#I don’t want to be a writer so much as I want to be writing

[dissimul0]

SAY IT

remmick x fem!reader

Summary: On your way home from Bible study you run into two boys looking for trouble. Thankfully, Remmick's there to help you out. But he wants some... compensation, for his help.

wc: 4.1k

smut warning: dom!remmick x fem!reader. second-person pov, fingering, manipulation, blood, biting, violence, death, oral (fem receiving), mentions of religion, mild harassment, idk i think thats it

a/n:  before watching sinners i hadn't written anything in MONTHS, and remmick was so incredible fine he cured me of writers block, because after the movie i went home and started writing this. this is also my first time posting on tumbler so, hiii (ignore how the tense doesn't stay consistent, i hate writing in 2nd person pov)

─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ───

The sun was swiftly sinking beneath the horizon, casting long shadows across the landscape. Its vibrant hues of orange and pink painted the sky, gradually deepening into richer tones as the evening approached. The light dimmed as shades of deep blue and indigo crept across the horizon, enveloping the landscape in a cloak of darkness.

You were heading home from Bible study, which ended much later than you had anticipated. The air was thick with the oppressive summer humidity, one of those evenings where the heat lingered even after the sun had set. As you distanced yourself from the busy part of town, the streetlights became sparser, and the shadows deepened. You hastened your pace, your heels tapping against the rough pavement, eager to reach home.

It was almost kind of peaceful. The nighttime chatter from the town gradually faded into soft murmurs, creating an almost soothing atmosphere. Until, of course, a couple of idiots had to ruin your night.

Two figures stepped out from a dark alley up ahead — and you barely had time to react before they were already blocking your path, grinning like they owned the damn street.

“All by yourself, baby cakes? Ain’t that dress a lil’ short for that?” One of them whistled, licking his teeth all nasty.

You took a step back, holding your Bible tightly against your chest as if it were a shield. “I-I don’t want any trouble,” you stammered.

“Naw, of course you do,” the other sneered, taking a step closer to you. “You over here dressed like trouble.”

Your eyes flickered anxiously as the two boys edged nearer, their strides slow yet certain, their intent unmistakable. You took a step back, and another, feeling the space around you shrink, the world closing in as they advanced without a word. They spread apart slightly, moving to encircle you like wolves to prey.

God, help me.

A voice sliced through the tension like a blade through fog. “There a problem here?”

It came from behind you, sharp and unexpected, shocking the air with its presence and freezing the moment like a flash of lightning. The two boys stopped, surprise flickering across their faces as they cut their eyes in the direction of the sound. You turned, eyes meeting a man standing a few feet behind you.

His hands, nonchalantly tucked into the deep pockets of his trousers, accentuated an air of indifference perfectly matched by his carelessly practical attire. The rumpled shirt, slightly untucked, and the well-worn shoes suggested a disregard for convention. He didn’t seem like he belonged, not in the slightest.

There was something about him, an intangible aura, that sent a shiver of unease through the air. It was as if he carried an invisible weight that pressed heavily on those around him, making them shift uncomfortably without knowing precisely why.

“Who the hell are you?” One of the boys called out, his voice a wavering mixture of uncertainty and defiance. The other shifted awkwardly, unsure of how to size up the strange figure before them, and more unsure of what reaction to expect.

“Why don’t you answer my question first?”

You glanced between your harassers, the adrenaline that had spiked through your veins at the sight of those two creeps faded, replaced by a different sort of tension. Your throat went dry. You wanted to say something, to stop this and just finish your journey home, but you just couldn’t.

When you locked eyes with the unfamiliar man, your stomach twisted in knots. There was something about him—someone familiar but unplaceable—that set off your instincts, urging you to flee.

One of the creeps let out a laugh, a high-pitched, mean-spirited cackle, his mocking grin wide with menace and delight. It was like you were long forgotten, their attention now elsewhere. They crowded around the man, jostling shoulders and nudging elbows, and one of them spat the words like a challenge: “Little white boy thinks he’s got spunk!”

The man’s eyes shifted from the boys to you, slow and deliberate, like a predator sizing up its prey. “Now, now. I just wanted to make sure this young lady was alright,” he said, his eyes glinting with a steely resolve that cut through the tension like a knife.

The boys didn’t quit though, repeating their threats like taunts, brutal little chants in the fading light. They surrounded him, shirts loose, untucked, grins mean and prowling the way packs do.

The strange man didn’t seem to be intimidated; In fact, he looked past the boys, giving you an almost…sympathetic look. “You might want to close your eyes, darlin’.”

In a flash, he lunged at the nearest boy, a blur of movement disrupting the circle. The act was savage and swift, his teeth sinking into his soft neck with a feral intensity. There was a stunned silence, a moment where the world seemed to hold its breath, and then a scream. The boy screamed, high-pitched and frantic, red blooming on his white collar, voice shredding the dusk as he stumbled back.

Blood, hot and streaked, spilled down the boy’s chest as the man held him tight, his face smeared. Frozen by the violence seared through the darkening street, the other boys’ eyes went wide, his shouts dying in his throat. 

The grip seemed relentless, inhumanly strong, the boy’s knees buckling, and then, with a quick flick of his arm, the man sent him crashing to the pavement. The boy writhed, clutching at his neck with a gurgling sob, while the other could only stare in mute horror. It was as if the man enjoyed their terror, a gleam in his eye as he turned his ferocious gaze on him, daring him to fight or flee, hungry for his next move.

The second boy stood frozen, his face a mask of horror as he watched his friend collapse to the ground. For a heartbeat, he seemed paralyzed, caught between flight and fight, his body trembling with indecision. Then, with a strangled cry that was half rage and half terror, he fumbled at his waistband and pulled out a small pocket knife, the blade catching the dim light as it snapped open.

"You—you fuckin’ psycho!" he screamed, his voice cracking with fear. He lunged forward with the knife held out, a clumsy, desperate attack born of panic rather than skill.

The strange man sidestepped the thrust with almost lazy grace, a small smile playing at his bloodstained lips. In one fluid motion, he grabbed the boy's wrist and twisted. The crack of bone was audible even over the boy's shriek of pain, the knife clattering uselessly to the pavement.

"Bad choice," the man whispered, his voice almost gentle as he pulled the struggling boy closer, like a lover drawing in for an embrace. "Should've run when you had the chance."

The boy's struggles grew frantic, his feet scrabbling against the ground as he tried to wrench himself free. Tears streamed down his face, mixing with the sweat of exertion and fear. "Please," he sobbed, all bravado gone, "please don't—"

His plea was cut short as the man's teeth found his throat.

You couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Your lungs seized as if gripped by an invisible hand, the Bible slipping from your fingers and hitting the pavement with a dull thud that seemed impossibly distant. The world narrowed to pinpricks of horrific detail: the blood spray painting the concrete, the wet, tearing sounds as flesh gave way, the gurgling screams that didn't sound human anymore.

Your knees buckled. A wave of nausea crashed through you, bitter bile rising in your throat as you pressed your hand against your mouth. The taste of your dinner threatened to return as your stomach convulsed. The edges of your vision darkened, tiny black spots dancing like static.

"Oh, God," you whispered, the words barely audible even to yourself. Your body trembled violently, uncontrollably, like you were standing in Arctic winds rather than the summer night's heat. The scene before you refused to make sense—it couldn't be real, couldn't be happening. People didn't do this. People couldn't do this.

But he wasn't people, was he?

You stumbled backward, one foot catching on the other, nearly sending you sprawling. The movement seemed to happen in slow motion, disconnected from your will. Your chest heaved with shallow, rapid breaths that didn't seem to deliver any oxygen to your brain. The metallic smell of blood hung thick in the air, coating your tongue, inescapable.

Somewhere in the fog of your shock, a primal instinct screamed at you to run, but your limbs felt leaden, unresponsive, as if the horror had severed the connection between your mind and body.

The second boy's body crumpled to the ground with a sickening finality, joining his friend in a spreading pool of crimson. The stranger straightened, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, leaving a dark smear across his pale skin. His eyes found yours, and the world seemed to contract to just the two of you standing in the night.

"Yer still here," he remarked, sounding almost surprised. His voice was different now—smoother, more controlled, the earlier tension gone from it. Blood dripped from his chin onto his shirt, blooming like dark flowers against the fabric. His eyes held an unnatural red gleam in the dim light.

Your legs finally remembered how to work. You stumbled backward, nearly tripping over your own feet, your breath coming in ragged gasps. The Bible lay forgotten on the ground between you and the carnage. "Demon," you whispered, the word tasting like ash in your mouth

He laughed, the sound startlingly normal, almost pleasant. “You go on home now.”

You remained frozen, disbelieving of your apparent reprieve.

"Go," he repeated, more firmly this time. "’Fore I change my mind."

Your legs moved of their own accord, carrying you past him in a wide arc. You couldn't help but look at the bodies as you passed, their forms already seeming less human somehow, more like discarded dolls than the threatening figures they'd been minutes ago. You ran, your footsteps echoing in the empty street, not daring to look back again. The night air burned in your lungs, and tears streamed down your face, but you didn't dare look back.

You just kept running. 

─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ───

 You couldn't sleep that night.

Every time you closed your eyes, you saw it all again—the blood, the strength, the way his teeth tore into flesh like it was nothing. Sleep was impossible. You sat on the edge of your bed, trembling hands clutching a mug of tea that had long gone cold, staring at nothing.

The day after felt like hell on earth. The morning light was harsh and unyielding, striking too brightly through the windowpane, but you made no move to get up to close the curtain.

You were too tired, too... worn out. Your legs felt like jelly and your eyes were swollen from crying, and there was a pain in your chest, an ache so deep you could have been bleeding, if only it meant relief.

But you were just numb.

You didn't even go down for breakfast. Just layed in bed. You laid there until the insistent throb of hunger became too much to bear. Only then did you involuntarily get yourself out of bed, muscles aching.

As you made your way to the kitchen, the aroma of breakfast lingered in the air, and your eyes landed on the remnants of the morning meal scattered across the table.

"Thought you'd never come down," Mom remarked, her voice carrying a hint of amusement as she looked over her shoulder from her spot at the sink, hands submerged in soapy water.

"Guess I was pretty tired," you replied, a yawn stretching your lips as you slumped into a chair, reaching for a piece of cold sausage. The temperature was irrelevant; it was the savory flavor of the meat that captivated your senses, grounding you in the moment.

"Where's your Bible?" Mom's voice cut through your thoughts like a knife, her eyebrow arched in that familiar, questioning manner. Her hand poised on her hip, she awaited your explanation with a knowing look.

Your chewing halted, heart sinking as last night's events replayed vividly in your mind. You opened your mouth to respond, but words seemed to falter and die before they could form.

