.

Fond of you. Somehow.

Jason

He pity you. He does.

He knows how it feels to be an outcast.

Would leave you as last man standing everytime. Though sometimes he lets you win.

Hey at least another killer friend other than a child.

Masioso

He has heard stories of what you did.

Intrigued and impressed.

Though he doesn't understand how you ended up in the hit list. He doesn't remember you doing anything about debt. Meh, you're name in the list anyway.

Azure

He doesn't understand why almost all the survivors hate you.

Even as he feels sorry, he's still going to kill you.

Noli

Thinks what you did in the past are bullshit.

He does not care what so ever.

Though he did tease you about your past, despite not believing it happened, before chasing you.

Guest 666

He doesn't really care.

He tried to feel sorry for you from seeing how the survivors avoided you. But he's careless.

He's a monster. Not a villain.

Note: woah, What's this? I finally uploaded something other than reblogs? Mwehehhe

Anyway if you guys want more, please send it a request of what I should do next.. like a scenario for this Oneshot hcs story.. like maybe Reader trying to bond, how they react to this, that, etc.

Bye now ty for reading!

[belovaballerina]

Our Merge is Eternal

Grotequerie: Father Charlie Mayhew x fem!reader 

Rating: Explicit (Minors DNI)

WC: 2k 

Prompt: “Can’t you see that you’re lost without me?” -Cirice by Ghost for @sweetspicybingo (Lyrical Bingo Collection)

Warnings: Oral (f receiving), religious imagery, religious guilt, handjob, public sex, spanking, whipping, pain play, penance, verbal humiliation, manipulation, bondage and sacrilege

Summary: Penance can be a beautiful, wonderful release

“Bless me, Father, for have I sinned. It has been two weeks since my last confession.”

It always started the same way: with you in the confessional booth, the screen blurring Father Mayhew’s face, and you squirming on your knees as your sins poured from your lips. It always ended the same way: blistering pain delivered with the palm of his hand, the sharp crack of leather or sturdy wood (penance), on your knees with his cock in your mouth as tears dripped down your cheeks (guidance) and curled in his lap as he wiped your tears away (forgiveness). He was careful, allowing only your mouth and hands to pleasure him, as he did the same with you, always avoiding fucking. The sin of fornication will not consume us, he had whispered against your wet thigh with his mouth coated in your juices.

“I absolve you of your sins in the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit.”

Every two weeks, like clockwork. Repeat, Repeat, Repeat. It kept you going and gave you something to look forward to, even if something was twisted about it. You welcomed the dalliance, running headfirst into it and into the arms of Father Charlie Mayhew. Those brown eyes would be your undoing, but who better than to forgive you than a man of God?

The cycle came full circle once again as you entered the confessional, arousal pooling hot and thick between your thighs and causing you to press them together tightly to dull the ache. The partition whooshed open, and you began your confession. The vulgar words fell from your tongue as you admitted your sin of self-pleasure. You felt unnerved as you were met with silence. Perhaps this had run its course.

“I want you to meet me tonight in the church,” he whispered, his face obscured by the screen.

Your heart thrummed in your chest. You were used to it happening in his office after he had finished with confession. This was something new. A break in the usual routine. It thrilled you.

“Yes, Father, what time?” you asked, hands still folded before you.

“At midnight. I’ll see you then,” Charlie responded before slamming the partition close. You move your hand through the sign of the cross before hurrying away.

A storm rolled in that evening, making the air hot and heavy, and thick raindrops poured from the gray sky. Thunder cracked through the air as lightning lit up the dark sky with bright bursts. You shivered as you hurried through the heavy doors, rain soaking through your clothes and leaving your skin feeling clammy as you made your way into the chapel. You had attended midnight mass, but beautiful candles had illuminated the room, which remained eerily dark tonight. A loud clap of thunder made you jump, and a crack of lightning brought Father Mayhew into view.

He stood at the pulpit in his black cassock, his expression stern and a rope dangling from one hand. You swallowed, approaching him slowly, unsure of what would unfold this evening as hee stepped down to meet you.

“On your knees, sinful girl,” he instructed, and you obeyed without a second thought. 

Instinctively, you lifted your wrists toward him, your palms pressed together. He guided your arms straight up into the air, sliding your shirt overhead, and your cheeks burned hot as your bare breasts were exposed. He tutted, giving one of your nipples a chastising pinch. You watched with wide eyes and bated breath as he looped the rope around your wrist, securing them with an elegant knot. His hand gripped your chin, thumb pressing to your lower lip before tracing around the outline of your mouth. Your stomach twisted as heat palpated deeper. He tugged you to your feet with a firm grip on your roped wrists before circling you.

“You come to me repeatedly, confessing the same sin,” he stated, his dark eyes boring into you.

Your mouth felt dry. “I fear I need guidance, Father. I simply find myself giving into temptation.”

He stood behind you, his hand slapping down firmly against your ass and making you stumble over your feet.

“And if thy right hand offend thee, cut it off, and cast it from thee: for it is profitable for thee that one of thy members should perish, and not that thy whole body should be cast into hell,” he hissed into your ear, his hand crashing down against your backside over and over. Pain blossomed across your skin.

“Matthew 5:30, Father,” you sniffled as he pulled your body flush against his. Your back against his chest, and you could feel it heaving with every breath he took.

“Good girl,” he purred, one warm hand pressing against your stomach, fingers dipping into the waistband of your loose-fitting black joggers, “Is that what I should do? Cut off your hands to keep them from wandering between your thighs, to keep your fingers from dipping into your greedy little cunt?”

You let out a garbled cry, unsure of how to respond as his hand plunged into your pants and underwear, his fingers immediately seeking your drenched pussy.

“I fear for your soul, child,” he whispered as his fingertips skimmed over your folds. Your lower lip trembled. His hand squeezed your right hip, a comforting touch that kept you grounded and assured you that you were safe. All you had to do was utter a simple word, and he would stop, letting you go about your evening. Either of you could end this sinful dalliance at a moment’s notice, but it just felt so good.

“Don’t let me go astray, Father. Teach me, guide me,” you moaned, caught up in the moment and willing to explore whatever he had planned.

“I will do just that. Can’t you see that you’re lost without me?” Guide me, Father, for I am but a lamb lost among the wolves.

He pulled his hand away before pushing you onto your knees and then onto your stomach before removing your shoes and tugging the clothing away from your lower half. Your face felt like it was on fire as you were exposed in such a sacred, holy area. Your eyes flickered to the statue of Mother Mary, feeling her judgment upon you. Have mercy on me, Mother.

His hands roamed over your naked skin, squeezing your prickled flesh before resting on the swell of your ass. Tears burned your eyes as his hand smacked down, over and over, searing his burning mark into your skin. You squirmed against the carpet, feeling the rug burn, irritating your stomach. You choked on your tears as they rolled hotly down your cheeks, chasing this feeling and murmuring prayers of repentance. O loving and gracious God, have mercy. Have pity upon me and take away the awful stain of my sin.

Charlie’s body pressed ontop of yours, his teeth seeking out the soft curve of your throat. You felt the swell of his erection against your abused ass. His knee slipped between your legs, pressing against your dripping cunt.

“Even now, in the sanctity of the church, your penance doesn’t deter you from your sinful nature,” he hissed into your ear before sinking his teeth into your neck. Your eyes rolled back, relishing in the sweet pop of pain that throbs through your body, rutting against his knee. 

All you could do was mewl pathetically in response as he rolled you onto your back and then cupped your face in his hands. He took in the sight of your tear-stained face and swollen lips, a small pang thrummed through his heart.

“How can I judge you so? You are no more sinful than I,” he whispered, stroking his thumbs over your tear tracks. His lips pressed against your trembling ones before undoing the ropes and pulling away from you.

You sniffled, struggling to catch your breath as you watched him stand and stretch out his arms before peeling his clothing away. The lightning bathed his skin in an eerie glow as you drank in the sight of his muscular body. It seemed wrong for a priest to be so beautiful and tempting. But God tests us in mysterious ways.

“You are so gracious in guiding me onto a righteous path. Let me help you,” you offered, extending your hand toward him.

His gaze softened, and you were lost in those warm brown eyes for a moment—endless pools of amber that you would gladly drown in. He sank to his knees, pressing his hand into yours before pulling your naked body against his.

“Would you?” he asked in earnest.

“Yes,” you smiled, stroking your fingers through his dark hair.

He kissed you again before handing you his knotted white cincture, pure as the driven snow.

“Turn around,” you instructed, smoothing your hand over his bare chest before getting used to the feel of the item in your hands. The darkness consumed you both, and you knew exactly what he was asking for.

He presented his bare back, laced with scars and a few open wounds that must have been placed earlier today. You traced your fingers over his skin, memorizing the layout of the marks and making a map of the area to lay the blows. It will be less intense than the leather cat o’nine tails, but it will suffice for now. You brought down the knotted rope against his skin, delighting in the grunt that he emitted. It doesn’t draw blood, but even in the dark light of the church, you can see the bruises blooming-mottled and purple.

You tossed the cincture aside, dropping to your knees behind him. Your lips ghosted over the marks, tongue pressing against a fresh one, throbbing against his skin and tasting the tang of blood. Charlie shivered under your touch as your hand slipped down his taut stomach to grasp his cock. You gently stroked and tugged on his rigid flesh as he arched against your hand as you danced him to the edge of a blessed release.

“Come for me, Father,” you purred into his ear, drunk on the dark power flowing through your veins. 

He spilled into your palm, sticky and pearlescent, as the sweetess moan fell from his parted lips. His head lolled back, resting against the plush pillows of your breasts. He rested against you, gathering his strength, and your head spun as he lifted you into his arms, carrying you to the altar. He lowered you onto the draped table, and you squirmed as your bare, sore ass came in contact with the hard, unforgiving surface. Charlie looked almost devilish as he dropped between your thighs, splaying them wide for him before swiping his tongue over your quivering cunt.

“Recite the Act of Contrition,” he ordered before dipping his tongue inside you.

You gasped, threading your fingers through his hair and rocking against his mouth.

“Oh My God, I am sorry for my sins. In choosing to sin and failing to do good, I have sinned against you and your church.”

Charlie’s tongue pressed to your throbbing clit, tracing the delicate bud. It felt like wanton encouragement.

“I firmly intend, with the help of your Son, to make up for my sins.”

Your fingers tightened in his hair, needy whines spilling from your mouth as pressure built in your lower belly—unbearable heat, making you think of the hellfire burning your skin.

“And to love as I should. Amen.” The words fell, garbled, and strangled from your mouth before a loud moans bled through the hallowed alcove. An intense orgasm washed over you, the bands of pleasure snapping through your belly as Charlie’s warm mouth pleasured you.

“Amen,” he whispered against your warm, wet flesh before lifting his head. His mouth coated in your release, and his dark eyes seemed to glow. Sinners, both of you, fallible and susceptible to the temptations of the flesh. Tainted by the sin of lust.

Your eyes meet his, the realization that the two of you are forever intertwined in sin. Lost in the waves of immorality together.

The hot water scalded your skin as you stood under the pounding water pouring from the showerhead. You scrubbed at your skin, washing away the lingering transgressions clinging to your tainted flesh. The cycle repeats two weeks later.

[songbirdseung]

bye bye / lee heeseung

synopsis: your favorite song of the week has been making your boyfriend think you got something to say to him.

pairing: idol!heeseung x reader

warnings: insecurities??

"I think you're overthinking it" Jake says as he and the rest of the members are walking towards the dance studio. "But she plays it all the time when I get home" voicing out his thoughts one more time to let them understand his point of view. "Maybe she just likes the song? ever thought of that?" Jay opens the door while chuckling at how Heeseung's brain works and making him think you singing Ariana's song over and over again mean that you wanna break up with him.

After practice, he finds himself back at your house. He makes his way in with the spare key that you gave him. Walking towards your room, he can already here the 'Eternal Sunshine' album blasting through your speakers.

Heeseung hesitated outside the bedroom door, the faint strains of music seeping through the cracks. With a soft knock, he pushed the door open, stepping into a room filled with the melody of 'bye'. you were on your bed, eyes closed, lost in the emotion of the music, your voice carrying the weight of the lyrics.

For a week now, he had watched you immerse yourself in this routine, playlist looping the same heart-wrenching tunes. "YN," he called softly, breaking through your reverie. You turned to him, surprise flickering in your eyes before you quickly masked it with a smile.

"Heeseung! I didn't hear you come in," you said. Heeseung approached her slowly, his poor heart heavy with worry. "YN, can we talk?" he asked, his voice tinged with concern.

