#I’ve never written anything like this before

[jinx-xxed]

Silver Chains

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A/N; I’ve already watched Sinners 4 times and became obsessed so I fear it’s necessary for me to write a fic for Remmick at least once 🤕 this is my first time writing vampires and blood like this so please forgive me if it sucks 🙏 also if I’ve written anything in relation to the movie incorrectly please tell me so I can fix it! I have some other ideas brewing that I might write as well so I hope you enjoy :P!

Summary; A hunt gone awry leaves you caught by vampire hunters with the threat of the sun looming over you.

Content; NSFW 18+, AFAB reader, vampire reader, vampirism, vampire hunters, blood and injury, death, feral behavior, you almost die, protective/possessive Remmick, very dependent relationship, bloodsucking, blood eating as kink, a lot of drool, he comes with it what can I say, feeding off Remmick, putting those claws and teeth to good use, eating out, fingering, piv sex, multiple orgasms, little bit of aftercare, soft Remmick

Wc; 7.2k

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆ .。.:*

The stench of blood assaults your nose.

It’s not the tantalizing, mouth-watering scent of someone else’s, no, it’s your own. It smells all sorts of wrong, impure and old with decay only to a thing like you.

Your blood runs down your skin in rivulets, staining it a deep, shiny red. Droplets fling from your body as you thrash and jerk against the heavy, silver chains that bind you to a thick and sturdy tree. The pain of the bark digging into your back is nothing compared to the agony of the chains burning your flesh away, steam rising from your injuries like you’d been placed on burning coals. It makes you wild, desperate to get away but with nowhere to go.

There’s no chance of you escaping the chains that sit against your neck, arms, waist, and legs in sets of two, even despite your struggling and the way you try to launch yourself from the tree with the slight leeway you have with your feet. Your unnerving eyes gleam in the moonlight, wide and frantic with fear, your bloodstained, jagged teeth showing in your open mouth. You feel as far from human as you possibly could be, snarling like an animal and chained just like one too.

The men watching you seem to think the same thing.

There’s five of them, two sit on their horses while the other three steadily pace the small clearing they have you in. God damn vampire hunters, armed to the teeth with everything they need to kill the likes of you. Silver bullets, silver chains, garlic and holy water, wooden stakes on their belts. It’s like they’re surrounded by a bubble of protection that you can’t penetrate, that’ll hurt you if they get too close—which isn’t that far off.

You curse yourself over and over. You and Remmick made damn sure to stay away from Choctaw land and yet here you are, caught and beaten. This is a new type of hunter, one you’d never had the misfortune of coming across before. They hunt in the dead of night, they enjoy watching you thrash and suffer, and their methods are cruel, meant to draw out your punishment.

You’ve never heard or seen a lick of them prior to tonight when you’d been ambushed and chased through the woods.

A gunshot had pierced your shoulder, one that brought more pain than your typical lead bullet. It had left you stumbling with a choked yell, steam rising from the hole in your shoulder blade. Then you’d heard the rustling in the underbrush, the hoots and hollers of men with a different kind of bloodlust than what you’re used to. Oh you’d ran, you’d ran as fast as your legs could carry you through the rough terrain of the forest, clearing fallen logs and scraping your bare arms on branches and thorns.

They’d caught you with another bullet to your thigh and a rope around your legs, pulling snug as soon as you tried to take another step and sending you thudding onto the hard ground. They’d wrapped you in silver soon after, seemingly experts on how to maneuver around you to avoid your snapping teeth and deadly nails. The first touch of the silver made your skin bubble and burn, a scream tearing out of your throat against your will. They’d dragged you crying for you don’t know how long behind their horses, all the way to the edge of the forest that overlooks a field that’s flat for as far as the eye can see.

You don’t know where they came from, they’re clearly unrelated to any other group or tribe of hunters, instead being just a gaggle of men who have dedicated their lives to eradicating yours. The history of your kind isn’t widely known, isn’t readily available to the public, so in your pain-addled brain you still wonder where they heard your tales, still wonder what else you might have to worry about if the knowledge is growing.