Mom clicked her tongue disapprovingly, disappearing into the living room, only to return moments later. She placed your Bible on the table with a gentle thud, the sound echoing in your ears as your heart plummeted further, eyes reluctantly meeting hers.

"W-where'd you find this?" you stammered, voice barely above a whisper.

"Found it on the front porch. You must've dropped it on your way in last night," she replied, her tone a blend of concern and reprimand.

You swallowed hard, the events of last night swirling like a storm in your mind. You hadn't dropped it on the porch; you had left it behind, abandoning it on the ground as you ran, thoughts in chaos. "I guess... I must've," you stammered, forcing the guilty lie out.

"Mmhm. You best be more careful next time. You know this Bible was a gift from the Pastor," she reminded gently, yet firmly, turning back to the sink, the sound of running water a soft backdrop to the tension in the room.

You acknowledged your mother's words with a quiet hum and a nod. Your eyes settled on the Bible lying on the table, and you reached out for it with hesitation.

As your fingers traced over the embossed letters, your mind wandered back to the previous night. The vivid nightmares nearly made you recoil. You closed your eyes tightly, giving your head a slight shake to dispel the dark thoughts.

—————————————————

The day rolled on, hours slipping by in a confused haze. Tasks that needed doing bled into others, all mundane, all repetitively the same. Towels to fold, clutter to corral—each chore like the next, stretching out endlessly. Words were exchanged, hollow, drifting and weightless in the air.

The day felt longer than it had any right to be, its passage still haunting, leaving only a weary fog. A great heaviness set in, like a weight on the eyelids, as evening wore on.

While everyone else slept, you're wide awake. Sitting on your bed's edge, you face the window. The pale, blue moonlight casts its glow on you as you sit there, gazing out at the front yard.

You're unable to tear your eyes away, as if something or someone might be out there. You rise from the bed, cautiously approaching the window. With a finger, you unlock the latch and lift the window, which opens with a slight creak.

Leaning on the windowsill, you peer outside, eyes fixed intently for any sign of movement. But nothing unusual occurs; only the breeze and the rustling trees accompany your breathing.

This is pointless.

You pull away from the window frame and turn to head back to bed, but a snapping branch halts you. Slowly, you turn back, step toward the window, and shut it with frustration.

Resting your head against the cool glass, you close your eyes, feeling its chill against your skin.

After a moment, you reopen your eyes and gaze into the yard once more.

Tiny pinpoints of light flicker among the trees, and you squint, searching the darkness. Still cloaked in the forest's shadows, the two points of light draw nearer, stopping just a few feet from your window. You blink, and the lights blink back.

Your heart hammers against your ribs as those twin points of light remain fixed on your window. They're eyes—you know they're eyes—glowing with an unnatural red luminescence that no human could possess.

Slowly, a figure detaches itself from the darkness. He steps forward, moonlight gradually revealing him inch by inch: first the outline of broad shoulders, then the familiar rumpled shirt, now stained dark with what you know is blood. His face comes into view last, pale and beautiful in its terrible way, those glowing eyes fixed unblinkingly on yours.

It's him. The man from the street. The monster who tore out those boys' throats with inhuman strength and savage teeth.

He stands perfectly still at the edge of your yard, hands in his pockets just as they had been before, casual as if he were merely a neighbor stopping by. But there's nothing casual about the intensity of his gaze, the way it pins you in place even through the glass and distance between you.

A small, knowing smile curves his lips, and he raises one hand in a gesture that might almost be friendly—a little wave, as if acknowledging an old acquaintance. The simple humanity of the gesture makes it all the more chilling.

You want to scream, to call for help, to wake the household—but your voice is trapped in your throat. Besides, what would you say? Who would believe you? And what if your cries only invited him in?

He takes a single step forward, then another, moving with deliberate slowness toward your window. Each footfall is silent on the grass, predatory grace in every movement. The distance between you shrinks with each passing second.

He doesn't stop until he's merely inches from your window, eyes boring into yours. Your breath hitches, and you try to step back, but you can't. It's like you're frozen.

His breath fogs the glass between you, a reminder of the thin barrier separating you from whatever he is. He raises one pale finger and traces a pattern on the window, the squeak of skin against glass making your skin crawl.

"Y'know," he says, voice muffled but still audible through the glass, "there are rules to these things."

You remain frozen, unable to speak, but he continues as if you'd asked a question.

"I cain't come in uninvited." His eyes—those terrible, beautiful eyes—crinkle slightly at the corners, almost amused. "Old magic. Very inconvenient."

He leans closer, his forehead nearly touching the glass. "But you could invite me in. Just a few 'lil words. 'Come in.' That's all it'd take."

Your throat constricts with fear, but you manage to shake your head slightly.

He sighs, a surprisingly human sound. "I saved you. Those boys—" he makes a dismissive gesture with his hand, "—they had very specific plans fer you. Nasty ones." His voice drops lower, more intimate. "I could've let 'em. Would've been much easier fer me."

The memory of those boys blocking your path flashes in your mind, their leering faces, their threatening postures. You shudder.

"See? Y'know I'm right." His finger traces another pattern on the glass, almost hypnotic. "Just a little invitation. A thank you for my... intervention. That's only polite, ain't it?"

Something in his tone shifts, grows harder. "Or I could wait. I'm a very patient man, sugar. I could visit every night, watchin' you. Waitin' for that moment when you step outside alone after dark, or when you get home late from bible study." His smile widens, revealing teeth that are too sharp, too white. "Wouldn't it be better to just... get it over with? On yer terms?"

You feel a strange pull, a desire to reach for the latch, to open the window wider and speak those fatal words. Your hand even twitches at your side, as if it might move of its own accord.

"Just say it," he whispers, eyes boring into yours. "Invite me in."

Your fingers tremble against your thigh, caught in a war between reaching for the window latch and clenching into a fist. Something shameful and electric pulses through you—a feeling you don't want to name.

There's terror, yes—raw and primal—but beneath it lies something more disturbing. A fascination. A pull. Your eyes can't help but trace the sharp angles of his face, the fullness of his lips now clean of blood, the way his shirt clings to the contours of his body.

"This ain't right," you whispered, more to yourself than to him.

His smile deepens, knowing. "Few worthwhile things are."

Heat rushes to your cheeks, and you hate yourself for it. How could your body betray you like this? How could you feel anything but revulsion for the creature who tore out human throats before your eyes? The memory of violence should repulse you, drive you away—instead, it mingles with his current gentleness in a cocktail of confusion that makes your head swim.

You close your eyes, trying to block him out, but that only intensifies your awareness of him—his scent somehow reaching you through the glass, something ancient and dangerous. When you open your eyes again, he's watching you with a patience that spans centuries.

"Yer afraid," he says softly. "But not only afraid."

Your cheeks burn hotter. He sees through you so easily, this predator at your window. The worst part is the thrill that runs through you at being so thoroughly seen.

"I don't want this," you say, voice barely audible.

"Ohhh sure you do, darlin." His head tilts slightly, curious. "Your heart says otherwise. I can hear it—racing not just with fear, but with somethin' else."

You press your hand against your chest, as if you could quiet the betraying organ. "You're a monster."

"Yes," he agrees simply. "And yet, here you are. Still lookin'. Still listenin'."

He's right, and you hate that he's right. You should be running, screaming, praying—anything but this strange, suspended moment where you can't tear yourself away from his gaze. "You know I can't..."

He takes a deep breath, clicking his tongue in thought. "Yer really gonna make me beg for it, huh?" He said, his voice dropping to a conspiring whisper. "I can make you feel so good, lampkin. You just gots to let me in."

"I won't."

"You will."

Your hand trembles as it hovers near the window latch. One simple motion, one whispered invitation, and he would be inside. The thought sends shivers of fear and anticipation down your spine.

"What would happen?" you ask, your voice barely audible. "If I let you in..."

His eyes gleam in the darkness. "Aw, don't be coy, now." He continued, his voice low, "Aincha tired? Of playin' the good girl?"

"I ain't playin."

"Then let me inside."

Your jaw clenched, and you pressed your lips together, like if you opened them, you wouldn't know what would come out. But, God, you wanted to. You wanted to just say that one word to let him in and receive all the pleasure and indulgence he was promising. But your silence hung loud. You were afraid.

And you could tell he knew it too.

His hands tightened perilously around the frame of the window, a cage of fingers desperate to pull you in while keeping him locked out. The tendons in his wrists flexed like claws. His breath caught, a raw rasp in the air. When he spoke, his voice was shredded with wanting: "Open this window. And. Let. Me. In."

His words dissolved the fragile armor you had tried to build against him, slipping silently into your gut like a seduction turned weapon. It was over; you knew it then. A warning shrieked from the rational recesses of your mind—run, hide. Yet something deeper, something primal and inexplicable, whispers that perhaps death isn't the worst fate imaginable.

You shuddered beneath the weight of your own surrender, and a tiny gasp escaped your lips. "Come in," you finally caved, voice barely even audible. With a trembling hand, you reached for the latch and started to open the window for him.

He climbed through the window almost as soon as you opened it, his movements quick and jerky. One moment he was outside, the next he stood before you, close enough that you could feel the unnatural coolness radiating from his skin.

His eyes never left yours, that unblinking gaze holding you captive. The red glow had dimmed somewhat, but still flickered in their depths. His lips curled into a satisfied smile, revealing just the barest hint of those terrible teeth.

"There now," he murmured, his voice somehow more intimate, more dangerous in the confined space of your bedroom. "Was that so hard?"

The air between you seemed to crackle with electricity as he took a single step closer. You instinctively backed away, your calves hitting the edge of your bed, but there was nowhere left to retreat. He raised his hand slowly, deliberately, giving you every chance to flinch away—but you remained frozen, caught between terror and that inexplicable, shameful fascination.

His fingertips brushed your cheek with unexpected gentleness, cool against your feverish skin. The contact was feather-light, almost reverent, yet it sent a jolt through your entire body as if you'd been struck by lightning. Your breath caught in your throat, and your eyes fluttered closed for just a moment, your body betraying you once again.

"So warm," he murmured, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. "I'd almost forgot what it feels like."

His touch traveled downward, fingers trailing along the column of your throat where your pulse hammered wildly against your skin. He paused there, feeling the rhythm of your fear and anticipation beneath his fingertips, a small smile playing at his lips.

Then his mouth was on yours, crushing, demanding. His body crowded yours, a solid wall of desperate need, pinning you against the momentum. Tongues tangled, a frantic, messy collision – less kiss, more claiming. He tasted your surprise, the faint saltiness, a familiar sweetness underneath. He pushed harder, fueled by years of starvation, a blind drive to consume. The world tilted. Balance lost. You went down in a tangle of limbs, hitting the floor with a muffled thud.

SMUT WARNING!!