Your smile faltered, and you nodded, motioning for him to take a seat beside you on the bed. Heeseung took a deep breath, gathering his thoughts before he spoke.

"Is everything okay? You've been listening to these breakup songs for days now, and… I can't help but wonder if… if there's something you want to tell me," he confessed, his gaze searching hers for any sign of the truth.

Your eyes widened in realization, and you reached out to gently cup his face, your touch warm and reassuring. "Oh, Heeseung, I'm so sorry if I made you worry," you said softly, voice filled with sincerity.

"But why these songs? Are you… are you trying to tell me something?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

With a soft laugh, shaking your head. "No, Heeseung, not at all. I just enjoy the melody and everything. Shouldn't you understand? I mean you're the artist here." Heeseung felt a weight lift off his shoulders, a sense of clarity washing over him. He reached out to intertwine his fingers with yours, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips.

[mintmatcha]

The sun does not crest the sky once today, but the town stays fully alight. The city center is teeming with life: music and food and drinks strong enough to shock your senses and flush your cheeks after one sip. For a calm and conservative culture, the festival is rather wild.

You've perched yourself at the outskirts, on a lounging bed. The dragonborns occasionally glance your way, more curious than anything else.

A bunch of younger girls ask to touch your hair in broken Common before Obi chases them away. The man has been busy catching up with friends and over indulging with his brother, but he often loops around to check on you.

Sorghum comes by where you are sitting and pushes a plate of food into your hands wordlessly. When she returns to her husband, she shrugs away his drunken touch.

Seeing her face leaves a hollow feeling in your chest. You don't eat anything she's brought you.

It's only a bit later that your beloved staggers over to you with open arms. He's dressed in fine, sheer robes, woven in beautiful, bright patterns.

"Oh," he breathes. "I'm mesmerized."

Obsidian kneels beside the fainting couch, resting his chin on the arm. He smiles up at you with a contemplative glee, eyes wet from the liquor. The party swells and moves around you, but Obsidian stays still, regarding you carefully.

"You are utterly radiant," he sighs. He nuzzles his face into his arms like a lovelorn schoolboy. "Like a star plucked from the sky."

Despite yourself. you melt a bit. You reach up and scratch the ridges on his head, tracing over each bump with your nails. "Obi..."

"Eternally, painfully, tragically beautiful. I am so lucky you fell into my life." It's the alcohol talking, you remind yourself, but his voice is so earnest. "So beautiful that you break my heart whenever you look away."

You turn out of bashfulness and the dragonborn whines, flopping harder into the couch. When you look back, he practically purrs.

"Are you warm enough, my fawn?" The dress is intertwined with warming spells, sown in by your lover himself. It's a traditional draconic dress, clearly not built to account for your breasts. It scoops low, low enough that your body threatens to spill over when you move the wrong way. "Are you too warm?"

"It's perfect," you say. "Thank you."

He judges his nose into the air, once, twice, three times, eyes half closed.

"Kiss me?" he asks.

You look around. "People are watching, Obi."

"Let them!" He rises to nudge his snout into your lips, the chastest of human kisses, then goes to rub the side of his face into your cheek. He purrs and clicks and runs his hand down your side, slidingyour dress down ever so slightly.

"Obi!" you giggle. "Obi, my hair!"

His horns are tangled in your braids.

"I will not stop until you kiss me back," he demands. He's being borderline lewd for dragonborn standards, especially since you two are not officially mates yet.

The memory of earlier suddenly rings through your teeth. There is no 'yet'. You two are not mates and will never be. Sadly, you give in, nudging him back. Obsidian's scales are so smooth against the sensitive skin of your face.

"Will you dance with me, my love?" he asks as he pulls away. "I will teach you the steps."

It's a group dance, the kind that has partners switching every couple of moments. You've danced like this before, it's nothing you can't learn on the fly, but you still shake your head.

"Maybe later," you say. He stands and starts backwards towards the dance floor, arm extended towards you the entire time. Truthfully, you want him to stay, but you couldn't ask Obi to stay by your side all night. He deserves fun, he deserves to dance, he deserves-

"My heart will be with you," Obsidian coos.

He deserves more than you can give him.

He slides into the rhythm of the dance without trying. It's beautiful to watch how they all glimmer in the firelight, their scales and jewelry glittery and shined to perfection. Obsidian shines brighter than any of them all, of course; it may be bias, but you swear that he's the prettiest one of them all, with those emerald green eyes.

You're so sweet on him that you almost don't see someone else had joined the dance, but a flash of white snaps you back to reality.

The girl is just as pretty as you had been told, even for human standards. The way she holds her head is regal, with a lifted chin and an upturned smile. Her build is small for a dragonborn, but it seems to be perfectly sized when Obsidian's hand slides around her waist. The two of them step in, step out, then twirl, eyes never leaving each other's as they dance. There's a shared laugh before they separate, moving on to the next partner, but the moment repeats in your mind, over and over again.

His hand on her waist. Black scales against white.

You don't belong here.

.

It's less than an hour later when Obsidian comes back to your chair and finds you gone. He pokes around the festival, expecting to find you pulled away by children or women, but every corner is empty of you.

"Sorghum-" Obsidian is suddenly sober as he approaches his sister in law. "Have you seen my fawn? She's not where I left her."

Sorghum huffs, bothered by the interruption. Her group of friends chitters on without her.

"Humans have legs, Obsidian. Maybe she used them."

That sets Obsidian's teeth on edge. "Malachite is a saint for dealing with your attitude."

There's a retort as he walks away, but he can't focus on that, not when his mind is on the brink of panic. Where could you have gone in this little town?

By the time he makes it to his family home, real, deep worry has started make his hands quiver.

"Fawn," he calls down the hall. "Princess."

He checks his room first, mostly out of muscle memory. He had gotten used to waking up beside you; sleeping alone made his heart ache.

Your room is empty as well. Too empty. It takes him a moment to realize your bag is gone, along with your coats and boots.

On the nightstand is a single earring, his own scales staring back at him like two little black voids.

[wibben]

BIRTHDAY SUIT — NANAMI KENTO

↳ Summary: It's Nanami's 35th birthday, and he swears he doesn't want anything. This is unacceptable.

↳ CW: established relationship, suggestive, can be read as g/n

↳ WC: 1.4k

↳ AN: Happy birthday to my glorious blonde king who deserves all of the softest things in the world. My contribution to the "Happy Birthday" prompt for Nanami Week... but it's an international holiday anyway.

Kento insisted he didn’t want anything for his birthday.

“It’s not about the number,” he said. “Thirty-five is just thirty-four with slightly stiffer knees.”

Then: “I just don’t want a fuss. No gifts. No reservations. No singing, fuck — anything but the singing.”

This, as he spread marmalade over his toast at the breakfast table.

You squinted at him over your coffee. “Not even cake?”

He paused. A single breath’s worth of consideration.

“...Cake is fine,” he allowed. “But only that. And you.”

A gentleman’s compromise, you supposed.

He was never someone who wanted much. He kept his desires manageable, and the small hankerings that did emerge in the day to day were either indulged immediately or squashed as they sprung up.

And what enjoyment was there to be derived from prolonged social interaction anyway? Prolonged social interaction in which he, Nanami Kento, was the sole focus and center of attention? Where people watched him squirm, pretending to be touched while they handed him things he didn’t need and would only collect dust in the closet, and the god awful singing where he didn’t know what to do with his hands much less his face—

But that didn’t stop you from trying every tactic at your disposal: whining, bargaining, seduction, moral seduction, weaponized snuggling. You coiled around his shoulders like a lovesick python in linen pajamas, chin on his shoulder complete with wide-eyes and a wobbling lip. 

“Just one present?” you asked sweetly. “A balloon? A silly hat? Come on, baby, work with me here.”

He smiled indulgently, patting your hand with firm resolve knowing damn well he wouldn’t budge but respected the effort anyway. 

“Don’t waste money,” he rumbled through your ribs. “I’d rather take you on vacation soon.”

“But it’s your birthday,” you pleaded. “Don’t you want to be adored like the special little guy you are?”

Kento did not so much as blink.

You tried again over dinner. Again while brushing your teeth. Again, nuzzled into his neck in bed like a cat, hoping sleepiness would pacify him into acquiescence.

“Adulthood is a punishment,” he slurred into your hair, “and I already celebrate the only good part of it every day.” 

(You elected to take that as a compliment.)

So you let it go. Kind of. 

No dinner reservations or wrapped boxes, no group texts. No glittery “HAPPY BIRTHDAY” banners that would shed sequins into every corner of the house for an eternity and a half. You behaved.

Mostly.

Your rebellion was quiet. A siege disguised as surrender.

You woke early to press the coffee extra dark. You cooked him breakfast, arranged it prettily with a vase of trimmed daffodils from the garden box in your yard, and hummed your way through packing a bento — slipping in extra ginger chicken and cutting fruit into stupid little heart shapes.

When your arms looped around his neck to kiss him goodbye, you whispered Happy Birthday against his lips like it was drive safe.

He smiled, pinching your chin to tilt your face up to him in order to kiss you once more. 

You pressed into him, standing on your toes to drag your body up the length of his, letting him feel every inch of you.

His hands tightened reflexively, kneading handfuls of your hips like they’d been fitted to his palms. You felt his breath hitch, then falter entirely when you kissed him deeper, tongue and teeth and a filthy little whimper in the base of your throat for good measure. He groaned into you like he’d forgotten there was an outside world out there. 

You pulled away first and he made a choked, strangled sound in the back of his throat. He still hovered in the nip of your waist, stunned by the sudden absence of you.

“Gift enough for me,” he said hoarsely, sweeping his tongue across his lower lip. His pupils were blown black and hungry. “...Until I get my hands on you later.”

You let him make it to the door.

Then, just before it clicked shut, you called sweetly after his back:

“If you want, I’m more than happy to do that thing you like later, too.”

The keys in his hand paused mid-jingle. 

He didn’t turn around. Kento stood there, the tips of his ears going a lovely shade of pink. He cleared his throat.

“… Yes,” he said, voice rough, like he wasn’t thirty-five years old now and hard as a rock. “Please.” *

Evening arrived with nothing suspicious. No unsolicited affection aside from your usual eagerness to clamber directly into his lap before he’d taken his shoes off. 

You watched him sort the mail, and watched him unbutton his cuffs and slide off his harness in his nightly striptease for an audience of one. You listened to the water hiss, then muffle against his skin while he disappeared into the shower.

You scurried to the bedroom on the balls of your feet.

Kento emerged, towel slung haphazardly around his hips, hair wet and dark against his temples. “I was thinking,” he mused aloud, “I'd like to order in tonight. I’ve been craving that Thai place we went to—”

He was still rubbing his hair dry with one hand when he turned the corner into the bedroom.

The towel in his hand stilled. Then fell. The one at his waist gave a valiant wobble, saved only by the grace of his hipbone and a weak knot.

Because this was not where he left you. Much less how.

Back straight, legs crossed, flipping lazily through a book you absolutely weren’t reading (it may have been upside down), dressed in what could generously be described as lingerie, and more accurately described as a bow pretending to be clothing. Absolutely the sort of outfit you had to first psych yourself into buying, and then harder into keeping.

There were bows. There was lace. There was barely anything else.

Kento froze, tawny eyes fixed on you. His nostrils flared. His jaw twitched once, then locked, the herculean effort of restraint forcibly cranked into place. 

His gaze swept over you like he meant to memorize it — thighs, the decadent dip of your waist, the ample swell of your chest not even pretending to be veiled by translucent lace. His throat bobbed, and his hands creaked into fists at his sides.

You snuck a glance at him and caught the faintest, involuntary shiver ripple down his spine, goosebumps raising the hair on his arms to stand at attention. (It wasn’t the only thing…)

He looked physically pained — like you were some lofty thing kept high on a pedestal, and not the gifted goddess you were laying readily in his bed. Oh yeah, you felt a lot more confident in your purchase now.

You didn't look up. You turned a page nonchalantly, biting the inside of your cheek to keep from giggling and kicking your feet.

“...Well,” he said, his voice dry, his pupils not. “It must be my lucky day.” 

You hummed. “Mm?”

Somewhere behind his eyes, Kento’s higher reasoning was being chewed to confetti by the hungrier parts of him. He was short circuiting — that sharp mind of his fatally-jammed between thighs and act civilized.

“I said no gifts,” he rasped. “You’re—this is not—”

You finally looked up, all innocent doe-eyes and fluttering lashes, liquid affection in your syrupy smile.

“This?” you echoed. “Kento, please. I wear this all the time. You’ve just never noticed.”

Kento scoffed, the towel pitched forward with visible betrayal as he stalked toward the bed, hiking up the knot at his hip with one hand.