He landed mostly on top, the impact insignificant. Air sawed in and out of his lungs. Below him, you. Your eyes wide, lips swollen, glistening with saliva – his saliva. The sight sent a jolt straight to his groin, his trousers suddenly, painfully tight. A trace of drool beaded at the corner of his mouth, dripping down his chin.

You gazed up at him, eyes shimmering with pent-up desire, chest heaving with each rapid, anticipation-filled breath. "You're droolin'," you ogled.

He smiled.

"It ain't my fault you taste so good." He crawled over your body and caged it under his with his pelvis slotted between your thighs, "I want you to beg for it. Beg for me." Between layers of your nightshirt and his trousers, his cock ground into your mound while his clawed hand slid along the warm skin of your thigh. Your nightshirt rode up, until he reached your hip where the fabric of it bunched, its soft flesh dimpling in his bruising grasp.

"Say it," He crooned into your neck, breathing in your scent, his red eyes dilating beneath eyelids that fluttered closed. "Say, 'Remmick, please give me what I need.'"

Remmick. That was his name?

You let out a whimper, quickly biting down hard on your lower lip in a desperate attempt to muffle the wanton sound. "P-please... Remmick," You begged, staring up at him with pleading eyes.

A sinister laugh rumbled through Remmick, the sound dark and gravelly as it shook against your chest. "Atta-girl," he growled, nipping sharply at your earlobe. His hand, clutching your hip, slipped between your thighs, where he discovered you were bare under your nightshirt, and he hummed delightfully. He dropped his forehead against your shoulder as a groan rumbled deep in his chest when he found you wet and swollen, teeth grazing the skin on your collarbone.

The tip of Remmicks nose skated along your sweat-slick neck until his lips found your ear and brushed against the shell of it as he spoke. "Yer soaked." He whispered, fingers finding your clit and circling it with torturing slowness, rolling the slick bud beneath the pad of his fingers.

You gasped, back instinctively arching on the floor as you craved more of that sweet friction. "S-stop teasin' me," you whined

"Why? Did you need somethin'?" He taunts. You want to snap at him to go faster, but getting irritated would only delay it more. "Use yer words, sugar." He sank his middle and ring fingers inside you, grinning devilishly against your neck, before delivering a sharp bite.

You let out a strangled moan, turning your head to the side to try to escape Remmick's' sharp teeth and scorching breath. "What do you need?" He asked, words muffled as they sawed between his teeth and your flesh. He curled his fingers into the bundle of nerves at the front of your walls. "Say it."

You clenched your thighs together, trying to trap his invading fingers, but the slick heat of you only allowed them to sink deeper. "I need you," you writhed, unable to keep still.

Remmick's fingers never ceased their brutal pumping, plunging in and out of your soaked, clutching heat. As he worked he watched you struggle, your nails digging into the wood floors. For a few minutes there's nothing but the obscene sound of your arousal, mingling with the creaking of the wood floors and your increasingly ragged breaths.

Your spine twisted into knots at the bottom of your back, hips bucking to meet the angle of fingers. The muscles in your stomach clenched, and your head lolled back, eyes closed, unshameful moans of pleasure quietly resonating through the room. Just when you felt the consistent building of your orgasm about to release, insides twitching around his fingers, he withdrew them, lifting his head up just enough to meet your gaze.

Looking up at him in confusion, your eyes followed his fingers as he brought them to his mouth, sucking them clean with a predatory hum. He removed them with a wet pop, grinning wildly as he saw your lips part in protest.

"What? You want'a taste?" He teased, saliva-soaked fingers glinting in the dark light. He brought his hand close to your mouth, stopping when the pads of his fingers grazed over your lips. "Open wide."

The tips of his fingers pushed past your lips, and your mouth parted farther, making space for his digits to wedge further inside. He leaned in lips brushing against your temple and he buried his nose in your hair and breathed. He groaned, fingers pushing deeper into your mouth. You choked quietly, but that didn't stop him. He watched as you struggled to take his fingers, your lips around him.

His cock throbbed at seeing you like this. Quivering and needy. It was almost enough to make him come right then and there.

Remmick slowly pulled his fingers out of your mouth, smearing the spit across your lips.

He captured your chin in his hand, forcing you to meet his smoldering red eyes as he loomed over you. His own gaze was dark with lust and a twisted sort of affection, his pupils blown wide and dilating as he looked at you, drinking in every expression and breath.

HIs other hand slid up from your hip, claws raking lightly over the soft skin of your belly before cupping the swell of your breast. He could feel your heart pounding beneath his palm, could feel the way your nipple pebbled against the thin fabric of her nightshirt. He tweaked the sensitive nub between his fingers, rolling and pinching it until you gasped, back arching off the floor.

"It feels good, don't it?" He murmured, his breath hot against your neck. His lips found yours, claiming your mouth in a demanding kiss. His tongue pushed past your teeth, invading, conquering, laying waste to any resistance you might have left.

He could feel you melting, could feel the fight draining out of you as he touched you, kissed you, filled you.

He broke the kiss, leaving you gasping and panting beneath him. "Now," he said softly, almost gently. "I'm gon make you feel real good."

He positions his arms on either side of you, and lowers his mouth onto your neck. The sudden feeling of his lips made you whimper, and he chased after the sound, trailing down your throat towards your chest... down your stomach... down your thighs.

As he pulled closer to your heat, you couldn't help but squirm under him. He gripped your thighs and lifted them off the floor, getting on his knees and lowering his head between your thighs. He slowly made his way upwards, breath hot against your skin.

When he reached your core, there was a pause before he pressed his mouth against you. You let out a pathetic moan as his tongue licked a warm, wet strip to the center of your cunt. Your head lolled back as the feeling of him lapping at you was so overwhelming you didn't know what to do.

He drags his tongue up your clit, wrapping his lips around the bud and sucking. Hard. You practically scream out in pleasure before slapping a hand to your mouth, remembering where you were.

You feel him grin into your pussy as he sucks harder and you twitch. Your hand flies into his hair, gripping the strands and pushing his head deeper as you chase your climax. He doesn't seem to mind it though.

"I'm gonna - fuck," you said, breathless as you feel your orgasm building inside you. You clench your thighs around his help, but his grip on your hips tightens, spreading them apart again.

"Remmick - wait," you said, but he doesn't stop. He wanted you to come undone in his mouth.

He watched you hungrily, eyes on your throat as your head fell back, restless whimpers falling from your lips. He delivered one finally suck, the pressure driving you over the edge. You let out a ragged cry, legs closing around his head. Your hips shoot upwards, grinding into him as you ride out your orgasm.

You lay, worn out, chest heaving. You stared at the ceiling, eyes heavy, hands falling to your sides. Remmick stayed between your thighs, dragging his tongue around your skin to clean you up. "You alright?"

You let out a drowsy hum in response, eyes following him as he climbed on top of you. You watched as he smiled down at you, lips brushing against your temple tenderly. He kneeled back, observing you lying there. Without warning, he lifted you up.

You murmured in protest, but he hushed you softly, "Shhh, stay quiet." He carried you to your bed and placed you gently on the mattress. You watched him through half-lidded eyes, feeling unexpectedly calm given the... circumstances.

"I've gotta' leave now," he said softly, brushing your hair away from your face.

"And why is that?"

"'Cause I just have to." You let out a small huff, but he merely laughed quietly. "Best you sleep now." He stood up straight, taking a step backwards towards the open window. "But, I'll be back soon enough." 

A shiver coursed through your body, not of fear, but of anticipation. It was as if the very air around you had changed—charged with a new energy. The weight of fear had lifted, replaced by a sense of exhilaration and readiness that warmed your core. Something had shifted within you, and you realized you were no longer afraid of him. Not even in the slightest. 

[loonybun]

quick important post. this isn’t my usual type of stuff but im putting this out here for awareness.

there’s someone in the whump community who’s recently been gaining some traction. their posts haven’t really gotten super popular but they have circulated a bit and keep popping up on my page. youve probably seen them yourself if you’re a member of this community.

I never really interacted with their content just because realism in whump art isn’t my personal cup of tea (obviously if it’s yours, that’s fine and keep doing your thing, that’s not what this post is about), but a friend of mine decided to look a little bit further into things. it turns out this user has a history of using ai for writing, and seems to have a pro-generative ai stance.

they also use ai for all of their “art” (screenshots from a friend). even after being made aware of the harm that ai does, they have said that they will continue to use it.

this has been pointed out before by a few other people in the community, but I wanted to make a post for more reach since a lot of bigger names in the community who have denounced ai have been spreading around this content without knowing.

i know i’m kind of preaching to the choir but generative ai should not be tolerated in a space like this. the whump community was founded by fanfiction writers— the same fanfiction writers who are having their work scraped for generative ai without their permission or knowledge. generative ai has done so much harm to fandom spaces this year alone, and with the recent scrape of ao3, we should be fighting harder against it. allowing this to remain unchecked in this community is dangerous.

that, combined with the real harm generative ai does, makes this very kind of content go against the fundamental beliefs and morals of the whump community. i know i can’t speak for the community as a whole, but i have not found a single member here who would knowingly endorse generative ai. it just feels incredibly shitty for this person to not even mention that this work is ai (except for the one post included above). with how much effort and emotion people put into their stories and art, using ai to try and replicate that comes off as just incredibly distasteful.

the forbes article linked above to water consumption and ai isn’t even the only example i can think of when it comes to the harm ai’s done. if the whole “destroying the planet”, and “scraping work from artists, writers, and animators without consent” wasn’t enough for you, then i honest to god don’t know what will be. maybe the many, many accounts of ai being used to allow people to spread child pornography and irl gore videos of horrific events? it’s not harmless. it’s immoral on a fundamental level. in a world where ai is being shoved into people’s faces left and right with the integration of it into basically every corner of the internet, i think i can speak for us all when i say we want to keep this corner ai-free.

ai does not belong in creative spaces, least of all the whump community.

[blasphemyandbackshots]

i one day aspire to push out as many bangers as you do on the reg (do you have any tips for writers block or how you get inspired to write so much? 🥺)

3 and 38 dabi?? (YOU WRITE MY MANS SO WELL I CANT GET ENOUGH) 👀

₊˚ପ⊹ “You like being used like this? Like a toy? Like a fuckdoll?”

₊˚ପ⊹ “I’ll let you go… right after I’ve made you come for me one more time. Or five.”

Your arms trembled where they were braced against the dingy mattress. Sweat clinging to your skin in the suffocating heat of the hideout. Dabi’s belt hung off one loop of his pants, half-fastened, but he hadn’t bothered dressing fully again. Not when you were still twitching on the bed, leaking onto the sheets.

“Still with me, doll?” he drawled, voice dry and wrecked from smoke and groans. His burned hand smoothed down your spine. “Fuckin’ mess down here.”

You whimpered as his fingers slid between your thighs again and right between your drenched pussy lips. No mercy, not after how many times he’d already made you come, tongue and cock and filthy words all leaving you raw. But he grinned when you tried to jerk away.

“You like being used like this?” he murmured, cruel and amused. His fingers thrust in with no warning. “Like a toy? Like a fuckdoll?”

Your breath hitched, broken and high. “Dabi—”

He gave your ass a sharp slap. “That’s not a no.”

You hated how right he was. Hated how your body clenched around his fingers even now, hungry and soaked. Chasing more even though your legs were shaking and your hole was sore.

“Look at you,” he muttered, sliding in deeper. “Dripping for me after how many times already?”

“Please,” you begged, not sure if it was for mercy or more.

He just leaned over you, teeth grazing your ear. “I’ll let you go…”

Relief bloomed in your chest and your breath stuttered.

“…Right after I’ve made you come for me one more time.” His voice darkened. “Or five.”

You sobbed into the mattress, and he laughed, he fucking laughed, because of course he fucking did.

“Better hold on,” he growled, lining himself up again. “Still gotta fuck the rest of this bratty attitude out of you.”

His cock pushed in hard and you choked on a scream.

“You wanted this,” he bit out, grabbing your hips like a vice. “You knew what you were getting into.”

You had. And you still came crawling back to him like you always did, like he was a fire you wanted to burn yourself on. Every thrust was brutal, slapping skin, breathless gasps and your voice cracking into helpless cries.

“That’s it,” he rasped. “Come again for me. Make it messy.”

You didn’t mean to. You didn’t want to. But when his hand reached between your legs, rubbing exactly where you needed it, the pressure snapped all over again. You sobbed his name like a curse, body spasming. He fucked you through it. Not once slowing and showing no kindness. When he finally came, biting down on your shoulder like he meant to leave scars, he slumped against your back, panting.

“You’re not goin’ anywhere,” he muttered. “Not when you take it this good.”

You didn’t answer. But he smiled against your skin, tongue flicking out to taste the salt of your sweat. He already knew you’d be back.

babyyy,

listen… I don’t fucking know. I’m high on visuals like watching scene packs, watching snippets of porn. You should see my notes. They’re so fucking messy like… sometimes I write the messiest shit in existence before I go word by word.

Also imagine this; Dabi is standing in front of you. Of course that asshole is towering over you. You see his eyes, that little grin. You see staples and burned skin. You smell the smoke and fire on his skin. You just know, his hands are rough. There isn’t a single gentle bone in his body. But that body? Is yours. It presses to your heated skin. It feels good. Unique. His burned skin and staples scratching your skin. That burn when he claims you…

Now let’s talk the opposite and take Choso. You just know what a sweet guy he is. But that also he isn’t. He is all new in human’s feelings, the own reactions of his body. His kisses are messy, maybe his tongue too deep. Maybe there’s some spit running down your lips. But he’s so so eager for you. He wants to learn you in every way possible.

I like to dream about these scenarios (please no shame). Not necessarily about the fucking itself, but everything that happens before.

Make messy notes. Then make an extra note with character traits. They don’t even have to be canon. Save YouTube links. You can put in the search bar: dabi scene packs.

They’re anime men, but let them sit next to you. Let them guide you. Reread your old stories. Do not push yourself!!

Think about plots you want to see yourself in. I literally wrote a small series with some of the JJK men in an alternate universe, cuz I wanted to see myself in it. It doesn’t have to be anime specific.

Writing is about fun. Even when you only write things like; Dabi took me on a walk. He held my hand and we shared a bubble tea. It’s our first date and I’m so excited. I hope he will kiss me.

And then when you feel it, you go over it; Despite of who Dabi was, he still thought about doing nice for his girl. He usually wasn’t into those kind of things. Normally he preferred beer and a smoke. Then a dirty hookup in the dark alley. But now here he was, carrying a cup of bubble tea he didn’t like with a girl he fucking liked a lot. Their fingers were curled together, and now and then, she’d feel his staples. Would caress the burned skin. And it was less unpleasant than expected. Maybe he fucking loved it even. Maybe he’d taste the sweet tea from her lips later and suck it from her tongue…

Now that was corny as fuck. But do you see, baby? You write notes and from that notes you try to expand it into a full scene. You create a world. Maybe it isn’t perfect. Maybe it’s rough around the edges, but it’s your world and the readers can’t wait to read about it and be a part of it.

… babbled a lot, but I hope I could help a little. You can do it, baby. I believe in you.

[somuchforahobby]

I don’t have to guess

Summary: Obi-wan x jedi master reader / oho wan joins your class of Force projection / no warnings this is just pure fluff and teacher appreciation <3

Words: 1k

Writer’s note: Billie’s verse in guess makes me go feral so i wrote this lols<3

“Good morning, young apprentices” you started as soon as you walked through the classroom. “Can someone please remind the rest of us what we learned last time?”

The eight year olds looked at each other in silence until one raised a hand. “To find our Force signature”

“Yes” you smiled fondly, “and how have you been doing? Have you mastered it?”

“Yes!” They answered in unison.

“Well then… today we will work in bins so, grab a friend.”

The kids’ faces brightened as they turned to their chosen partner, all the while you saw a familiar face walking into the room.

“We seem to have a visitor today” you said with a smirk.

The students turned to the door and bowed, as he made his way into the class. You did as well.

“General Kenobi, what brings you around?”

His eyes lightened and a mischievous grin appeared on his lips. “Same as this padawans, master: learning.”

You faced down to hide your smile, “Please join me, General.” You signaled at the spot next to you in front of the class.

Obi-wan obliged with a nod.

“Now that we have mastered our Force Signatures, we can start projecting on other people, but most importantly, to other Force users.” You started walking around the room, explaining.

Obi-wan’s eyes trailed you as you do.

“Every one of you will write their name and a color next to it” you placed your data pad on one of the kid’s hands. “I’ll explain later.”

“You can reach another person’s mind through the Force. You can have thoughts as if they were your own, see through their eyes, feel through their skin and so on.”

“Like at all times?” One kid asked.

“Powerful Force users can, but Jedi only do it with the other’s consent.” Your voice was firmer, “now, make sure the person you will work this exercise consents to you being in their mind.” Grabbing the data pad again, you examined the list of names and colors.

“Do I have your consent General Kenobi?” You asked him quietly, a step away from him. Your eyes still fixed on the data pad.

“Of course, my dear.” His warm voice wrapped in your ears.

“Good” you turned to your students, beginning to walk between them “Please stand in front of each other. Feel the Force flow through you. Identify your signature and let it take you over; your arms, your legs, your head and chest. Let it flow freely through you. When you are ready, let it reach the person in front of you. Let your signature curl around them, nuzzle them. Do it kindly, do not crash into them. You are a guest, behave like one. And likewise, allow your partner to enter your mind. Now, focus on what they are looking at. Look at yourselves through their eyes; make yourselves comfortable through the bond and then, find their color.” You finished with a smirk, returning to the front with Obi-wan.

His eyes shone with pride and enthusiasm.

One by one, the children in your class said their partner's color as you checked your notes. They all got it right.

“And can you see everything?” One of them asked.

You exhaled before answering, “If the person whose mind you are looking into does not have barriers, then yes. But us, as Force users, should always have them.”

“A more powerful jedi can look into my mind without my permission?” A little girl asked.

“Ah” you smile, “bold of you to assume Jedi are the only Force users in the galaxy. But answering your question, yes. Other Force users can and will fish through your minds to look for the information they want. That’s why you must prepare, to protect yourselves from more powerful users.”

“So, General Kenobi can look into your mind?” Another kid questioned you.

You were about to answer when Obi-wan started. “Make no mistake, young ones, a teacher is much more powerful than a soldier.”

“He can try,” you teased. “But I can try as well.” You walked back to the front of the room. “Would you like us to?” You asked the group with a grin.

The children erupted in excited cheers.

“What would you like to know about General Kenobi?” You asked your students.

“His favorite color!”

“Favorite drink!”

You stood in front of Obi-wan rolling our shoulders to relax as your signature brushed his. He didn’t even try to pull a barrier, he let you in without any opposition.

“Blue and Jawa Juice” you declared as fact.

He merely nods. “Now, what would you like to know about your teacher?” Obi-wan asked the crowd with a grin.

“Favorite student!”

“If she has a boyfriend!”

A scoff left Obi-wan’s mouth. “She does not have a favorite student” He took a step closer to you, “and Jedi do not have boyfriends.”

The groan was general.

“Thank you, General Kenobi. Do we have any other questions?”

A child raised her hand, “So if any other Force user can look into our heads, does that mean they can see anything?”

You nodded, “yes, that’s why we must protect ourselves.”

“Even the embarassing stuff?”

“yes”

“So if I remember I got dressed in the morning, can they see that too?” She asked, horrified. “Like even your underwear?”

You laughed, “well we should have it on our mind then but yeah, I guess so.”

“Can General Kenobi tell us if he can do it?”

You turned to him, eyebrows raised in a challenge. The corners of his lips quivered upwards, but before he could answer you started. “General Kenobi will do no such thing because one: he is too much of a gentleman to do so. And two: we as Jedi do not intrude into other minds and look for information that does not belong to us. Remember that and see you tomorrow.”

The kids walked out giggling, excited with their new knowledge.

“Blue lace?” Obi-wan whispered in your ear.

With a flick of your wrist you closed the door of the classroom, granting you privacy.

“That’s not fair, now is it?” You turned to him with a blush growing on your cheeks.

His eyes are embedded into yours, his pupils blown and wide looking at you. “How so?”

“Because you saw me get dressed this morning, General.” You murmured against his lips before finally locking the kiss and wrapping your arms around his neck.

[bleachandtonedbrains]

I cannot believe yall are fighting over fucking dbf!joel miller fan fics.

People

Let’s be real

Yes it’s an over used trope, and it’s annoying because it’s most of what these new people are writing about that are coming into the fan fic community and it’s unintentional drowning out other tropes that are also just as intriguing if not more because of how much is being written tbh.

I can agree with the fact that yes it is a niche subject that people get to enjoy at their free will and if they don’t they can scroll, but it’s been about 20 mins of scrolling and I’ve only found 3-6 new fics that aren’t the dbf trope.

No one is saying you can’t write it, but just don’t write it all the time. Try to expand yourself and your writing more and not rewrite the same fanfic over and over with different sex scenes. PLOT PEOPLE NOT JUST PORN 24/7 👏 I want a story that is ripping my heart out, stomping it on the floor, picking it up, putting it into a meat grinder and then spitting it out. The dbf rope wouldn’t be complained about as much if it had GENUINE plot behind most of it.