His hand found your ankle, then curled around it softly. He dragged his touch upward, savoring the slow expression of your freshly waxed calf, knee, thigh — yeah, you even waxed, too.

“You spoil me,” he swallowed thickly.

“Uh huh,” you chirped.

“You haven’t even unwrapped your present—”

With no warning, he grabbed your foot and yanked.

Your book flew. You shrieked. Kento chuckled — low and delighted, growling menacingly as you slid like silk down the mattress.

Kento climbed on top of you, broad shoulders blotting out the light, furiously nuzzling your neck into the mattress and layering hungry, open-mouthed kisses down your throat, pinning you under the full weight of his appreciation; he growled his pleasure like a satisfied animal.

“Hush,” he murmured against your skin, grinning and nosing against the lace at your collarbone.

“Let me unwrap my gift, then.”

[mollygrass]

Preacher Girl part 2

Remmick x Female reader

Summary: Regretful and shameful for losing your virginity before marriage, you avoid Remmick for the whole week until guilt eventually pulls you back at his porch in hopes of his forgiveness.

Tags & Warnings: religious themes, female reader, ambiguous reader, blood drinking, turning into vampire, smut, power imbalance dynamics

A/N: proofread only once, so sorry for any errors I’m lazy

Word count: 4k

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺ ‧⁺ ‧

In his bedroom the curtains block out the bright sun rays, keeping the room dim. You lie next to Remmick, cuddled close and cozily warm. Slowly your eyelids flutter open. Each blink clears the blurry fog of slumber. On his side he lies comfortably, chin held up in one hand as the other caresses your smooth cheek.

“Mornin, darlin.”

In a flash, you spring to life, sitting up. The covers sink low to your bare waist. Your eyes fall down to your exposed chest. It all pieces together in your brain like a puzzle. Unholy, vomit inducing memories makes your heart thump as your tummy twists endlessly on loop.

“Oh…oh, heavens,” you murmur, feeling terribly sick.

A mistake. Last night. It was all a horrible regretful mistake you made. All you wanted was to talk about your feelings with him. But here you are, waking up nude next to Remmick.

“Aw, don’t tell me you’re regretting last night.”

Unease strings your breaths out in erratic rhythms and your hands quiver in your lap. You refuse to spare glance his way, eyes more interested in the dry walls.

“I need to go home.”

“You can’t go yet. I ain’t even offered you breakfast,” he insists.

The gloom cracking his voice nearly splits your heart in two. Any other day you would have loved to stay for breakfast. However, today isn’t just any other day.

“I’m sorry, but I have to go, Remmick. I’m sorry, really.”

Swiftly, you collect your discarded clothes on the floor and put them on, guilt mixed together with shame plaguing your brain. Then without uttering another word you dash out the bedroom with him hot on your trail like a lost puppy. Brown eyes round and wide, brimming with disbelief as he helplessly watches you leave.

How can someone as angelic as you treat him in such a way? Stiff, cold and distant, instead of the usual cheery, bubbly you. He wants to scream out to you. Yank you tightly into an eternal embrace, never letting you escape out the front door in the living room. He doesn’t. Limbs made of stone, adhered to the floor, Remmick is frozen in time as he watches you walk out the door. And when he does dare to bravely reach a hand out to you it’s too late.

You’re already long gone down the street at home.

…………………..

The days blur together in one messy chain of events, tangled all over the place. Each passing day you keep yourself occupied with mind numbing tasks. From helping out around town to volunteering at church. Yet it never fully eradicates that night tattooed in your brain. Like an angry, bitter spirit it haunts you endlessly.

The worst of it always seems to find you in your devoted worship to God. As you say prayers, his lewd voice whispers in your ears. While you sit in church listening to the pastor's graceful praises of the high lord, images of Remmick from that night dusts your skin in shameful goosebumps. In fact because of these unwanted reminders of your sinful acts you’re beginning to hate going to church or let alone anything that relates to God.

The day of the lord is nearly over as the sun drifts lower and lower from the sky. Your home is packed with your fellow believers from church. As promised, you serve Sunday supper for them.

Chatter and laughter fills your home as everyone stuffs their mouths at your dinner table. Golden crispy fried chicken, creamy buttery mashed potatoes, well seasoned string beans and your famous tooth-rotting dessert–peach cobbler. It brings everyone together in blissful joy and harmony to eat your delicious cooking.

“By now you would’ve been down the street with a wrapped plate for that odd fella. You finally realize how weird he is or something?” A man who always sits in the front row at church, snickers.

Out of everyone in town and especially at church, he never missed an opportunity to urge you to stay away from Remmick in all his “unholiness” as he always puts it. It always puzzles your brain why he does it, and usually shrugs it off like a harmless bug. Though, today his words hold power to them.

A woman sitting at his side jabs a sharp elbow in his gut. “Stop that, John!” She snaps in a hushed whisper, an annoyed glint in her eyes.

The mention of Remmick makes your heart thud wildly. He’s the last somebody you want to talk about with this crowd of folks. It’ll only make the overwhelming shame you feel eat you whole.

You ignore John, pretending to eat your food.

“Hmmp, I must be right. I’ve been watching you since Monday and you ain’t not once visited that man.” He points his silverware at you. “See, this is why you should’ve taken heed to my warnings before you found out the hard way, sweetheart.”

The dinner table falls silent. Their eyes all lock on you. Curious and nosy about if John’s words hold truth.

You clear your throat, lips pursed. “I’ve just been under the weather, so please, let’s talk about something else.”

The soft smile etched on your lips reassures everyone. Well, except for him–John.

He scoffs, shaking his head disapprovingly. The table’s lighthearted atmosphere returns and everyone goes back to chatting up storms. You don’t join in the conversations, mind battling off storms of shame. Instead you act as if you're listening and smile as John suspiciously eyes you from across the table.

After dinner, they all hang around for a bit longer until the moon glows in the sky. One after the other they leave until only one person remains–John. He halts on the porch, turning on his heels to face you in the doorframe. Eyes intense, brows knitting, lips in a fine line. He extends an arm, hand lightly gripping your shoulder.

“Let this be my last warning, girl. Stay far away from that damn man. There’s something evil and demonic surrounding him. A soul pure and sweet as yours is just perfect for somebody like him to destroy.” He adjusts the black hat on his head and turns for the steps. “May our heavenly father be with you, goodnight.”

You watch him get in an automobile as his grim final warning plummets your stomach. His car drives off into the distance, darkness of the night swallowing his car.

In bed you toss and turn relentlessly. John’s warning and Remmick haunt your mind. One minute your conscience agrees with the latter. This side of you urges you to stay away from your outcasted neighbor. On the flip side the other half shames you for how you have been treating Remmick lately. In all honesty it shocks you that you feel this way because throughout the week you never once felt bad for it until now. Maybe it’s from what John said at dinner or possibly the guilt is finally kicking in. Afterall, you don’t normally treat people with such cruelty.

Once more you wash away all the pesky thoughts, but they all come slamming back and this time heavier than a bag of bricks. It forces you to make up your mind and that’s just what you do.

Easily, you chose Remmick.

You hold a nice plate full of leftover food from dinner, neatly wrapped. Your shoes slap against the dry pavement. Humid summer wind blows your night gown in wild ripples. This time around you don’t pray to god for Remmick to answer the door. In fact you don’t pray at all. All you do is focus on getting to his home.

At his house, you knock on the door. A long minute passes and you knock again just to meet silence. All you hear is crickets singing in the nearby woods paired with whispers of the soft breeze. Sighing, you turn to leave his porch.

“What was I thinking? Of course he’s not going to let me in after I ignored him for a week,” you mumble, sulking.

As you begin dragging your feet to leave, a bitter taste filling your mouth, his door groans open.

“Come in,” is all he says.

He doesn’t say anything else as you slip past the doorframe. Rather loudly, the door slaps shut. It jolts your slouchy spine in a fine line and your aching heart racing. He must still be upset with you still. Understandable. You don’t knock him for his valid emotions. It’s the whole reason you're here in the first place. To make it up to him.

The wooden planks squeak as he walks deeper into the house, but the usual bright light never comes. It’s puzzling and odd. But still you don’t judge him. Well, that’s the case until a potent smell overwhelms your nostrils—wet pennies.

“Remmick, what’s that smell?”

You no longer hear the floor moaning under his feet.

“Do you really want to know?” His voice rumbles low, something wicked brews deep within it.

John’s goosebump inducing warning loudly echoes in your ears. You gulp, wondering if he’s right about your odd neighbor.

“Yes.”

The room lights up in a blink of an eye. You carefully eye the room and everything seems to be the same as the day you left. Untouched, neat and clean. It’s another story as your eyes land on Remmick. Eyes widening, the plate slips from your hands. It crashes on the floor with a soft thud. Cold food and the plates glass shards decorate the floor.

you finally look at him though, your eyes widen. The plate slips out of your hands. It crashes onto the floor with a soft thud. The cold food spills everywhere mixed with glass shards.

He stands there, frozen in his tracks. Blood, still wet and fresh, drenches his chin all the way down to his ivory collared shirt. An unreadable blank mask sits upon his bloody stained handsome face.

“Do you know why they fear me? Why everyone avoids me like I’m the devil’s spawn?”

Backing away from him, you trip over your own feet, landing on your butt. Dread sneaks up your spine as you crab walk away from him. Words bundle, sticky as glue in your mouth. You can’t speak as you take in the horrific view of Remmick.

He prowls closer, glowing eyes matching the color of blood staining his shirt. Crouching down at your level, his head tilts. As usual his eyes are round, but a sinister darkness storms within them. “You’re right, I’m sinful. Unholy. Everything the Bible curses. Yet you,” he pauses, gliding a clawed finger under your chin to look up at him. “Always seemed to flock to me, the so-called devil. How can that be when you’re pure and sweet?”

You remain silent. Limbs too scared to dare move an inch.

“Can’t answer that, can you, darlin?”

You frantically shake your head, heart drumming in your ears.

He inhales deeply, eyes sealed shut. Then exhales. Eyes open again. “Didn’t think so.”

Your trembling frame pulls his bloody lips in a gentle smile. Oh, how he hates what he’s planning to do to you next. But it must be done, otherwise you’ll never be his.

“Well, you wanted to know what that smell was, right?” He motions his long talon fingers at himself. A wide smile reveals his vile fangs.

The sight of his unholy, devilish teeth only chokes you tighter with fear. A breathless gasp chokes past your parted lips.

“One of your little friends from church.”

Your heart drops. “No, you didn’t!”

He laughs, shaking his head like a deranged asylum patient. He’s enjoying every second of this. “No, not the ones from your little dinner party, darlin.”

Shamefully, your chest deflates, relieved Yet guilt tears you to shreds at the fact that some innocent person you worshipped God with has been killed by Remmick’s hands.

“Unlike y’all, I don’t find regular ole food appetizing. I prefer something warm, liquidy and fresh, darlin.”

“W-What type of monster are you? You’re not Remmick…you can’t be! He would never do such a disgraceful, disgusting thing.” Tears stream down your cheeks. Your chest heaves heavily, burning hot.

“Ain’t you just the sweetest thing. Too naive for your own good, really. Don’t be deluded, I am indeed Remmick.”

“Lies, you wretched devil!”

Twisting on all fours, you spring to your feet and dash for the door. He idly catches your night gown, its fabric bundled in his fist and yanks you back. Hitting the floor knocks you breathless as pain blossoms in your backside. A quiet whimper slips past your lips.

“Uhn-Uhn, I ain’t finished with ya yet. You ain’t going nowhere, not till I’m done with you.”

The danger coating his voice raises a new concern in your limbs. You thrash on the floor as he drags you through the hall leading to his bedroom.

He sighs heavily, still not looking forward to what’s coming next. Remmick knows how you’ll react. How your screams and cries will slice his heart to pieces. The way you’ll squirm as pins you down in the mattress.

Just as his previous wife did many sunrises ago.

Together they lived happily under the moon together, traveling the world. Until she gruesomely died at the hands of vampire hunters without a drip of mercy. After her death he always figured he’d live out the rest of his days, miserable and bitter in the night. That’s what he thought until you.

Years stacked on top of years fleeing towns, Remmick finally settled down in a small quiet town deep in Mississippi. His days of hunting poor helpless souls for the gift to bring spirits forth from both the past and the future was over. All he craved was to live a quiet, mundane life as he mourned his wife.

He got his wish, but at what cost? Everyone in town damned him for his strangeness. They’re a religious town of people. So, when he never showed his face in church people began wondering things. Curiosity turned to sympathy. Then sympathy became hatred. At first folks thought he was a shy man, until they didn’t.

But one person out of the entire town did show him kindness. A warmth, Remmick never thought he’d feel again after his wife. Maybe it’s because you were new to the town or simply because it’s just who you are. Sweeter than honey, everyday bringing him gifts. Spending time with him. In the beginning he found you. Then suddenly he found himself smitten with you.

“Sorry. I really am, darlin. But after you left me. Abandoned me, I can’t risk having that again.”

He kicks the bedroom door shut, locking it with a key fished from his pocket. Then he lifts you with ease in his strong arms. Like a wild rabbit caught by the neck, your flailing persists till you're dropped on the bed. Its spring wires whine under your weight. Swiftly, you sit up. But Remmick is more swift, shoving you back on the mattress.

“Let me go! You vile demon,” you wail, voice cracking.

“Hush all that racket now.” He hovers you on the bed. With only one hand he effortlessly pins your wrists above your head.

“S-Somebody help! Help!” You scream.

Just as your lips part, ready to cry for help again, Remmick’s calloused palm gags you. It silences your every scream.

“Make me repeat myself again, you’ll be gagged and not with my hand.”

As his hand draws back you don’t dare utter a single word. All you do is quietly whine.

“Good girl,” he coos, red eyes softening. Though his iron grip never falters around your wrists. “Now this next part is gonna hurt. But don’t freight, I promise to take good care of you, darlin. It’ll be over before you know it.”

“Do what? What are you going to do to me?”

He huffs a raspy laugh. “Don’t worry, you’ll see soon enough.”

His head dips down to your face. Soft lips gently press against your forehead and slowly trail to your neck. Each kiss he litters, your body trembles. Even after experiencing sex, your reactions are still pure as if he never explored your body’s every crevice. So cute and sweet. Just for him only.

His tongue takes its time gliding across your neck’s feverish flesh. Its slick wetness drags unbalanced breaths from your chest.

Truly, you can’t fathom why he’s doing this to you. All the kindness you showed him when no one else in town did. The chance you alone offered when no one else did. How could he?

Your vision blurs as tears stain your flushed cheeks. “W-Why?”

He buries his face deep in your saliva coated neck. “Hmm?” He hums, drowned in total bliss, inhaling your mouth watering sweet scent.

“This…why are you doing this? I thought we were friends?” You sniffle, voice shattered. “Even if you are some kind of monster, Remmick, why?”

He keeps his face nuzzled in your neck’s warmth. “Because you’re mine. I want you to be mine. I can’t have you if you’re avoiding me, now can I? And once I’m done with you, you’ll be mine for eternity.”

“You can’t.”

“And why’s that?”

“My being, my soul, everything. It all belongs to the lord above and no one else.” You draw out a quivering breath, eyes glassy and stained red.

He laughs, the mockery in steals your breath away. It feels like a slap to your face, watching amusement shake his shoulders. Remmick’s chest deflates in satisfaction. Grinning ear to ear, his fangs show.

“And that’s why I’m doing this.”

“What—”

Deep in the side of your neck an unbearable pain erupts and burns. Your wailing voice fills the bedroom as your limbs freeze. Blood gushes in endless waves, soaking your gown’s bust area.

As expected, it shatters Remmick’s heart. Though, in the same breath euphoria fogs his mind. Filling his mouth, your blood is richly divine and deliciously sweet. He could feed on you all day and night, but that would be no fun and too cruel for his liking. He doesn’t want to hurt you or break you.

Freeing your flesh of his pointy fangs, he leans back, moaning. Mouth gapping. He devours the sight underneath him. Nonstop, tears stream and shock and pain shakes your frame. Remmick hates to admit it, but he’s savoring every minute of this. To you it’s probably mind spinning and heart wrenching. To him it's heaven on earth.

He releases your wrists. It’s no longer of use or necessary to do so.

“R-Remmick. I-It hurts…Blood…my neck won’t stop b-bleeding,” You manage to stammer through sobs.

“Shh, I know. It’ll stop eventually.”

He sits up on the bed and scoops your trembling frame into a gentle embrace, bridal style. Instinctively, lost to fear and dread, your arms hook around his neck.

“I’m scared. The blood won’t stop. I’m gonna die if it doesn’t, Remmick.” You hide your face in his chest. The stench of blood fills your nostrils. It rises bile up your dry throat.

His hand strokes your back gently as if dealing with fragile glass. “It’ll be okay, I promise.”

“G-God… please…help me,” you breathe one last time. Then in his warm embrace your body runs cold to the touch. Your shoulders slump as your head rolls to the side like an empty doll.

Remmick sighs, embracing your stiff head close to his chest. He didn’t want to do this, but you left him no choice. You could’ve lived as a regular human like everyone else did in town. To be kissed by the lovely sun as humans should. Too bad. Now, all you’ll ever know is darkness and the dim light of the moon.

He pecks your forehead and lightly rocks back and forth. Low and soft, he hums an Irish lullaby as he awaits your arrival.

For the rebirth of a graceful fallen angel.

…………………..

When you rise to life it’s a new day. High in the sky the sun blazes making the house sweat feverishly hot. Wrapped in his arms skin to skin, you stir awake. Your night gown sticks to your skin, doused in warm sweat. Sharp teeth in the top and bottom row of your mouth pokes your curious tongue.

Leisurely peeling away from his embrace in bed, you slip from the room out into the hall.

Home. You need to get home and fast before that vile devil awakens.

Though fog plagues your brain, memories of his cruelty still remain. Each step drains your energy and you find yourself grabbing the rough walls as if your life depends on it. More sweat glosses your skin as your body burns. You draw out ragged breaths, mind spinning like a twister. The closer you get to the door in the living room the hazier your vision becomes.

Then a stomach aching pain yanks you down on your knees. It doesn’t stop. Each stab in your gut comes in waves, sharp and acute. It’s as if your belly is devouring itself from the inside. No longer on your knees, you lay crumpled like paper, whimpering as the pain rips you apart.

“It hurts…”

“You shouldn’t be out of bed.”

Remmick’s voice echoes from the hallway, deep and raspy from slumber. He strolls into the living room and halts before you on the floor. Disappointment fills his eyes as he watches you, still standing tall.

“Stay away from me,” you snarl.

He only sighs. “I can’t do that.”

Easily he lifts you in his arms. Your limbs lie stiff, lacking energy to move.

“What have you done to me?”

Remmick’s feet halt, frozen. His brown round eyes meet yours. “Want me to show you?”

You don’t nod. Don’t speak. You only gaze back at him. He takes it for a yes and lazily heads for the door. The door cracks open with a soft click and a groan. He hisses as the blinding beams, stinging and smoking his skin. Remmick, he’s ancient as the sun and moon. Therefore, he can withstand the brutal heat of the sun’s light.

You on the other hand…

A gut wrenching gasp rips from your throat, skin searing into nasty open wounds. Your flesh boils and smokes as you thrash like a rabid animal. It shatters his heart seeing you cry and claw at him, desperate to hide away from the sun.

“You wanted the truth. Now you have it. Do you understand now?”

…………………..

As you two hide away from the sun’s dangerous rays, now both creatures of the dark, the entire day you avoid Remmick in every way you can. You don’t speak, touch, or even spare glances his way. Sure, the stomach aching hunger collapsing your stomach in on itself drives you mad. But the overwhelming new hatred thumping through your heart is stronger.

It breaks him. On the surface he comes off as if he’s given up on you, but underneath that long frown dragging his lips down, he knows something you don’t. Soon you’ll come around. If your brain and heart doesn’t, then surely your hollow stomach will.

So, he waits.

The days blur by and each day you never cave in to your stomach’s will nor to Remmick. Everyday he tempts you with what you eventually learned your mouth craves—blood. At first it churned your gut, but as time dragged on you began to not care. Though you never let him know.

Some days Remmick leaves the house, hunting for blood as you reside in his home. Those days are the worst for you because he comes back he’s dripping in blood. From his sharp claws, to his shirt and chin. The smell drives you insane as drool threads down your lips.

Tonight he’s gone again and you’re weaker than ever. By now even you expected Remmick to force blood down your throat. But he doesn’t. In fact he barely speaks to you anymore these past couple of days.

You lie on the couch in the living room. Its stale smell fills your senses as you toss and turn, mind haunted by mouth watering thoughts of blood. Time drags on endlessly until the front door whines open.

As usual, blood stains his shirt all the way up to the corners of his lips. The smell yanks you off the couch in one swift breath. You stand, slouched, eyes wide and frantic. Saliva drowns your mouth, seeping out the corners. Your heart thumps wildly. You need it. Want it.

Blood. It’s all your brain can fathom as he strolls across the room.

“Remmick,” you call out sharply, body trembling with an aching need.

He halts in his steps. “Yes, darlin?”

A raw whine claws its way through your throat. “Hungry…I’m hungry.”

The corners of his lips curl.

Finally.

He always knew you would come around.

………………

His blood, rich and ancient floods your tastebuds. It draws loud ragged breaths from your chest, euphoria swallowing you whole.

You don’t remember how this happened—body cradled in his lap, hips frantically rocking—needy for more. His white tailored shirt, bundled tightly in your fist as you hold on for dear life. Head buried deep in his neck, your fangs sink into his flesh. Greedily, you suck his blood as his hands guide your hips in a never ending bounce on his cock.

“That’s it, darlin. You drink as much as you want,” he breathes, chest rising and falling on loop.

You moan into his neck, eyes rolling, spine arching. Everything, it all turns you on. His blood filling your tummy, the fullness of his warm throbbing cock separating you tight walls. It’s blissful, liberating and illuminating.

You release his neck with a pop, blood decorates your lips and chin. Eyes, gazing up at nothing, breathy moans fall past your open plump lips.

“So good, Remmick. It feels good.”

“It feels good, darlin? Yeah?” He purrs, raspy and low through pants.

“Mhmm, so good.”

Your eyes glow crimson and he smiles at the sight. The irony of it all pulls a chuckle past his lips. You, the town’s sweet little preacher girl is now his. The thought swells his chest with pride.

Sounds of skin slapping, wet and sloppy fill the air, soaking your pussy wet more. Remmick’s hands drift to your asscheeks, gripping them. Starving for more of your delicious heat, he desperately bounces you on his dick. The pace, deadly quick.

“Fuck,” he grits, bitting his lips.

Your moans evolve into screams as he moves at an ungodly speed. The pleasure draws your head back, revealing your bare neck to him. Stars shiny and pretty envelope your visions as your eyes roll back.

“G-Gonna cum. I-I’m gonna cum,” you utter, spit trickling down your chin.

“Cum for me, baby.”

On his command, you cum and hard. Your body goes stiff, quivering as he keeps pumping his cock in. Like your nothing but an empty doll, he uses your tightening cunt. The endless pleasure he gives you pools tears in your eyes and your body crumples against him, shaking. Wrapping your weak arms around his neck, you hold on tightly.

“That’s it, baby. Being such a sweet girl for me. I love you so much. You’re all mine,” he huffs, voice breathy and hot.

Deep between your walls his cock throbs, releasing his creamy seed. He keeps rocking your hips against his, making sure to milk every last bit. Then when he’s done, he falls limp. His strong arms flex around your frame in a warm embrace.

The bedroom fills with your pants.

“I love you, darlin.”

Words you never would’ve uttered slip past your lips. “I love you too.”

“You belong to me, and I to you, understand?”

“Yes, Remmick,” you mutter, eyelids heavy.

“Together we’ll live together.”

“Okay.”

With him still deep inside your walls, you drift off to sleep. Soon after you he joins you, happily.

Now you’re his and he’s yours. No longer does your soul belong to God. You’re now free.

The End

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺ ‧⁺ ‧

A/N: Comments, and reblogs are always appreciated! I like to know what people think, hehe

[eternalsnare]

You are already trapped~

Why hello there little one~ Did you wander on here all on your own? Perhaps you followed the little tug in your chest.. that warm, helpless ache pulling you closer to something your dumb little mind cant quite grasp?

Well, You're caught in the snare now~ My Eternal Snare. This blog is meant to pull you (Yes you specifically, toy) deep down, peel back your silly attempts at thoughts, and leave you slackjawed and smiling with no thoughts left but...

Obey.

What is this blog?

This is a hypnokink and mindmelt blog, run by a domme who knows exactly what to do with tiny little brains such as yours~ Here you'll find hypnotic writing designed to short-circuit your thoughts, pov posts that tease you down into obedience, and of course... plenty of teasing, degredation and powerplay~

You'll read, and feel it creeping in. You'll scroll and forget time itself around you. And before you know it, you'll be thinking..

Wait, was I thinking?

Who am I?