Like yall we can expand our ways of writing, I sure as hell don’t write the same way I did 10 years and I’m thankful that I made myself write different tropes from different perspectives because it has gotten me so far with other writers. All we are asking is to just think outside of the box and try new things, don’t get yourself stuck in the same cycle with a niche trope, or it will be the only thing you feel comfortable writing, and you might not feel confident enough to reach outside of it.

In a short summary: yes we love a good dbf!Joel miller fic, just not every night. Open up your field more and look at things with a different perspective.

Y’all can say what you want about this post but I’ve been reading Joel Miller fanfics way before Covid and there weren’t many back then, over the last few years and especially with the TV show adaptation a lot of of tropes are becoming heavily overused, not just dbf but I don’t think a lot of people are ready for that convo 👋🏻

[cainesrain]

moral dilemmas | theodore nott

theodore nott | crack treated seriously | wc: 320

summary: writer!reader dating serial killer!theodore nott, yet again warnings: kinda references murder and torture, nothing really explicit more than that (if it helps, all the people theodore kills are evil evil death eaters so it's more so just vigilante shit

You were currently sitting at a newly varnished dining room table, the red and white tiles contrasting with the warm brown wood beautifully. 

There was classical music playing from your vinyl player—the sound of violins and keyboard clicking sounds ringing obnoxiously through the room. The most pressed button was the backspace and delete buttons, the both of them being pressed in pattern with the enter button. 

“I can’t kill this character,” she groaned.

“Why not?” Theo asked you curiously.

You looked up at him as he walked into the dining room, groaning yet again at the writer’s block that was hitting you much like a hurricane might.

“He’s charming, funny, morally gray—” you murmured out. “Just too much like you.”

Theo tilted his head over to you and chuckled quietly, walking closer to behind your seat and wrapping his hands around your neck. His presence was warm and comforting, unlike the cold and dead screen of your manuscript’s black text. “Kill it.”

“It?” you asked him with a chuckle. "And why should I?"

“Because if you don’t—” he said to you. “I might.”

You chuckled at his comments, kissing his cheek lovingly with a quietest smacking sound before turning back to your manuscript. “What if I kept him alive in spite?”

“I will literally learn how to use this system to kill him while you sleep.” he muttered.

“Then I guess I can’t sleep.” you shrugged simply—suddenly feeling a rather big boost in creativity as you thought about how to keep this character alive for longer. 

Theodore chuckled and rolled his eyes playfully. “You do realize that I can copy your style already, right?”

“Since when?” you asked incredulously.

He chuckled quietly and pressed a small but gentle kiss to your temple. “Since the day you first handed me your manuscript. I copied your handwriting too—you never admire it as much as you should.”

“You’re obsessive.” you chuckled quietly.

“And you—” he said before walking off. “—are my perfect muse.”

thank you so much for reading! i imagine that the character being killed luke, since i seem to have quite bad luck with men named luke. if you want more fluffy content as well, you can check out my main writing blog over here <3

© cainesrain 2025. do not copy, translate or claim any of my works as your own. reblogs + comments are so very appreciated! have a lovely day, love!

[cute-little-fly]

Stolitz is crazy and delusional, and that is precisely its appeal

A defense of Stolitz from a deranged fan.

Hi!! Fly rambling here once again… wohooooo!!

This time I wanted to make this to say a thing that I’ve been feeling since I started in this fandom.

I have stumbled upon posts, videos and specific comments comparing Stolitz with other fictional relationships. Often these comments come from audience or writers, not always, but often, that think about the ship from their perspective, and how they craft their characters and relationships themselves.

Therefore, here I am talking about a deep disconnection between these types of… let’s say critics/audience and us (fans of the show for whom the relationship makes a lot of sense).

I don’t want this post to come off as me thinking I can interpret this better than them, and that is just that they don’t understand. They might have a point. Maybe their opinion comes from an informed place from their perspective.

However… here comes the BUT.

A lot of aspects of Stolitz these writers frame as “mistakes” or “bad writing” in a way they frame as “writing mistakes” are precisely part of the things that made fell in love with Stolitz so much and what make them stand out.

I have found this fascinating…. Because honestly, I think it’s the first time that something like this happens to me with a piece of media. That precisely the things some critics frame as an “mistake” are the things that I find insane, in a cool way, about them.

That they are so crazy, delusional and mentally ill, in a complementary way, makes it somehow compelling. I know I sound crazy. But I will attempt to explain this like a normal person.

Stolas and Blitzø started backwards, from the bedroom to the basic.

They have been inside of each other bodies, but don’t even know what the other eats regularly. They trust each other in BDSM, were you need to have clear boundaries with the other person, but are unable to communicate at a basic level outside of the bedroom.

That their deal was BDSM is often ignored and is important.

BDSM practices involve a lot of trust. The experience from those encounters can be so extreme that you might have moments where you rely completely on the other person. This builds trust. Non spoken trust. (I don’t know much about this, but this is from what I’ve read okay?? So I won’t talk much about it).

I love this moment in Apology tour because you can see how Stolas knows that Blitzø will always catch him if he lets himself fall.

I like how they can hold onto each other in Apology Tour after they have been repeatedly fighting. Also like… How they can find solace between each other, but can be also wounded or mad to the other at the same time.

How they can have this closeness and intimacy almost without realizing, with a complete lack of basic understanding at the same time!!! Like, what do you mean???!!

THIS IS INSANE!!

For me, this is precisely a big part of the appeal.

For me it’s not bad writing that they think they found an opportunity to love in the other, without having gone through basic steps of their relationship like getting to know each other for real. Because their relationship it’s very atypical by design.

They ate dessert before having dinner, but by eating the dessert they developed some connection, and unspoken understanding that meant something. It’s not enough for a relationship yet, but has some meaning. Like.. how often fuckbuddies catch feelings.

Both of them unconsciously were looking something beyond sex, even if Blitzø did it initially *mostly* for the deal. There are context cues that show that he felt something with Stolas the first day they were together, when there wasn’t any deal.

I think that eventually we need to be shown what happened that first night. Something important probably happened, without the deal being in motion yet.

But… I give the critics that there is a lot of delusion here, mostly from Stolas at first, but also from Blitzø’s part. I don’t find this surprising. At all. They don’t have a real image of what healthy and real love is. Have people thought of that? Maybe the only one that has it is Blitzø a little bit, because he sees M&M every day, but still…

It’s natural from the character’s perspective to treat the connection they developed there in that delusional way... even if us, the people of the audience know that you need way more to have a relationship, the characters don’t have our same standards. As they slowly progress in the future they will realize this.

Stolas and Blitzø deep down feel similar things, and the environment they were in made a bridge between them.

This is precisely what ties Stolitz with the social class sub conflict.

They were written to be FOR each other; but, separated because of the barriers created from their trauma and their different understanding of things because of the social class difference. Like… at a very essential level they are the same, but the things around them have put walls between each other.

This is what makes them compelling imo. You can see how they deep down have wounds, feel lonely, are vulnerable loving people that crave connection but the context around them decided they were worlds apart. That it is impossible for them to understand the other. This is something they have even interiorized themselves. Stolas with classism, Blitzø with his trauma and prejudice.

By shattering his classist views and by Blitzø opening his heart, is the way they can reach out. This is also a good thing for both of them that would make them evolve beyond those limitations.

I have seen critics say that they don’t think this is where the show is going… but then, why put so much emphasis on classism and hierarchies? Like, to understand most of the plots and characters we have to think about precisely that. Of course this will also relate to the development of Stolitz.

They both projected a fantasy based on their trauma and hardships

Blitzø projects the fantasy of someone that is so powerful that can’t be hurt by him. Blitzø trauma it’s related to be a bad influence on other people’s lives or someone that makes them worse. If Stolas is a powerful prince, there is no way he can do that... APPARENTLY.

Stolas fantasy is easier to notice. He projects a knight in shining armor that is going to rescue him, because he feels trapped in his life. He sees Blitzø as this guy that can do anything and is like this idealized “sexy rogue assasin” from his books.

This is a formula for disaster. Of course everything was gonna crash down eventually. But, this fantasy projection is not just about their relationship, but about themselves. This is what differentiate this from just oh silly fantasy to compelling story imo.

By breaking the fantasy that Stolas couldn’t be hurt, Blitzø had no option but to open his heart. Stolas took Blitzø’s strength as a beacon to have courage to face Stella and a complete court of demons. This is why this hits.

Which also takes me tooo….

Stolas and Blitzø would grow as people by being together FOR REAL, because they would balance each other’s flaws, and ultimately, they still can find solace in the other, even after seeing the broken shards…

This is why we root for them… even if right now they still don’t have a mutual understanding about the other, the show clearly did well showing the chemistry and connection that will slowly draw them to one another.

Blitzø is resourceful while Stolas is passive and is used to have things lent to him.

Stolas and Blitzø have the opposite issues parenting.

Stolas is on touch with his feelings while Blitzø doesn’t.

Stolas being educated in grammar and Blitzø being good physically.

Blitzø lighten a spark for Stolas to start making decisions for himself, even if that’s the last thing he intended.

Stolas ironically classist view and sheltered limited knowledge about the real world for imps, made him never doubt that Blitzø trying to have a business like that was that unlikely.

He trust Blitzø the book because he saw him capable; but he was also ignorant about how hard is for imps to make businesses.

The thrill of this is how fucking unlikely it is that the circumstances put these two people together, that look so incredibly different but… are actually meant to one another and complementary in their abilities and flaws. Is this likely or realistic? NO… like don’t try this at home PLEASE!!! (LMAO!!).

But why does it have to be realistic to be a good written story? Sometimes unlikely things happen even irl, and this is precisely the thrill.

Like… it’s crazy that even with all the harm they did to the other and how much misunderstanding they have…. Their limitations and everything they still manage to keep this connection alive and they won’t abandon the other in the middle of hardships.

Now… they need to learn how to show that like a regular person… or demon I guess?

Sinsmas is not the right episode to analyze further Stolitz, because all the rest of things going on.

Making that slowly, letting all of that entirely for season 3 instead of forcing that in Sinsmas is a good call imo.

They are starting to put the plates and preparing the meal to finally have that dinner they never had.

Stolitz is NO a major focus here and that’s important. These segments are mostly about Stolas adapting (or frankly… not adapting) to his new condition and life, about Stolas crashing without his meds and usual comforts.

For me, it’s expected that Stolas is not focusing much in learning about imps or Blitzø, since he is without his pills and thinking in Octavia.

Blitzø is also focusing on keeping the guy together after he saved him, only asking the necessary for him to be comfortable. He is also not focusing on romance right now.

He sees that being with Blitzø it’s not the fairy tale he thought, how unreal the fantasy was… BUT at the same time, that he can count on him, that he can be free and whine or express his frustration as much as he pleases without being shut up. That he is more free now.

That there are things of Blitzø he doesn’t know yet and how nice will be to discover that… also… this is important… he is not going to like some of this things. But… if those things make Blitzø be him… he will eventually love him with those too.