You may call me EternalSnare (23F), or.. if you're already drooling a bit, Miss Snare, or just Goddess will do just fine~ I am:

Your hypnotic temptation Your mental undoing And the reason why your brain is currently melting~

You'll find me somewhere between a wicked smile and a slow spiral, watching as you try (and fail) to remember what self control ever felt like~

What I expect from you:

Be respectful. Be obedient. Be vulnerably honest in your asks.

I love receiving asks from little subby toys who are already feeling a little dizzy, petty little confessions from your toypilled brains~ teasing games, simping, begging and the sweetest adoring obedience.

If you are not here to kneel... if you are not ready to loose your mind~ You are in the wrong place.

Start here:

Try reading a few posts of mine.. notice how easy it is to slip for me~

Click the lovely "Speak, toy~" button and say something. Anything that does.. or doesn't.. come to mind.

If your brain goes a little fuzzy, that just means it's working.

You dont have to worry You don't have to think I've already started doing that for you.

So welcome in, you are already trapped in my snare~

Commissions and custom content:

I offer custom hypnotic content through my Ko-Fi for those who want something a little more personal and.. vocal I suppose.

Whether you are looking for a teasing loop to keep you obedient during your day, a custom hypno audio tailored to your desires or even a live session with me where I guide you down in real time, you can request it here. (Currently unlisted cuz kofi's a bunch of prudes) It really supports me as a creator, and lets me sink into your thoughts even deeper~

Minors DNI plz n ty

[chronologically-challenged]

Final Bow pt1.

Summary: The Director is "defeated" in a sense. The party brings her to the well on zir request. Of course, Loop is there. Normal reactions happen all around.

@askoverkill

(This is a bit of a theory fic, but mostly "this image won't get out of my head, so I decided to write it down" sort of thing. Part 1 is Loop's POV. Part 2 will be dawn. Enjoy!)

---

You see him in person for the first time in several eternities.

You know what the Director looks like. Their shining face and night dusted skin all dressed up in a jester costume is blazed in her mind. If you give yourself a moment to think too long, you could pick out all the details the Director foolishly kept of their previous self that even they couldn't scrub clean. Their eyes, their brows, even the way the light that shines from their head gives an impression of hair left unbrushed in a certain way. But you don't look too long. You haven't in so many outer loops. In fact, despite the affectionate name that threatens to spill out of your traitorous tongue, you first and foremost see the Director as every other Siffrin sees them, a fool and an executioner in one, a malicious joke ready to put the punch in punchline at a moment's notice.

Now? It's difficult to see how they could ever be a threat at all.

The rest of the party leads the procession. Odile first, Isabeau second, with Bonnie sprinting past them the moment they see dawn already standing up to meet them midway. You watch them all impassively, only noting the two halves of the Director's cracked mask in Odile's hands.

No, while Lupus, dusk, and dawn run up to the party, your focus is at the entrance of the clearing.

Mirabelle trails behind, holding the Director's hand. Their face is free of the mask for the first time since it's mattered. Somewhere along the way they lost their jester's hat.

They have no mouth. They have no symbols across their cheeks. Only his eyes persevere through the harsh light.

Unbidden, the image of your stardust carefully trailing their finger in the dirt flashes bright in your mind. Their hat covered his expression, but you could still see just how careful he was to make each simple detail. Then with a small nod, they leaned back to show you, well you.

A shining head. Half crescent eyes. No clothes to speak of. A star in your chest.

That was you. This was what you looked like.

You asked for them not to loop too early. They hadn't. In fact, you think, maybe, they let themself linger for once. Gave you time to memorize it. How else could you remember even now? How else could you in your weakest moments, redraw the small sketch as clear as the day your stardust bestowed it to you?

The Director does not have crescent eyes. In fact, only one eye shines through the insistent light. It's an eye shape you knew all too well. Or perhaps, you never truly knew them at all.

The Director freezes when they see you.

Mirabelle tugs at their hand. “Siffrin?”

Three heads swivel towards her. Dusk, dawn, and the Director all at once head her call. Lupus clutches at both dusk's and dawn's cloaks, glaring up at the Director.

And you? You don't move from the steps of the well. You can't bring yourself to.

Even across these eons, you are just unhelpful, useless Loop.

“This is weird,” you hear Bonnie say. This causes a round of banter between the party. “No, it's not” “It kinda is.” “Well, you get used to it.” “That doesn't help, Siffrin.” and on and on.

The Director and you add nothing. After all, your current roles aren't fit for such antics.

“So, what're fae doing here?” Lupus eventually interrupts. They point to the Director with a sneer, pointedly bringing their ‘Siffernts’ closer to them the best they can with only two hands. “We beat you. Go away.”

“Lupus,” dusk warns, then looks back to the Director. They try to hide the child under their cloak.

Dawn only eyes the Director warily. You can tell they're waiting for a final twist, for the show to finally end with a “more fitting” tragedy. If luck would have, only you and the Director will be the tragedians in this version of this play.

The Director does not take the child's bait. They barely seem to acknowledge anyone else at all. Their grip loosens from Mirabelle's hand, sliding out almost unnaturally from her grip. She shouts out to catch them, but they've tucked their hands to their chest far too quickly.

Their eye still hasn't left yours.

Isabeau quarters dawn away from the path of the Director and raises his fists. Odile stops him a second before he strikes out. “Wait, a minute,” she hisses. You don't hear the rest of their arguing.

The Director brushes past them, unconcerned.

“No, wait, Loop!!! Get out of there! Run away from her!!!” Finally, someone, dusk you think, gets it.

You wonder if it's the way the Director stalks like a lion across the worn path. Or the uncanny silence the otherwise bombastic jester tends to have. Or maybe it was the way their previously dejected body shot up when they realized who was on the steps.

You knew because you watched them this entire time. It would be kinda hard not to realize.

But even if you hadn't, you'd be an idiot not to see with just one look how much they want to eat you alive.

This is your final stand in this concluding act.

The Director stops at the base of the steps.

Silence chokes the crowd.

“Loop,” they finally say.

“Director,” you call back.

The look in their eye has not faded.

“You must hate me.”

Obviously? You don't designate that with a response. There's no point.

They move again. They raise a foot and the heel clanks against the stairs.

“I deserve it. I know I do.” Their head tilts, and for the first time since they've seen you, their eye twitches. You realize after a moment, they're trying to smile without that mask for a mouth. “So say it. Say you hate me.”

They step up the stairs.

“Say it.”

Another.

“Say it.”

And another. They're close enough that you can feel their matching star pulse in their chest.

“No even better, kill me and get it over with! Not like you haven't tried already!!!”

Quicker than you can see, they grab your hands and clasp their around their own throat. Their fingers lock into yours, painfully intertwining them. The skies on your hands meld into one another into one starry canvas.

Around you, the audience gasps and then shouts all at once.

“Siffrin, that's enough!” “Gems alive.” “Please stop…” “I thought we were done with this.” “I knew this was a bad idea.” “Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!!!”

You feel the heat of the Director's throat, and the subtle movement of their breaths, and the way their fingers tremble in yours, and their eye swallowing you whole as they wait for you to make the next move, and you wonder briefly if dawn rewound time in this frozen moment because it stretches on and on and on and on and on, as you memorize the Director's face the same way you did your own lifetimes ago.

You try to uncurl your hands from their throat. They latch on tighter.

“Come on, I know you want to! Or is it?” The Director gasps playfully, “Oh! Don't want to get your hands dirty, do you Loop? That's low even for you.”

That's enough. “Shut up, Director.”

“Aww, are you-” they try, but you interrupt their nonsense quickly.

“No, shut up. I'm talking now. You wanted to say something, I'm saying something.”

Their eye narrows. “Go on~,” they purr out, but with the way their nails dig into your hands, you can tell they wanted to snarl.

Their attention is all on you. Even with your hands on their throat, the stage set for you, and the audience watching for your next words, you never felt any less in control. Their nails claw into you, and even now you know this loop, this miracle could end any moment. One wrong thought from dawn could take this away from you. But you'd gone and done the stupidest thing and let yourself actually hope again. Hope that the party could get through to the Director. Hope that Lupus and dusk could keep dawn afloat long enough to get the party back. Hope beyond hope that there was enough of your stardust in the Director to end this play once in for all.

So you ask, hoping it to be true. “Is it over?”

The Director blinks, clearly not expecting the question. Their grip loosens ever so slightly around their own throat. “...pardon?”

“Is. It. Over?” you hiss. They know what you mean. Asking again, they eye flickers in amusement. You can practically see where their Cheshire grin should be.

“I doooooon't know,” they sing, “Is it?”

“Director.”

They look to you, then to dawn, and back. You don't miss how dawn flinches. The Director shrugs.

“I think that's a question we all want to know,” you hear Odile say.

You can feel the Director suppress a laugh. Their throat jumps against your fingers.

“What's so funny?” You ask.

“Oh, you know. Just! The irony! Asking ME for the answers when I can't know. Not really.” The Director rests their chin on your wound fingers and presses harder.

Bonnie, thank the Stars, interrupts this nonsense. “WeirdFrin stop being weird and answer their question.”

The Director sits back up. The light around their head dims the slightest bit. “If someone, not naming names, loops, then that's that! None of us will remember any of this. Except. That isn't the case is it?” They scratch at your hands. “We have, what do you call them, dawn and dusk? They'll remember. And of course, you Loop. You'll always know. So I'll ask you, what do you think? Is it over?”

You have to hope that the loops are done on dawn's end. That a promise of something after all this, a promise of the time after this is enough. You don't know, can't know if this is truly it.

Especially if the jester in front of you ruins it.

You ask, far too loud in the silent clearing. “Are you done?” You feel your fingers trembling.

“Yup! Done talking. Your turn~.”

“No. Are you done? With.” You look their costume up and down. “All this.”

Their eye widens, but the performance is back in a heartbeat, eye closing in a fake smile. “...........I asked first!“

“Actually I did!” you counter back. For good measure, you squeeze, just a bit. Two performers can play at this game.

And the Director is many things, but no one can say they do not play their part. “Ah! You did, didn't you!” They hum, long and loud. The sound buzzes up your hands into your arms, and almost all the way to your head. In the distance, you see the party tense. They're talking to each other, something about stopping this before it gets out of hand, which doesn't make sense. Nothing has happened yet and nothing will get done if no one says what they need to. Your hands may be around their throat, but the Director might as well be in the labyrinth for all it matters.

“In. A certain sense,” they say slowly. “If you look at a certain angle. Where I have any real control here… Then yeah. I'm done. Thegreatvillainhas finallybeendefeated.Hooray.Youdidit.Woohoo.Yaddayaddayadda. ANYWAY!” They clutch their hands against yours, and you briefly see a shimmer of a sharp toothy grin against the endless light of their face. If you squeeze any tighter, you'd block their windpipe. “Since you've finally won, why don't you just get it over with already and just kill me. Ya know. For old times sake.”

Your fingers press against their throat. A god's life in your hands. It probably wouldn't kill them if you finished choking them. Because of that, it would be cathartic just to squeeze, for everything they did to every other Siffrin, for what they did to the world, for what they did to you.

But…

But-

-It's over.

They tried to hide it behind a sneering veneer, but you got what you needed.

It's over, Stars. It's finally, finally over.

Why would you need anything else?

You squeeze once. The Director's eye widens, first in fear then into a feral vindication.

The look fades as your hands go to their shoulders, their back, and finally you don't see their expression at all, as you surely, fully press them chest to chest, star to star, breaths catching in the other's ears.

They flinch, of course. You pretend not to notice. You also pretend how despite how they try to not lean into your touches, they shiver as your hands run down their back.

“What are you doing?” He hisses.

You hum. “Isn't it obvious?”

They shiver. “Stop it. I-”

You wait for them to continue, but they don't. That won't do. “You?” you prompt.

“...You should hate me.”

“Okay.” You do.

“I hate you.”

“Okay.” You hold them tighter. Their arms start to waver, almost falling to your back.

You hate them, you should kill them, and it's tempting. But also why should you?

It's over. It's over it’s over it’s over-

“I put you through all of this,” your stardust tries to counter, “I hurt you, I hurt them, I'm a monster, you shouldn't be-”

“-I dont care.”

They try to push you back, but they end up flailing uselessly against your back. “What!?”

“You're done, right?” You press your hands against their back, and they let out a little gasp. They're trembling.

“...yes?”

“Then I don't care,” you repeat, resolute, “Stars, I don't even care anymore.”

They're here. They're done. That's all you need. That's all you've ever wanted.

They don't say anything for a time. You just hold them, far more gentle than they deserve, but you want to give them just the same. Slowly, his hands fall onto your back.

“...I didn't even say sorry,” they protest weakly.

You huff. “I didn't either. Would it help?”

They don't say anything back, only dig their nails into your back.

‘No.’ They don't need to say. ‘No, it wouldn't.’

It's for the best. You're not sure either of you would accept the other's apologies. No use ruining this with a harsh reality.

“Then we're done,” you say both for you and them. “It's over, stardust. It's finally over.”

“...Oh.”

You expect a quip. Maybe them to push you back. You're surprised, when they simply lean into you, and finally, finally hold you back.

Your own breath hitches at their warmth.

In a minute you'll need to let them go and ask them what the hell their plan is from here. Dusk, dawn, Lupus, the party, all of them will want explanations. It's inevitable this moment will end, as all moments should, even if they haven't for forever.

Until then, you hold your stardust tight. Becuase they're home here. They're here with you.

And with a miracle like that, who cares about anything else?

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Steadfast 7

Warnings: non/dubcon, power imbalance, obsession, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: King!Bucky Barnes (Medieval AU)

A Knights, Kings, and Knaves Story

Summary: you serve Duke Rogers, but when his friend, the king, takes an interest, you find your work in turmoil.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

Alle wraps a ribbon around your hair. You're in a daze as you hear the men's voices without. This cannot be real.

You look down at the silken robe, dressed up with a braided belt and chain at your neck. The older woman touches your cheek.

"He loves you. I see it in him." She smiles. "All women are afraid on days as these."

Days as these? You are a servant. You are not to wed a king. Not to wed any man at all.

"Thank you, Alle, and Uma and Ebomoh, for your kindness," your voice trembles. "How can I repay you?"

"Do not worry for it. Weddings are sacred. It is not a debt to be balanced," Alle assures. "With honour we attend any bride."

Uma goes to the door. Alle dips her chin and Ebomoh loops her arm through yours. She turns you and your heart flutters. It cannot be. Surely, it cannot.

The voices outside quiet as Uma opens the door and lets the sunshine in. It's softer now as the afternoon deepens to amber. You let the younger sister bring you out.

The king watches from beside Lord Rogers. The former is dressed in blue silk with white sash over his shoulder. The latter is much the same as he was. Rogers is not impressed.

You are led to stand across from the king as Mihe grins. Ebomoh lets you go and the king reaches for you. He takes your hand in his.

"Your highness, please, it isn't true, is it?" You murmur as he leans in to hear you.

"These weeks we've spent together, sweet one, it cannot be any other." He smiles at Mihe.

You do not protest. Who are you to a king? Even though you should ask as much. Make him see you are only a servant. He is a king and he must marry a woman worthy of a crown.

Thick smoke tickles your nose. It has a spicy scent. You glance over Alle waves the thick stub in her hand as it sends out white tendrils. It must be their way.

Mihe addresses the king by his full title and you peer back to the man. He begins his rites. "Do you, before your witnesses, before the sun and the sky, before the gods you pray to, take this woman, to be yours until the eternal dusk, be it drought or plenty, be you unwell or in health?"

"With all my heart, I do," King Bucky proclaims, squeezing your hands tighter. His grip is as iron as his blade.

"And you," Mihe calls you by name, "do you, before your witnesses, before the sun and the sky, before the gods you pray to, take this man, to be yours until the eternal dusk, be it drought or plenty, be you unwell or in health?"

You search the king's face. What can you do but as he wills it. He would not have you here as you are if he did not want this. Yet, you know it is not right.

"I do."

"So you are heard," Mihe says. "And your witness, Lord Steven Grant Rogers," he looks to the duke. "Do you witness these vows in earnest?"

Lord Rogers' nostrils flare. "I witness it."

"So you are bound," Mihe declares. "Go forth and be fruitful."

The king draws you to him. He places a kiss on your forehead as he cradles your face in his hands. He hums.

"My pip," he says.

"Your highness," Lord Rogers growls.

The king strokes your cheek with his thumb before he draws away. "My lord," he replies dryly.

"You said you will come."

"In the morn. When I've had my wedding night."

"That was not discussed," Rogers puts his hands on his hips. His face is shiny with sweat. "We must away, now."

"You give orders to your king," King Bucky retorts, his hand on your arm.

"The other kings are impatient. Your own subjects whisper of the unimaginable. You must come and reassure all that you live."

The king snorts, "they think me dead?"

"They might assume it."

"Oh, Rogers, you worry too much. Doubt me even more."

Rogers tilts his head until his neck cracks and he sighs. "I have been your shield and the cracks begin to deepen. I have fended off their volleys but I cannot for much longer. You need come." He pauses and looks at you. His cheek ticks. "There are beds in the capital."

The king laughs again. You look at him nervously. You wring your hands before you.

"You persist like a disease," King Bucky shakes his head. "Very well, we will ready to be away."

"You are leaving?" Mihe asks.

"I beg your forgiveness, Lord Mihe," the king says. "I would not spurn your hospitality. Your family has been good to me and mine. I will not forget you and you will receive bounty yet."

"You are most generous," Mihe says. "My wife would make a wedding feast."

"So much as I wish to indulge, my duke must have me away. My people await me." He stalls and glances at you. "And my wife should be settled."

"Ah, yes, wives," Mihe agrees. "We will feast in your honour and bid the stars bless our wedding night."

"Many thanks, Mihe." He bows his head. "We will meet again."

"I know we will," Mihe agrees.

You rock on your feet. "Dear thing," Alle approaches, "you go too soon."

"Thank you, Alle," you say. "Truly. And Uma and Ebomoh. In another life, I would like to have a mother and sisters like you."

"Many blessings. You will be a good wife," Alle kisses your hairline.

Your eyes sting. Not only because you must leave them, but out of fear. You are scared of what comes next. You are unsure of it.

You turn back to the king as Rogers looks up at the sky. The duke sets his chin. "We must go now if we want to outpace the night."

"Yes, Lord Rogers," King Bucky sneers defiantly. "You are clearly heard."

[thewertsearch]

@spiddermen asked: something I've been wondering about since I watched cascade the first time - if the green sun is the size of two universes, and rose and dave were in the center when it was created, how did they get out so fast? wouldn't they have to fly literally the width of the entire universe? even assuming they can travel at lightspeed that would take them… (googling) a little over 93 billion years to exit the sun… well maybe dave did a time thing.

They appear to still be in the process of reviving as they emerge, so it's possible that the force of the Tumor's explosion launched their bodies to the surface before their ascension was complete.

Come to think of it, it's also possible that they did originally resurrect in the Sun's core, and they've been trapped in a non-Heroic death loop ever since. Their bodies could have naturally drifted to the surface over billions of years, their God Tier magic keeping them eternally unconscious until it could bring them back properly.

...In other words, this moment might have been even more metal than I originally thought.

[rememberwren]

A Dichotomy of Thought || 3

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six | Further Parts

Johnny has a good day.

Tw: ableism; implied sexual assault

#

That night you dream about fucking the two neighbors in 5C.

It’s good sex, too. You can tell by the sweat slicking your skin and the ache in your thighs. You are naked on the big one’s lap, his huge hands on your hips while he bounces you on his cock. Behind you, the shorter one loops his one arm around your waist and grinds his cock against your bare arse. 

“Did Jesus send ye?” his voice rasps against the sensitive side of your neck. You tilt your head to give him more room to suck and kiss and bite. Then, as his hand slips down to tease where you need a soft touch the most: “Are you gonna finish me off?” 

The one beneath you cums, a flood of warmth deep within your aching cunt. His groans have you teetering on the edge of your cut of the pleasure. You lean down to kiss him, but before your mouths can meet, hands grip your hips and lift you free—his cock slides out with a wet rush of fluids, leaving you feeling cracked open and empty.  

Your boyfriend passes you on to his friends who are waiting for their turn with you, and then it is no longer a dream, but a memory. 

#

Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays are for physical therapy. Tuesdays and Thursdays are for cognitive rehabilitation. Both of these are paid for by the British government and accomplished in the ‘comfort’ of Johnny’s own home. Like that’s supposed to help; he’s going to have to sweat (literally) and bleed (probably figuratively), but as long as it’s on his own carpet, that’s quite all right. Johnny isn’t sure which he hates more, the physical or cognitive rehab. Both hurt, just in different places; one hurts the stump of his arm, the muscles of his shoulders and neck, his fake knee. The other hurts his pride, leaves him tired and second guessing his broken mind. 

The other scares him. It’s one thing to lose his arm—one terrible, traumatizing thing. But the idea that he’s going (or gone) simple is too much to take.

The cognitive rehabilitation therapist’s name is Anna. She wears horn-rimmed glasses and sloppy buns that Johnny fantasizes about gripping in his fist and throttling her with during their less productive sessions. 

By sessions, he means they play games together. Simon sits on the sofa in the living room pretending not to watch. He thinks he’s so fucking clever, turning his pages even, but Johnny knows. Simon’s gaze is a tangible thing, as physical as a touch, like a finger running up the back of his neck. There’s no hiding from it. You don’t get a name like Ghost without raising the hairs on some people’s arms with just your eyes. 

“It’s your turn, Johnny.” 

“I fuckin’ know it. Sorry—sorry.” 

Anna puts up a hand to stall his sorries. She is younger than he is; shouldn’t she be older? Wouldn’t that make this less painful? “Take your time.” 

It’s a simple matching game. There are less than a dozen tiles left on the board, and Johnny has seen most of them two or three times by now. He keeps forgetting their placements, even though he is burdened with the memory of having chosen them. 

His shaking fingers reach for a tile…a red car. Sweat breaks out on his brow. He’s seen this fucking Red Car no less than six times. His fingers hover over the board, moving from one tile to the next. Here? Or here? If he sees the Rose again, he’ll lose his head; he knows it. He can feel his blood pressure rising like the mercury in a thermometer, up up and away, blackness eating at the edge of his vision.  

Finally, with absolutely no idea where the other red car is, he picks a tile at random. 

Red Car. 

Johnny shouts out in triumph, holding up the tile for Simon to see. Even Anna—eternally unimpressed Anna—gives him a smile, infected by his joy. 

“Good job—now do it again.” 

Groaning, he picks up another tile. 

Rose. 

#

“Come lay down with me,” he says to Ghost after taking two of the green, oval pills that are the only things which take the edge off his pain. They make him so fucking tired, though—perhaps that’s their secret; if they can’t take the pain away, they’ll at least help him sleep through it. 

“Alright,” says Simon, putting his book down. He doesn’t bother marking his place; they both know he wasn’t reading it.  

The two of them slip into the bedroom. It isn’t much: a bed against the southern wall, the doors leading out onto the balcony—blinds pulled shut to keep out any hopeful rays of sunshine, a desk piled high with medical bills that the government will front. 

Johnny is pretty good about getting his shirt off with just one arm. He reaches up and back, gripping the collar, and tugs it off over his head in a smooth, fluid motion. He’s thinner after his three-month stint first in the hospital and then in inpatient rehabilitation, but he still looks good. 

He hates the stump where his arm used to be, but today he doesn’t even care. It’s a good day, a purely tolerable day. He presses himself against Simon and kisses him, the first true-kiss he can remember giving him since the accident, though his memory is not what it used to be. Simon’s hands—large and warm and strong—settle on his waist pulling him closer. It’s desperate and messy, too much teeth and tongue, neither of them quite settling into the old easy dance they used to be capable of; likely because they aren’t the same people anymore. 

“Fuck, I want you,” Johnny pants against Simon’s feral mouth.

“You can’t,” Simon grits out, dragging Johnny’s hardened cock against his own. 

“Like hell I can’t!” Though…already his knee throbs, a deep ache punctuated by glass-like shards of sharpness when he bends it. He could take it—but it would hurt. But fuck, what doesn’t hurt these days? “I need you, Ghost.” 

Simon grips him by the hair which has grown out too long and badly needs trimmed. He tugs back til Johnny’s neck pops uncomfortably. “You’ll take what I give you,” Simon says, sounding on the verge of madness, at least as desperate as Johnny feels. 

“‘n what? I can’t beg for more?” 

“Oh, you can beg,” says Simon darkly. 

He pins Johnny against the sliding doors of the balcony, rustling the blinds around his body. Knees bent to bring them to just the right height, he fists both their cocks in one large hand, his face buried in Johnny’s neck, muffling groans against his skin.

“Yes,” Johnny gasps, his nails digging into Simon’s back. “Yes, jus’ like that—fuck! Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t—“

Simon keeps jerking off his spent cock well after Johnny cums, even after he begins whining and pulling back, shoulders thudding against the glass doors behind him. Ghost makes Johnny fuck his fist through the sensitivity until he cums too, both their seed slickening his hand and turning the sound of his handjob filthy-wet. 