If he understood love and if he started to behave like a usual parter or interested person now would, that would take weight of the traumatic situation he just endured AND makes sense with how sheltered he is from reality.

I loved how everything was depicted here, because I’ve had experiences with depression, and all what I saw it’s pretty accurate to how it is. Not pretty. Not sunshine and rainbows.

So… it pulls me off when fans act like they are officially together, or when critics point out flaws that don’t consider all the picture. That it’s not just about Blitzø and Stolas here. Or when they act like Stolas doesn’t love or is interested in Blitzø, where initially he clearly show he was.

That we need to project and think about a lot of things that aren’t explicitly said/shown sometimes… well that could be an objective flaw… but it also makes engaging with it really fun?

I won’t be long on this one… because showing a little more of them interacting was needed. Maybe not just make Blitzø said that Stolas comments on his posts and calls him to just talk but show that.

However, for the other part… personally I like to engage with these sort of stories where you need to dig a little bit more than the surface.

Some people say that if everything it’s not clearly expressed it’s bad done.

For example, how sometimes we use the messages that are shown that Blitzø sent to Stolas in the hospital, and that we need to pause and enlarge to see that context. Twitter posts about the paintings seen in Octavia’s song, that aren’t that detailed in the show itself.

I find this very suitable for a web series, that had its origins on the internet and with no conventional forms of media.

So… here I have a mixed opinion. Which I like how we don’t have everything spelled out and we can have fun digging but also, it would have been nice to be shown a few things that are just implied.

At the end of the day… my objective with this post is to say that the non-conventional nature of this relationship and show it’s what made me so invested, because it ended up making this love story very different to others.

I mean… I kinda like that they don’t follow strict rules of writing sometimes. That everyone can project a lot on them from their perspectives and experiences. Which also leads to some people finding it horrible.

I even wouldn’t think about Stolitz the same if they did the “fixes” some people propose to it. Like… the reason I like it is precisely that it’s a mess, and that we are shown the timeline of the relationship in a non cronological way.

Like… of course it would be sweet and still engaging. Also, more people definitely would get on board with it, or even relate that with their own failed relationships that they looked at with rose tinted glasses… however, the way it is NOW makes other people engage with it as how it is now, even if we are like a bunch of weirdos (no offense ❤️).

I kinda dislike that now everything needs to be so grounded and so realistic…? Like, a situation like this is possible because they are them.

It’s meant to be seen as that this is a super weird and unlikely situation, and that it’s happening in this way and is possible because they are them, because of fate, because of misunderstood self-fulfilling prophecies or whatever.

I can understand not like this kind of stories. But this is not the first story to use this, and I don’t see why that’s… wrong? I can see why some people don’t like it. But not why it’s wrong because of this.

Blitzø and Verosika, for example, were drawn to each other because of their emptiness and loneliness, but weren’t the right person for each other. However, you can also have a super toxic situation where you end up finding something real. This is the difference between these two relationships.

How you could find something special in the middle of a bad situation.

[somewhereidkwhy]

Saw someone today say that season 3 plans have “no plan for Louis” which makes zero sense to me.

1. We saw the writers room wall art the writers used for season 3 inspiration. Louis was all over it.

2. The Lestat PR box they sent out has references to Louis, Loustat or NOLA…. all over it.

Are there people out there seriously thinking this show can continue without Louis? A character they deemed *THE* vampire of the series? If they truly wanted to erase him like they did in the book, why didn’t they just make season 3 “The Vampire Lestat?” They clearly don’t care where the money for the TVC adaptations are going to considering MayFair Witches is still on air. Greenlighting a new show wouldn’t be an issue. Where has the loss of faith come from?

How far do you think the show runner & team of writers who gave us two amazing seasons already, could go to fuck this up and completely disregard the first two seasons of a show? Sam Reid said so in a recent interview panel that because of this show and new additions made to Louis, they’re able to do so much more with the character that’s different from the books. Rolin has also said “I own the night” is not a sign off line. Why is everyone acting shocked that the second book adaptation will be centered around Lestat, who very clearly is distraught over his life which includes Louis as we know it in the show universe? It’s so obviously clear they have made “Loustat” endgame in a sense- Rolin holding off on the apology from Lestat too.

Where are all these speculations coming from? When have the marketing for the show and the writing ever been consistent? As we’ve seen with season 2, we never even got a Jacob & Assad interview and they were the primary couple of season 2 - despite them breaking up and it being a facade. THEY were the interviewees and we got nothing.

[comatosebunny09]

I initially didn’t want to say anything because I didn’t want to come across as a hyper-sensitive brat.

However, it’s been bugging me for the last couple of weeks. So at the risk of sounding like an even bigger bitch than usual and possibly burning some bridges, there is a time and a place to advertise other stories or self-promote. On my fics, asks, and blurbs are not one of them.

I don’t like to gatekeep ideas; no idea belongs to one person. However, most of my ideas are personalized to fit me or the AUs I’ve worked with. I intentionally take my time replying to certain asks so that I can give whoever sent them a thorough, thoughtful response.

Sometimes, it takes me days, weeks, and recently months to respond in a way that shows I’m appreciative of the person reaching out to me. I don’t talk to many people here, and I know many of you feel more comfortable conversing with me via anonymous messages, so I want to reward you for stepping out of your comfort zone with something worthwhile.

I put as much effort into my asks as I do into any other one-shot or multi-chapter fic. What demotivates me is seeing people use what little energy I have to write these days to promote themselves or other writers. I have a side blog specifically for that reason: to share my favorite works from other creatives so that their stuff doesn’t get buried under the mountains of shit I regularly spew or reblog.

Essentially, I don’t care if my blurbs spark a conversation. I want them to. Please talk about the blurb in the comments. Please shout at each other about how the idea drives you feral in the tags. Please use them as an opportunity to make friends and become mutuals. I love musing with you guys. It is a truly wonderful way to conclude my day after I’ve spent most of it dragging ass or feeling defeated because I haven’t written much or updated fics that have been collecting dust for months.

However, let those musing sessions belong to me or us. Please don’t use them as an opportunity to self-promote or promote someone else. To me, it comes across as going to someone else’s birthday party to hand out invitations to yours.

Everyone deserves the spotlight. But please don’t shove me out of it when it’s my turn to stand beneath it.

If you choose to unfollow me after this, I understand. Again, this may seem incredibly bratty or entitled to some of you. But this has been gnawing at the back of my mind for a minute, and I couldn’t get on without addressing it.

[kaashyap]

⁀➴𝐀 𝐒𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐩𝐞𝐥 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚 𝐏𝐞𝐧 (Pt. 1)

╰┈➤The First Time I Saw Her

Author's note: This is not a love story. It’s a descent—into hunger, control, and the beauty of shared, irreversible ruin. It is not for everyone. Reader discretion is strongly advised throughout.

Pairings: Writer Dark!Pedro Pascal X ObsessedSerial Killer f! Reader

Summary: A reclusive writer and a surgical serial killer become entangled in a dark, obsessive relationship. Through blood and books they stalk, seduce, and rewrite each other—literally and psychologically. Reality blurs as violence becomes intimacy, and their love story unfolds like a novel destined to end in death.

Warnings: Taboo Themes, Dark Romance, Graphic Violence Gore, Psychological Horror, Erotic Obsession, Power Play, Body Horror, Medical Imagery, Cannibalistic Themes, Stalking, Surveillance, Voyeurism, Self-Harm & Mutilation, Sexual Content with Violent Undertones, Distorted Relationship Dynamics, Degradation Mental Health Themes, Identity erasure through obsession.

Pedro Pascal, a reclusive writer, dwells in the shadows of his own mind, crafting sensually disturbing and taboo literature centered on dominant, morally complex women. Once lauded for his raw, transgressive storytelling, but the world moved on. Now, his books sit forgotten, gathering dust on shelves tucked away in corners—shelves no one looks at anymore. Pedro is not merely withdrawn; he is consumed. Every look he gives, every sentence he writes, feels like a quiet cry for someone to see him. Not through kindness, but through something rougher. Closer. Through the violence of intimacy. Pedro doesn’t want to be loved. He wants to be known. Completely. Even if it ruins him.

He was lost in his ritualistic solitude—until she appeared, the enigmatic woman below, waking a dark side in him he had never wanted to see.

1st Person (Pedro's POV)

The corridor smelled like old varnish and metal dust. That faint hospital-rot stench of a building too proud to collapse and too tired to stand. I’ve always hated this hour—too much light, too much breath in the air. The world’s too awake at noon. I’m not.

But the magazine had been delayed. Two weeks. Obsidian Nocturne—my favorite, my vice. It’s printed on thick matte pages just how I like it. All ink and erotic decay. I couldn’t wait any longer.

So I went down. Bare feet in sandals. Linen pants I hadn’t ironed since winter. My shirt buttoned wrong—one too high, one too low. I didn’t fix it. I don’t fix small things.

The stairwell creaked under me. It always does. It has arthritis in its bones, like the rest of this rotting place.

The box screeched when I opened it. I liked that sound. Dust fell from the hinge like skin powder. And there it was—wrapped in brown paper, taped twice, the words Obsidian Nocturne stamped. I tucked it under my arm.

And turned.

At first, I thought the afternoon air had become windy or so I thought.

But it was her.

Halfway up the stairs. Still. Holding a black coat and a stack of moving boxes like they were made of air. She was beautiful in the way knives gleamed in opera lighting. She didn’t move. She didn’t need to. The hallway bent around her.

Something inside me shifted. It wasn’t recognition. It wasn’t desire. It was interruption.

I didn’t stop. I didn’t ask who she was. I walked past her, because that’s what I do when something pierces too deep. I went up the stairs. But I felt her eyes.

I felt them the way you feel water just before it boils. (Just like water heats up and gets restless right before it boils, the feeling is tense, charged, and ready to burst.)

I didn’t pause. I didn’t greet. I didn’t even blink longer than a second. But as I passed her on the stairs, ascending while she stood unmoving, my eyes—dark and sunken—dragged over her like a scalpel dragged across warm flesh.

I reached my door. My key slid in. My hand didn’t shake.

I stepped inside and closed the door behind me.

And then I just stood there. The magazine slid from under my arm and hit the floor like it no longer mattered.

I walked to the mirror. The hallway mirror. The one I avoid unless I’m sleepwalking or lost.

I stared. Not at myself—but at the idea of myself. My neck felt tight. My chest, hollowed.

“She’s not real,” I whispered. My voice didn’t sound like mine.

But the back of my neck was prickling like someone had breathed against it. I didn’t feel watched. I felt studied. Flayed. Touched in the mind.

And for the first time in months, maybe years, no maybe decades, I didn’t feel alone.

I smiled.

Just a little.

And not the kind of smile you see. The kind you taste like metal in your mouth. The kind you feel under the skin, just before you bleed.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

[misssparklingpaws]

Hey!! So, I watched Thunderbolts a few weeks ago and I've been obsessed! It kind of felt like 2016 all over again. After the movie, I had this idea and decided to write it down. I'm not a writer, but I wanted to give it a try. I hope you like it!

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

Shadow in flame

Aria Stark, Tony’s grieving older daughter, returns to train the Thunderbolts at Bucky Barnes’ request. She’s here to keep them alive—not to heal them. But facing broken people means confronting her own buried grief… and maybe finding unexpected love in Robert Reynolds, a sweet but powerful unstable man.

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

Shadow in the Flame

Chapter 1: Ghosts Don’t Knock, They Walk In

Bucky Barnes had never been good at asking for help. But standing in the half-lit command room of the newly reoccupied Avengers Tower, now Thunderbolt HQ, he found himself hesitating in front of a comm unit that hadn’t been used in months.

“Are you gonna press the damn button or not?” Yelena’s voice came from behind him, tired but amused.

He sighed. “She’s not the easiest person to ask.”

“Well,” Yelena leaned against the console, arms crossed, “neither are you.”

Bucky smirked despite himself. “Fair.”

He pressed the button.

---

Aria Lucía Stark wasn’t used to being summoned anymore. Not by SHIELD. Not by the government. Not bye old friends.

Running Stark Industries didn’t leave Aria much time to breathe, exactly how she liked it. Meetings, tech launches, diplomatic dinners, defense contracts... all perfect distractions from the emptiness that had never quite gone away since her father’s death.

She lived in quiet obscurity, floating between labs and work. Grief never left her.

She spoke to Pepper daily, more like reports than conversations. And every weekend, like clockwork, she took Morgan out for ice cream, teaching her to build circuits and ignore grief the same way she did: by moving forward.

Aria didn’t cry. Ever. Not when she returned after the Snap. Not when she meet her 5 year old sister and the little girl hugged her like she knew her from years, Not at the funeral. Not even when Morgan asked her once, “Do you miss him too?”

She just nodded, kissed the top of the little girl’s head, and changed the subject.

When Bucky Barnes called, he didn’t use official channels. Just a voice message on the encrypted line her father once reserved for Avengers business.

"Need someone who knows how to handle messes. And broken people. You were raised by one. Come to the tower. It’s time.”

She didn't know why but after hearing the message she didn’t hesitate. She packed one bag and boarded the jet herself.

---

Aria Lucia Stark stood at the platform's edge as her quinjet landed. Stark Tech. Sleek. Perfect. Like her.

She stepped out in black tight outfit, black compression shirt, black expensive leggings and combat boots, her expression unreadable beneath oversized sunglasses. Long dark brown almost black hair pull in a high ponytail, body petite but undeniably strong. Her presence was magnetic.

She hadn’t expected the tower to look this alive.

“Welcome home, Stark.”

“I don’t live here,” Aria replied coolly, setting her bags. “I’m consulting two months then I go back to dealing with things that don’t explode.” She said plainly. “You cut your hair."

“You didn’t,” he replied.

She allowed herself a twitch of a smirk.

“I appreciate you coming,” he added, tone softening. “I know it’s not easy, coming back here.”

“I didn’t come for here,” Aria said, arms crossed. “You called. I owe you.”

Yelena snorted. “You must be fun at parties.”

“I don’t attend them.” Aria’s voice was even, her face unreadable.

Walker nodded once in acknowledgment. Ava just blinked and vanished from sight. Red Guardian looking excited.

And then there was Robert Reynolds, fidgety, brown-haired. He barely looked up when she entered. Eyes wide like he was seeing ghosts and fingers twitching at his sides like static lived under his skin.

“Is he stable?” she asked Bucky.

“He’s trying.”

“I’ll need a full psychological scan and containment protocols.”

“He’s not a weapon.”

She met Bucky’s eyes. “Neither was Dad. Didn’t stop the universe from aiming him like one.”

Robert Reynolds kept his eyes on the floor.

“This is Aria Stark,” Bucky said. “You listen to her, you learn from her, and if you're lucky, you survive her training.”

“I’m not here to make friends,” Aria added, gaze scanning them like data points. “I’m here because the last time people like you were left unsupervised, half the planet evaporated.”

---

By nightfall, she sat in the kitchen and took a video call.

Morgan waved wildly through the screen. “Ari! I built a robot that waters Mom’s plants! It has a face now!”

“Very efficient,” Aria said, lips twitching at the edges. “Just don’t make it sentient.”

Pepper appeared behind Morgan. “How’s the tower?”

“Dysfunctional,” Aria answered. “But I’ve seen worse.”

“You’re doing the right thing,” Pepper said gently. “Even if it doesn’t feel like it.”

“It never does.”

Morgan frowned. “You sound sad.”

“I’m not I'm just tired corazón.”

Morgan beamed. “You should sleep in the lab! That always makes you happy!”

Aria smiled, just a little. “Maybe I will.”

A loud crash startled her. She turned to see Robert Reynolds tripping over a table trying to escape his own shadow again.

Aria sighed, stood ending the call after saying bye to her half baby sister and walking over to help him up.

“You’re not very good at walking,” she said dryly, offering a hand.

He looked up at her, eyes wide with confusion and fear, but took her hand.

“I’m... trying, and sorry I interrupt your mom call, wanted a milkshake" He mumbled.

She look him in the eye, ice cold "Pepper isn't my mother, but don't worry I was already saying goodbye"

"Mmm sorry I..." Robert started

"See you in the morning Reynolds" Aria Said and leave the room.

---

She returned to the training floor the next morning. The team was already assembled, half-arguing, half-stretching.

She cleared her throat. Her voice rang out like iron.

“From today on, I’m in charge of your combat refinement, psychological evaluations, and mission planning. You don’t have to like me. But you will follow orders. Any questions?”

Nobody responded.

She stared at them “Survive a week without destroying each other, and I’ll consider it.”

The room went quiet.

And then, for the first time in years, Aria Stark felt something close to anticipation.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------I hope you like it

[sweetbottletops]

This isn’t either of their rooms I don’t believe. Not with that couch there. So I assume they are at Joe’s then? Even Kanna mostly hung out in the shop part and not the connected home so we've not seen much of it besides her room, kitchen, and stairs.

Ch 126

Koga is still in the "she likes me so everything is going great" mode. TBH she's earned it.

One hit and I'm higher than I've ever been One kiss and I'm hooked on your medicine x

She's in a cherry shirt. Heh. Seriously tho, what living room are they in where they are this comfortable? I feel like it can't be Aya's since her mom is like the Kool-Aid man in their house, but I also don't feel like Joe's apartment would have windows like that. I need the floorplan.

Aya has made it abundantly clear that Narita will not be third wheeling any nail painting. They are girlfriend exclusive activities.

Aya has been the enthusiastic captain of the good ship MitsuAya.

Aya restrains her and immediately thinks about this and that. Okay, girl. She's been the one down bad for way longer and Koga seems fine with letting her set the agenda.

There's something about already being so close with someone that when you do get together you don't have to do the "will you go out with me" conversation because both know nobody else is in the running and thoughts are more on testing out life plans.

I don't think she gets all of Aya's anxieties because those haven't been fully shared, but because she knows Aya likes her there is a new comfortably safe baseline.

Volume four will be rated 18+ for hand p0rn at this rate and it will be deserved.

Seriously tho, which house are they "wrestling" in?

The unrealistic demands of having a girlfriend, cramming so you can get into English studies to keep up with your girlfriend, and having good nails at the same time. Something has to give. Or crack in this case. Self care is important. This looks to be blowing up to a full on nervous tick.

Koga tried to do better at school to keep up with Aya and now Aya seems to be trying hard at school, specifically English, to keep up with the Koga family. All of whom she idolizes to some degree.

And specifically English is the language Koga writes her music in which is extra incentive. So if she wants to become family and not always feeling slightly Othered she has fixated on speeding up the process with picking a direction testing into a school program.

A gyaru failing at nail care is just as bad a Koga getting writers block.

To me she's trying really hard to fit in with the Kogas even though they're not the ones pressuring her to do any of this. She's just in her "reading the fine print" mode and over thinking the future plans part. The more she likes Koga the worse the feeling of not measuring up probably feels. This isn't that uncommon of a feeling if you're the lone non-musician/creative in a group. Aya is leaving high school insecurities and graduating in to university level ones.

[confusedhummingbird]

Jesus… a dickbabs wedding would bring so much hate I don’t even want to imagine it. Not that I like dickbabs ,quite the opposite haha, but the hate would be so heavy for both characters, especially because a wedding wouldn’t change anything about their situation. I don’t see marriage saving this ship from negative criticism, especially since dickbabs doesn’t even have good writing as a dating couple, let alone as a married one. I really get the impression that Watters actively avoids writing dickbabs most of the time, I don’t know if it’s because he’s not interested in writing romance or because he doesn’t know how to write them, but either way, it’s a choice. He completely shifted the tone compared to Taylor’s run; they don’t even feel like the same couple, which only highlights how inconsistent dickbabs is as a pairing. What bothers me about them isn’t even the retcon anymore (I’m over that), but how their dynamic and writing constantly change depending on the current writer, and they never maintain a unique essence. They’re just not consistent like batcat, clois, dinahollie, wallinda, etc.

Agreed and it's honestly funny to go from Barbara being so in your face with Taylor's run to barely being there in Watters' not that I honestly mind because I read Nightwing for Dick to be the one solving the issues not having Barbara be the one to do it because she's oh so special.

Truly this is me in any Nightwing run. I come for my boy. Unless you're going to give me more of the Titans being in Dick's life I don't care.

[orellazalonia]

Love Letters in the Smoke

Summary: During his rehabilitation, Bucky writes anonymous letters to process his thoughts. One night, he drops one at your circus campfire by mistake. You write back as a pen-pal romance begins. (Bucky Barnes x aerialist!reader)

Word Count: 1.6k+

A/N: I wanted to write something circus themed and thought this was a cute story. I hope the indents for the letters doesn’t look weird. Regardless, Happy reading!

Main Masterlist

The circus smelled of smoke, greasepaint, and a hint of nostalgia. The kind of place that looked like it had time-traveled from another century. Its canvas tents patched with care, and string lights casting soft golden halos in the dusk. You called it home.

Every night, after the crowd dispersed and the last child had been tugged away from the caramel stands, you’d sit by the communal fire pit with a notebook and your own thoughts. The crackle of flames soothed your nerves after a long evening performing. Tonight was no different until you found the letter.

Folded neatly in half, it was tucked beneath a rock near the fire. No name. No address. Just worn, thick paper, like it had been clutched tightly before being left behind. The handwriting was rigid, practiced, like someone who didn’t write often.