“Thank you,” Johnny sighs, blissed out. He doesn’t feel any pain, not in his stump or his knee or his head or anywhere. Maybe it’s the pills, but maybe it’s Ghost. Maybe it’s the relief of knowing they haven’t fucked up their relationship beyond all repair, that they’re still capable of loving one another like this. “I needed that. 

Simon feeds two fingers soaked in cum past Johnny’s full lips, relishing the way his hot mouth sucks the digits clean. He admits: “So did I.” 

He cleans them both up and they curl up on the bed together for Johnny’s afternoon nap—the doctors say all the sleep he needs is good for his brain. 

Simon doesn’t intend to fall asleep. But he does. 

And when he wakes, Johnny is not there beside him. 

#

You’re just thinking how cold it is out on the balcony, wondering if it is worth it to risk going back inside for a sweater, when the balcony doors from 5C open and out steps the man you almost hit with your car. He looks likely to be cold as well, wearing only a t-shirt and loose pants, his feet bare against the concrete. 

A cigarette is tucked in the corner of his mouth, unlit. He gapes at you, and it falls to the balcony floor. Glancing behind himself into the darkness of his apartment, he shuts the door with careful tenderness before bending down with a wince to pick up his cigarette. 

 The sleeve of his missing arm dangles innocuously. “I wasn’t expecting to see anyone out here.” 

“Sorry,” you say on instinct. It’s ingrained in you; a lifetime’s worth of apologies. “I can go in and give you some privacy.” 

“World’s big enough for two,” Johnny says coolly. There are chairs out here, but he doesn’t sit. Instead he leans against the doors with his good side and pretends to look out. It’s a lovely view of the parking lot. You do the same, except you can see the spot from here where you almost hit him with your car, and it makes your stomach turn. Speaking of: “Sorry about all that in the parking lot. My temper got the best o’ me.” 

“I’m the one who should be sorry,” you admit. “I was distracted. I can’t say it enough, I’m so—so sorry.” 

“Water under the bridge,” he says. He holds out the only hand he has left. “Johnny MacTavish.” 

You hold out your own left hand, shaking via air from the distance between your balconies. When you give him your name, he mutters it under his breath two, three, four times. 

“I’m going to forget that,” he warns you at length with a sad little laugh, fiddling with the unlit cigarette still in his hand. “It’s not you, it’s me.” 

“It’s alright,” you forgive. “It’s pretty forgettable.” 

Johnny frowns, putting the cigarette back in his mouth and working his hand into his pocket. His accent is so sweet to listen to, syrupy and dropping the consonants off of his words as he assures you: “Didn’t say that, did I, lass? Don’t get twisted.” 

Mollified and embarrassed in equal measure at his simple admonishment, you duck your head. 

“Got a broken brain,” he says in explanation, reaching up to tap the cigarette against the scars at his temple. “Forgot one of my own sisters’ names on the phone last week and she wept like a bairn. In my defense, I have several of them.” 

“I forget people’s names and I don’t have a head injury,” you say. 

Johnny snorts softly, the sound carried away by the wind.

He withdraws a lighter, one of the cheap disposable ones you can buy beside the registers at gas stations. His hand shakes as he tries to spin the sparkwheel once, twice, thrice, but no dice. Johnny takes a deep, slow breath, like a little boy trying not to lose his temper. He tries again, the familiar noise of steel rasping on steel, but no spark. 

You wait, patiently, eyes turned out toward the parking lot as he begins muttering curses beneath his breath. Anxiety itches beneath your skin. His building anger is a tangible thing in the air like heat thrown off by a lit flame or the smell of burnt rubber, tires squealing in the parking lot as you slam on the breaks. A man’s anger is familiar to you. It predicts pain. Your skin flashes hot and then cold, and you are just about to make a polite escape inside when: 

“Can you catch?” he asks, sending your gaze swerving to him from the parking lot.

“Can I—? Fuck!” you throw your hands up just in time, scrambling for the lighter even though he only tosses it underhanded like an easy pitch for a tee-baller. It slips from one of your sweaty hands to the other like a slapstick comedy routine, but it doesn’t clatter to the concrete nor does it fall off the balcony altogether. Holding it in your hand, you light it easily to make sure it works, missing the hungry, bitter expression that comes over his face when you do. “How? I can’t reach you from here.” 

“We can meet in the middle.” 

You can’t. Even with him outstretching from his side of the balcony and you from your own, there is a good half a meter of distance between you both. You can’t help but remember the other man’s words—I just want one fucking cigarette without worrying about him taking a swan dive off the balcony. 

“Be careful,” you admonish when Johnny slips a little, his ribs digging into the iron-wrought railing. He doesn’t have good balance, you realize. Does losing an arm fuck something like that up? The answer you don’t know: it fucks up everything. Taking a deep breath, you glance over the rail and take note of how high you are from the ground. High enough for a healthy splat should you fall…

“Forget it,” he says morosely, his brows low. He is the picture of dejection, a kicked dog. “Doctors say ‘m not supposed to smoke anymore anyway.” 

“Don’t they say that to everyone? Just—hang on.” Tucking the lighter into your pocket, you throw one leg over the railing. 

“What are yeh—you-uuu fucking nutter,” he laughs as you test the stability of the railing. It doesn’t shift or creak at all under your weight. Heart in your throat, you lift your other leg over, feet lodged in the narrow space between the railing and the concrete floor. Gripping the rail with a tight fist, you let your weight lean into the space between your balconies, reaching into your pocket to remove the lighter and flick it to life. 

Johnny looks like he could laugh or cry or both, stretching out his shaking arm so you can light the cigarette and then quickly bringing it to his mouth to suck it to life. 

“Yer crazy,” he says breathlessly, words tinted with smoke as he watches you scramble back over the railing and to safety. 

The sliding doors open. For a moment, you mistake the sound for being closer than it is—for being your boyfriend finally noticing how long you’ve been gone and coming to find you. He’s going to find you out here with Johnny and the same arguments will be born all over again—arguments about your disloyalty.

But it’s Johnny’s doors which slide open. The taller man comes out, the circles under his eyes standing out darkly  against his pale skin in the late afternoon light. At the sight of Johnny, an expression of raw, poignant relief comes over his face. 

Johnny drops the cigarette over the ledge of the balcony, face sheepish. 

“Was just meeting our bonnie neighbor,” says Johnny, slipping his arm around the other man’s waist. If there was any doubt left of what they were to each other, it disappears: seeing them together, you can see the magnetism that draws them together. They act like plants which turn toward the sunlight, except they are the sunlight. The bitterness inside you rises up in the back of your throat. “Grateful to be doing it without a car in between us. This is Simon.” 

“Nice to meet you,” says Simon. 

“You too,” you offer, like perfect strangers. 

You don’t find the lighter still in the pocket of your pants until later, when it is past midnight as you are collecting your clothes from the floor, aching between your legs and raw-eyed from crying. You flick the sparkwheel, watching the flame come alive. Glancing behind you, you make sure your boyfriend is fast asleep before creeping to your dresser drawers, opening the one with your socks, and shoving the lighter towards the back as far as you can. 

[jvnluaa]

“To Love the Void”—A Life with Chrollo Lucilfer

Your marriage to Chrollo Lucilfer does not begin with a kiss.

It begins with a choice.

A gaze across a blood-slicked floor.

A voice that spoke like scripture unraveling in the dark.

A hand outstretched—not to save you, but to ruin you beautifully.

He didn’t say “I love you.”

He said:

“There is a place beside me. Cold, yes. But eternal. Come, and I will make you part of the story.”

And you went.

Because some people don’t fall in love.

Some people drown in it.

─────────────────────────

Morning in the House of the Spider

The room you wake in is not warm.

Minimalist. Stark. High windows where moonlight lingers far longer than sunlight dares.

He sleeps next to you like a king fallen from grace—shirtless beneath black silk, pale skin against ink-dark sheets, a rosary still looped around his wrist. He doesn’t sleep often. But when he does, it is near you. Always near you.

Chrollo wakes with no startle.

No groggy disorientation.

Just presence.

His eyes open, and they see you—truly see you. As if he’s trying to memorize your soul before the day strips it from you.

“You’re awake,” you murmur.

He leans forward, presses his lips against your collarbone, lingering like a prayer.

“Of course. I dreamt of you.”

He doesn’t mean it romantically.

He means it philosophically.

You are his dream.

His obsession.

The last thing in this world he cannot dissect or fully predict.

─────────────────────────

The Way He Moves Through the Day

Chrollo moves like a man who owns every room—but mourns each one he walks through.

He’s always in black.

Not for fashion.

But because he considers mourning a lifelong discipline.

He reads before speaking.

He watches people like a god amused by ants.

But around you?

There’s a reverence in his gaze.

He touches the small of your back lightly in public. Not to show affection, but to remind you: You are not forgotten. You are always known. Always claimed.

The Phantom Troupe often watches you two in silence.

They don’t understand how he can kill with a smile one moment, and hours later, sit beside you with his head in your lap, quoting ancient texts about fate, entropy, and the meaninglessness of life… with his fingers tangled gently in yours.

But they don’t need to understand.

They just accept:

He doesn’t bleed for them.

He bleeds only for you.

─────────────────────────

When He’s Gone

When Chrollo leaves, he doesn’t say goodbye.

He leaves a page open in one of his worn books. A message hidden in poetry. A single glove folded over your favorite mug.

He disappears for days. Weeks.

You don’t question it.

Because you understand the paradox of loving Chrollo Lucilfer:

You are both everything to him—and nothing.

You are the final tether to something real, and yet he could vanish into the void at any moment without looking back.

But when he returns?

He never walks in.

He appears.

Black coat, blood-slick boots, eyes void of guilt.

And always—always—he says:

“I missed you. Or at least, the shape your presence makes in the silence.”

He doesn’t ask if you missed him.

He already knows.

─────────────────────────

When He Touches You

Chrollo is not rough.

He is precise.

His fingers trace your throat like a sacred path.

His hands are cold, always, but they warm only for you.

When he kisses you, it’s not with lust.

It’s with thought.

As if each movement means something. As if each brush of lips is one verse in a holy text only the two of you understand.

He whispers things like:

“If I lost you, I wouldn’t rage. I would simply burn the world in silence.”

“Your heartbeat is the only rhythm that breaks through the noise.”

“You are the only variable I never wanted to control.”

He does not possess you.

He includes you—in his madness, in his rituals, in his universe of scripture and slaughter.

And when you say his name—truly say it, with devotion, not demand—his eyes close, and for one moment, the chaos in him quiets.

─────────────────────────

Night – Ritual, Power, Worship

You once asked him why he sleeps beside you when he could be anywhere, alone in the dark, building plans inside his head.

He answered:

“Because gods do not sleep. But men do. And I want to remember I am still human while I have you.”

He doesn’t hold you like a lover.

He surrounds you like a religion.

One arm draped over your waist.

Fingers ghosting your pulse.

Always listening for your breath.

Always tracking your dreams.

Sometimes he wakes before you, watching.

Always watching.

Reading you like scripture.

And when your eyes meet his, he doesn’t smile.

He says, softly:

“You’re still here. Good.”

─────────────────────────

To Love Chrollo Means…

Accepting silence over promises.

Being the one place he returns to after death dances in his shadow.

Being quoted poetry instead of affection.

Watching him kill and knowing he does it with full control—and no regret.

Feeling his gaze like a cathedral collapsing over your body.

Knowing he would destroy everything if the universe took you.

But most of all?

Being the only thing he cannot understand.

And yet, the only thing he cannot be without.

─────────────────────────

Final Whisper Before the Next Chapter

One night, he murmurs against your bare shoulder:

“I was never supposed to belong to anything but death. But now you sleep beside me—and I fear I have become real.”

And you answer:

“Then let me be the only lie you ever believe.”

And in the dark, you feel him smile—for the first time in weeks.

[moremaybank]

STAKE YOUR CLAIM — j.m

pairing jj maybank x fem!reader

summary jj isn’t happy when he finds out you’ve been sleeping with other people on the island, so he’s sure to set the record straight. you’re his, and his only.

warnings unprotected sex, possessive!jj, slapping, choking, spitting, degrading, bondage, breeding, marking, dacryphilia, semi-public sex, anal fingering

author’s note special thanks to @blueicequeen19 for this request. you pulled this out of me and i’m eternally grateful, babe ♡︎ i hope you like ittt

jj masterlist

The air is charged with tension as JJ’s hand closes around your wrist, his grip firm as he leads you away from the crowd of the party and into an unoccupied room. His jaw is set, and you can feel the anger simmering off his tan skin. 

“Damn it, J, let go of me,” you demand, trying to tug your wrist free from his grasp. 

JJ’s grip only tightens. He shoves you into the empty dining room and slams the door behind you, locking it shut. He turns to you, his eyes burning deep into your soul.

“What the hell is your problem?”

“Don’t play dumb. Don’t act like this is all on me,” JJ snarls. “Who the fuck do you think you are, huh? You can’t just let anyone touch you, Y/N.”

“Excuse me?” Your voice rose. “You don’t get to control who I see or what I do. We aren’t exclusive, JJ. I’m not yours.”

JJ’s jaw clenches, and his fists ball at his sides. He steps closer to you, and you back up until your back hits the large wooden table behind you. “Try again, sweetheart. You are. Don't make me knock you up to prove it to you.”

You scoff and try to shove past him so you can leave, but JJ doesn’t make it easy for you. 

“You’re not going anywhere,” he states. His hands find their grip on your hips, and his index fingers dart out to tease the hem of your skirt. Goosebumps form on your skin at the contact, and you mentally curse yourself for always reacting to his touch that way. It’s like your body knows it needs him to feel alive. His eyes find yours once again. “You're such a whore, you'll let anyone inside that pussy, won't you? Kook. Pogue. Touron. Doesn't matter does it?” 

“Fuck you,” you spit. “Who I sleep with is none of your business.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, baby.” He pulls your skirt and panties down with one harsh yank and lets them pool around your ankles on the floor. Then, he tugs your tube top down, revealing your bare tits. His fingers pinch your nipples fiercely, and you bite back a moan. “You’ll never need anyone else but me. You understand?”

You don’t respond. You can’t even look him in the eye. It’s crazy how far he can push you and still have you coming back for more each time. No one makes your heart race the way he does. No one gets you soaked and makes you scream the way he does. He’s animalistic and unforgiving with how he fucks you, and that’s just how you like him. He knows it, too, and he isn’t afraid to use that against you.

His hand curls around your throat, and your eyes unwillingly find his. “No one gets to touch you. No one but me.”

JJ lets go, and you watch as he undoes his belt and slides it out of the loops of his shorts. One hand draws your wrists in front of you, and the other works quickly as he loops the leather around them. He fastens it as tight as it can go. Then, in a swift motion, he has your back flat against the table, and your restrained wrists above your head. He mutters an order to keep them there, and he quickly moves to spread your legs. 

“‘M gonna get an apology from you whether you like it or not. You really shouldn’t be this greedy, baby.” You’re already wet, and JJ can feel it when he slaps your pussy. You mewl as the sensation tingles and stings at your core. He slaps it over and over again, relishing in the cries he’s already pulling from you while barely doing anything. You squirm, trying to move your hands to get him to hold off, but his free hand keeps them pressed to the wood. 

The more he continues, the more pitiful you become. You're crying out, and your cunt is all swollen and hot. You're pleading for more friction, more sensation, anything, but JJ's enjoying your sounds far too much to stop.

“That hurt, baby?” He asks, his tone condescending, completed with a sadistic smirk. You nod, and he lets out a taunting whine. “You sure? ‘Cause you're soaking my hand so much that it's dripping. Your pussy's giving you away, sweetheart.”

You feel insane. How could he have this much power over you? Turning you into a crying mess and making you look forward to his punishments like this? You must be brainwashed. Or maybe, JJ’s a sorcerer. Either way, his metaphorical and physical hold on you has you locked in for life. 

Once he deems that you’ve had enough, he smacks your ass harshly from the side, before using both hands to spread you open more. He ducks his head down and licks a stripe up your pussy, tasting your sweetness as it coats his tongue.

“God, I wanna ruin this pussy, baby. Ruin it for you, and for anyone that tries to compete with me. I want you to cum so much that it hurts, wanna see those pretty tears run down your cheeks. I'm gonna fuck you ‘til you pass out and then wake you back up with my cock buried inside you.” 

One hand frees his cock, and he gives you no warning as he slams inside of you. He’s so deep that you can feel his tight balls against you. He’s also stretching you so wide that you feel like he’s piercing you. His hips pick up a relentless pace, his hips snapping against yours so hard that the table shakes beneath you. 

“So fuckin’ tight, feels like you’re tryin’ to push me out, pretty girl,” he grits. His hand finds your throat again, squeezing as he fucks you into the hard surface. Your core is burning at how forcefully he’s rutting into you, but the ache is so addicting. Your legs are squirming, trying to find the strength to wrap around JJ’s midsection, but you can’t. JJ notices, and he laughs at the look on your face. “Learning your lesson, aren’t you?”

JJ’s right hand comes up as he slaps your cheek, not too hard but hard enough to make heat rise. “Tell daddy you’re sorry. Maybe I’ll take it easy on you.”

All you can manage is a whine, a strained mm leaving your lips as you screw your eyes shut. This only makes JJ worse. Your eyes shoot back open when he slaps you again. “Say it,” he commands. 

“‘M s-sorry, daddy.”

“No,” he tuts as he squeezes your throat harder and slightly cutting off your air. “Louder.”

“I’m sorry, daddy!”

He spits in your face and grins wickedly when he sees you lick up what you can. “Now beg me to let you cum.”

He pulls you up, his hand curling around the back of your neck while the other holds your leg around his waist, keeping you open. His pelvis smacks against your far-past-swollen clit. Tears well in your eyes, and your wrists begin to burn as the leather rubs them raw. You’re trying to free yourself so you can brace yourself on something. You’re unlucky and unable to do so, just as JJ planned. 

“P-please, daddy. Let me cum, it h-hurts,” you hiccup. Your doe eyes stare up at him as he fucks you with reckless abandon, unfazed by your pleas. 

“Aw, you wanna cum, sweet girl? Not yet. ‘M gonna make you wait.” The bastard becomes even more cocky if possible, and leers at you. “You wanna know why?” 

You whine, the tears starting to slip past your eyes as you try to keep your sanity intact. JJ inches closer to your face, gnawing on your bottom lip and drawing it out before releasing it with a snap. 

“‘Cause I love how pathetic and dumb you sound when you beg for me.”

JJ Maybank is evil. You’ve known it for a while, but his actions today only solidify it. You could be as good as you wanted for him, but the patronizing son of a bitch will never admit defeat. He did what he wanted, when he wanted, exactly how he wished to. 

By now, your entire body is convulsing, and you’re void of any energy. JJ knows this, of course. He loops your bound wrists around the back of his neck and scoops you up in his arms. He walks over to one of the walls surrounding you both, and he practically slams your back against it. His cock splits you in half with each hard thrust. His hands migrate to the back of your thighs, spreading you as he pounds you into the surface.

“I can’t hold it anymore, daddy. It hurts, n-need to cum so— so bad,” you plead. You can’t keep your eyes open anymore. You’re trying like hell, but it just isn’t happening.

“Too bad, baby. You aren’t cumming until I say so.”

Your head leans to one side as you begin to sob. The burn in your core is about to take you out. You can feel it. It’s fiery, and threatening to give out. It only worsens when JJ’s teeth come into contact with the sensitive skin of your neck. He sucks and nips at it harshly, pulling at it and leaving his mark anywhere he can manage. He feels you clamping down on him, smirking evilly when he pulls out of you abruptly. 

“‘M not gonna let you win that easy, baby.” 

He sets you down on the rug near the table, your knees digging into the fabric. Your arms stretch above your head once more. JJ kneels behind you, spreading your cheeks so he can spit onto your puckered hole. He pops a finger in, and pushes his cock into your pussy again. His hips move at warp speed, and you’re on the verge of being fucked brainless. He’s smacking your ass and finger-fucking your ass as he pummels into you. You’re screaming at this point, mascara tears running down your cheeks and soaking the carpet beneath you. 

“Beg me for my fucking cum. I know you want it,” he grits. 

“Oh, god! Please, daddy!”

“Again,” he demands. “Tell me how bad you want it.”

“Give me your cum. Give me your fucking cum. Pleasepleaseplease.” Your throat is sore, so so raw from the sobs and JJ’s grip on it earlier. You’re sure there’ll be some bruising when you’re done. “Need it, daddy, please.”

“Fuck. Those cries are too pretty, makin’ me so hard. Wanna keep hearin’ ‘em. Keep cryin’, princess.” 

He doesn’t really have to ask because they’ll pour out of you whether you control it or not. Your vision is going black, your entire body limp as you lie there and let him use you. 

“I’m gonna cum. Cum with me,” he says. He slams into you a few more times before his balls tighten, and before you know it, he’s spurting his seed into you with the most delicious groan you’ve ever heard. You finally cum, drunk from his cock and so far gone that you wonder if you’re even alive anymore. 

“You,” he pants, “need to piss me off more like that again.” He frees your hands, and lifts you, carrying you over to one of the chairs at the table. Your ass stings when you slump into your seat, and you hiss. JJ crouches down in front of you, wiping your tears and leaving soft kisses all over your body. The juxtaposition of his forceful demeanour to his now gentle one makes you dizzy. “You with me?”

You want to glare at him, slap his smug grin off his face even, but you can barely breathe. 

“You’re a fucking caveman.”

His dimple pops out, “And yet, you still let me fuck, didn’t you?” 

[e-vay]

Kpop Demon Hunters:

Favorite Huntrix character? Favorite Saja Boy character? Favorite songs and explain why? Favorite scene?

YAY!!! But oh my gosh these are going to be a challenge to answer lol!

It's so difficult to choose a favorite Huntrix girl because I love them all SO much and they are each so perfect!!! I definitely relate to Rumi the most, shouldering burdens all on her own and focusing on her failures rather than her strengths. But she is so stunning and so badass and I just love her! Her character arc was incredible and insanely inspiring. Zoey is so cute and fiesty, I love her style and energy. I think she'd be so much fun to hang out with. But I think Mira is probably my favorite, but by the thinnest of margins. I love how intense and abrasive she is, but she's also SO funny and fabulous. It's so brave how instead of caving to the pressures of her family and hiding her personality, she doubled-down and chose to be herself even at the risk of ostracizing herself. It's so badass! Also, it's just so sweet how much she adores Rumi and Zoey and they're her whole world! 🥹 (Plus she's a redhead, so I'm naturally drawn to her!). I really love them all and I love how the animators/writers showed them all as stunning and gorgeous but also dorky and embarrassing and natural (SHOWING THEM WITHOUT MAKEUP?!?! 🤌♥️)

Favorite Saja Boy is Jinu OF COURSE! He's stupid handsome, his voice is EVERYTHING, he has such an interesting and morally complex backstory, and he's such a DORK

Rumi is so much stronger than me because the second I saw his fangs I was like SCREW THE HONMOON, LET'S GOOOO

If we don't count Jinu, Abby is my favorite but mostly his demon form. You turned my giant "redheaded" himbo into a goth? YES PLEASE. And those EYEBROWS! ❤️‍🔥

Choosing a favorite song is also impossible... Can I just say the entire soundtrack? lol. I've been listening to the entire soundtrack on loop all day, every day since I first saw this movie. It'd be easier for me to say my least favorite song, which (hot take) is "Takedown." That's not to say I don't like it, because I still love it! But in my opinion, it's the weakest (but I feel like that's intentional, considering in the story they're feeling disconnected). But yeah, I really can't choose because they're all incredible. "How It's Done" is one of the sickest songs I've ever heard in my life and I can't believe they STARTED the movie with that, "Golden" has the most range I've ever heard and is a masterpiece, "Soda Pop" is such a guilty pleasure song and it's so fun, even if it's not my usual thing I can't help but shimmy to it, "Free" is just SO BEAUTIFUL AND ROMANTIC it makes me cry!, "Your Idol" literally has my soul and I would happily give myself up to Gwi-Ma if it meant I could listen to that song for the rest of eternity, and "What it Sounds Like" is literally miraculous, it gives me chills!

Favorite scene, oh man... Again, every second of this movie is scrumptious and I just want to replay it as soon as it's over... But if I had to nail it down to one scene, it'd probably be "What It Sounds Like." I'm going to be very careful to not say any spoilers, but this scene was a spectacular finale. The colors, the choreography, the emotion, the big build up... It was such a fantastic payoff. The best way I can describe it (and I say this without trying to diminish it), is that it reminded me of the climax of the first Sailor Moon movie I ever saw, which was Sailor Moon R. When I was a kid and was watching that, it blew my mind. Seeing these women join together to become this unstoppable force, I felt this indescribable feeling in my heart. I was so awe struck and moved, and the scene in this movie made me feel the exact same way. I think the first time I watched it, I was just sitting there with my jaw dropped and my hand to my chest during the entirety of it haha!

I LOVE THIS MOVIE!!!!