"I don’t know why I’m writing this. Maybe to make sense of the noise. I’m not used to silence. When I have it, the ghosts scream louder. I think I was someone good once, but I don’t know if that matters anymore. So I keep walking, city to city, place to place, hoping I can outrun myself."

Your fingers tightened around the paper, heart stirring with something strange. You didn’t know the writer, but you knew the feeling. So you wrote back.

Your first response was clumsy. You weren’t used to being vulnerable. But you scribbled on the back of a circus flyer:

“Sometimes I look in the mirror and wonder if the reflection is mine or someone else’s memory. If you were good once, maybe that piece is still inside you. If it hurts, it means it mattered.”

You left your letter the same way by the fire, under the same rock. You didn’t expect anything to come of it. But the next night, there was another one waiting.

"Didn’t expect a reply. It’s strange. Your words feel like a calm I haven’t earned. But thank you. I needed them more than I thought."

The letters became a ritual.

While the rest of the troupe celebrated, drank, or collapsed into their trailers, you and your ghost wrote to each other. You told him about your performances, your nerves before every show, how the roar of the crowd always seemed distant. He told you about dreams he didn’t understand, faces he couldn't name but could never forget.

"Sometimes I see their eyes. Just eyes. Hundreds of them. People I’ve hurt. People I lost. I wish I could believe I was still worth saving."

Your response was always gentle, honest.

“Pain doesn’t cancel out worth. I don’t know what you’ve done. But if you’re trying now, if you’re writing to a stranger in the dark just to stay afloat… then yes. You’re worth it."

He never signed his letters. You didn’t, either. But a bond was forming. Raw and quiet. The kind of intimacy that only comes when truth is stripped bare, and nothing is expected in return.

A week later, a new stranger joined the circus.

He didn’t give much away, just said his name was James, and he was helping fix up the rigging for the aerial performers. He was tall with broad shoulders. Dark hair pulled into a low bun. Quiet, watchful, like a man used to danger. You noticed the glove on his hands, the way he flinched when touched, and the haunted glint in his eyes.

He didn’t say much, but when he watched you during your act, a graceful ribbon aerialist twisting in midair, there was something almost reverent in his gaze.

He started lingering by the fire after hours, sitting a few feet away. You’d nod. He’d nod back. Neither of you spoke much. But his presence was… comforting.

The letters continued.

"There’s a performer here. I don’t know her name yet. She climbs like she wants to touch the stars. When she’s up there, it’s like she’s weightless. Untouchable. I think she feels more at home in the air than on the ground. I envy that."

You read that one twice, your stomach fluttering. Could it be?

You looked at James differently after that. You caught him watching you once, a rare smile twitching at his mouth before he quickly looked away. He never asked personal questions, but he always listened when you spoke. Even the small things. What you had for dinner. What color ribbon you liked the best.

And still, each night, the letters came.

Until the day it stopped.

You came to the fire, letter in hand, heart pounding. You had written it that afternoon, deciding finally to sign it with your real name.

But there was no letter waiting. Not that night. Not the next.

And James was gone.

You asked around only to find out that he had packed up quietly, said goodbye to no one, and left like a ghost.

-

Weeks passed. The circus moved on, as it always did.

You still checked the firepit sometimes. Just in case. A hope inside your heart that would be chipped away each time you found no letter.

Then, one night, as the stars blanketed the sky and your arms ached from rehearsal, you found it. A single letter. Folded tight.

Your name was on the front.

"I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have left without saying goodbye. I was afraid. You knew me before you knew who I was. And that scared me more than anything. I’ve done things, things I can’t ask forgiveness for. But when I read your words, I believed for a moment that maybe I wasn’t just a weapon. That maybe I could be more. You called me worth saving. No one ever said that to the Winter Soldier. But you said it to James."

Your hands trembled as you read the last part.

"I want to see you again. If you'll let me. There’s a train station just outside the next town. I’ll be waiting. – Bucky"

You folded the letter to your chest and smiled through your tears.

Finally, a name.

And maybe, just maybe, a beginning.

The next town was a blur of winding back roads and wind-chilled mornings. The circus was set up at the edge of a sun-dried field, the ground cracked from lack of rain. But you barely noticed any of it. Your mind was somewhere else, back at the firepit, at the letter pressed to your chest, at the name that made everything real.

Bucky.

It suited him somehow. Solid and sincere. A little old-fashioned like the man himself.

You folded the letter so carefully that it felt like folding a prayer. You didn’t show it to anyone. Some part of you was still terrified it might vanish if you spoke it aloud. But you couldn’t ignore it.

He said he’d be at the train station. So you went.

You left after rehearsal dressed in simple clothes, your hair braided back, and palms sweating in your coat pockets. The station was small and mostly empty. Just one old bench, a vending machine that wheezed when it tried to light up, and a single streetlamp buzzing like a nervous heart.

He was there.

Bucky stood near the tracks, hands in his pockets, back tense like he wasn’t sure he should stay. A battered duffel sat by his boots. His eyes were distant, tracking the horizon. Like he was still prepared to run.

You almost called out to him, but he turned first. When your eyes met, it hit you like a second heartbeat.

You'd read this man’s pain. Held his words in your hands like they were fragile glass. You had whispered encouragement to him under stars he couldn’t see. And now he was here. Real. Vulnerable. Waiting.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” He said, voice rough with nerves.

“I wasn’t sure you would wait,” You answered, stepping closer.

He let out a low quiet laugh, more exhale than sound. “I almost didn’t.”

“I’m glad you did.”

There was a long pause, but it wasn’t awkward. It was full. Thick with every letter, every word, every emotion neither of you had dared speak aloud.

“I’m sorry for disappearing,” Bucky began as his gaze dropped. “I… panicked. Thought it was safer if I left before I messed it up. But the truth is… I missed you.”

Your throat tightened. “You didn’t mess anything up. I… I missed you too. Every night I checked that fire.”

He stepped closer, the soft scrape of gravel under his boots. “I didn’t know how to do this. I still don’t.”

“Me neither,” You whispered. You could feel your heart hammering in your chest.

His gloved hand lifted, like he wanted to reach for you but was waiting for permission. So you met him halfway, pressing your hand gently to his chest. Through his shirt, you could feel the heavy rhythm of his heart, strong and steady, like it had finally found a beat worth chasing.

“I wasn’t falling for a stranger,” You said softly. “I was falling for the man in the letters. For the one who writes like he’s fighting for every word. That was you. It was always you.”

Bucky closed his eyes. Then, slowly, carefully, he leaned his forehead against yours.

And in that moment, there were no ghosts. No stages. No performances. Just the hush of the night air, the scent of iron and oil and smoke, and two people who had found each other in the most unexpected of ways.

“I want to try,” He murmured. “With you. If you’ll have me.”

You smiled. “Only if you write to me sometimes, even if we’re just a tent away.”

He chuckled, and it was the most alive you’d ever heard him. “Deal.”

[cressidagrey]

(spoiler! this started as a idea pitch and turned into a rant about how great you are) i think you’d nail a lewis fic honestly. it sucks that very few give him the tropes that actually fit him like private but not a secret or partner with a unexpected occupation. i’m waiting for a bachelor turned lovesick idiot plot line honestly. i think you’d get the most of out the partner with an unexpected occupation trope. he’d absolutely fall for a teacher he met doing a school visit for mission 44, a MET museum exhibit coordinator, or a sky diving instructor in dubai. it’s frustrating to see so many text message, smaus, for so many drivers which is why your fics are so refreshing and engaging. you take these concepts and give them so much substance, your story telling ability is honestly kind of unmatched on this app (in my opinion). you do slice of life very well, without overproducing it. your very gifted, i don’t like writers that paywall fics that anyone could write (i understand it, but i don’t like it), but i’d genuinely pay for yours. it’s fine to do this as a hobby and all but i hate when they take themselves so seriously. which leads me to my next point, as if the bar couldn’t get any higher, you engage with the people who read your stories and feed into our delusional little scenarios! you make reading your stories 10x more enjoyable. yeah the words are nice, the plot is great but people genuinely like seeing your name pop up on their screen! whether it’s a update or a reply. it’s the little things in life, especially right now but the magical part is what you do feels so big to so many people. thanks for being so great, and i hope you continue to realize how amazing you are!

...okay this is creepy:

Welcome to my brain lol. (I only have that so I don't lose track of half the ideas I have. Also it changes constantly. Like I literally just reworked the Overheard in the paddock thing from being Oscar x OC two days ago. (There are only so many times I can make Lando an loveable idiot.))

So as you can see there may be a Lewis fic in the pipeline down the line, but it doesn't have anything but an idea yet!

I am never gonna paywall fanfic, mostly because I am pretty sure one of these days it's gonna be illegal. Other people can do whatever they want (hey, I am not judging, it's none of my business. Go get your money, good for you!), but that's a grey area I personally am not gonna enter, because I am way too prone to anxiety.

(Also please, random anons, don't make this a thing that I hate every writer that puts stuff behind a paywall. I don't. Just because I personally wouldn't do it, doesn't mean that they can't or shouldn't. There are plenty of things that I wouldn't do, that are totally fine for other people to do! It's none of my business.)

I’m so honored you enjoy my writing that much, especially the slice-of-life moments because that's my favourite thing to write! I am absolutely horrific at writing action, but I am pretty good at writing fluff 💖

[ohburgee]

Hello, my stars 💫 First of all, I want to say sorry for being a little all over the place lately. Sometimes when I feel guilt or regret, I get emotional. But don’t worry, I’m doing much better now. My online friends comforted me, and another friend, who's older and wiser, shared a quote that really motivated me. It said to me "Go with what makes you happy and passionate." That really stuck with me.

Don’t worry, I’m not quitting writing stories or fanfics. Writing is my hobby, my passion, and often my comfort zone. I’ll continue writing for Block Tales, and I’m also happy to say this I'm going to write for Phighting! I’ve been playing it before and really enjoying it, so I’ve decided to start writing fanfics for it too. Since i mentioned on my current post, that i love and enjoy with these two games.

Thank you to everyone who has supported my works and fanfics for Forsaken. I’m truly grateful to you all. I’m also sorry for stepping away, but please remember there are so many other amazing writers out there. I especially recommend one whose fanfics I always read, @sourle, he has wonderful works, and his AU works are absolutely peak! Be sure to check out his blog. There are many others too, even if I can’t name them all here. :>

I’m not fully back just yet, I still have one more week left in my second semester. Once that’s done, I’ll be on vacation and will have much more time for myself and for writing again. I hope you understand the changes, and once again, thank you all so much for your continued support and kindness.

If you all have questions don't be shy to send me on my inbox and i freely and understand to answer them :) Also, check my other post

See you again soon, my stars 💙