Your head thumps back, your breath coming ragged through your lungs. You shut your eyes tight for just a moment, trying to force away any more tears and clear your head. You haven’t felt pain like this in a long, long time, especially because Remmick has always been there to keep an eye on you, to keep you out of harms way. But not this time, not when you strayed too far and got too distracted to be vigilant about your surroundings. You’d been stupid and you know that, so part of you thinks you deserve this.

“Just stake me and be done.” You groan, ultimately defeated as the silver chains bite through your skin to the bone. It’s not like you want to die necessarily, you just want to be released from your own agony. You hate the way they’re toying with you, watching like wolves as you writhe and bleed.

One man shakes his head, his face shadowed by the cowboy hat he wears. “Nah, we like to watch y’all burn.” He looks to his watch and then up at the sky. “Ain’t gon’ be much longer now.”

You can’t help looking as well, your eyes finding the ever lightening night sky. The stars have been chased away, the moon laying itself to rest on the other side of the earth. You can feel the threat of the sun as the air steadily warms, as time tick, tick, ticks away. If you had to guess, you have about thirty minutes left at most before yellow rays peak over the horizon line.

You force a swallow down your torn throat, your breathing stutters as panic kicks up in your chest. You figure seeing the sun in your final moments won’t be the worst thing, it has been seven years after all, but nobody wants to be burned alive. You don’t want to feel your skin cook and be engulfed by flames, you don’t want your last memory to be pain. Tears fall down your bloodstained cheeks without you realizing, dripping to the forest floor as your head hangs.

Then there’s a rustle in the trees beyond that makes your attention snap back up. That’s when you sense it, when the tiny hairs on the back of your neck rise. It’s like a blanket of eerie quiet was laid over the clearing, quieting any crickets or frogs or birds and leaving just the whispers of an old wind through the trees. There’s a flash of red, the familiar smell of ancient blood and earth hitting your nostrils. It’s an instant comfort.

Your own reaction has caused the hunters to become alert, clutching their guns a little tighter and looking into the trees. They don’t even realize what’s happening before the screams start.

The first man goes down—the first is always the easiest. The horses startle in turn, rearing up with loud, shrill whinnies that make the men on their backs shout. One falls off his beast while the other gets dragged from the saddle with a yell. The horses shake their heads and shriek before crashing into the forest, leaving their riders behind to get their throats torn open.

You could sob in relief at seeing Remmick, his claws extended and his fangs bared. He looks feral, his hair wild and his eyes wide and gleaming bright red. Blood coats his chin and his neck, staining the collar of his button up as he rips into his victims as messily as he pleases. The two men left got enough of their senses to try and fire their guns, to use the weapons they so carefully prepared. One wields a wooden stake and runs at Remmick who grabs the man’s wrists to prevent the stake from being buried into his heart.

They grapple briefly before the man is being slammed onto the ground with a terrifying ease, something within his body cracking. Claws are raked across his neck in a quick slash, urgency spurred by the cock of a gun, the sound of the shot being fired making you flinch as it rings through the clearing. It misses its target by just a hair and it’s unable to reload fast enough to prevent Remmick from jumping on the final hunter. The man goes down with a choked scream and you hear the familiar sounds of flesh being devoured and blood being drained. There’s only a sickly silence that follows.

All of the spilled blood has thick strings of drool dripping from the corners of your mouth, your hunger flaring up from the lack of food you’d gotten tonight and the exhaustion of struggling against the hunters. You lean forward instinctively, desperate for a taste, before the silver chains binding your body remind you of where you are. You jolt back with a whimper, pain biting into you tenfold.

Remmick’s head snaps up, those sinister red eyes finding you as the bloodlust and blind rage fades, as he seems to remember you. He’s up in an instant, hurrying over and flinching away with a snarl when he realizes what’s wrapped around your body. “Shit.” He spits angrily, doing it again when he looks to the horizon and sees the slow infiltration of the oranges and yellows of morning into the purples and blues of night. Ten minutes left.

“Rem- Remmick- please, please get me out- it hurts, Remmick, please.” You beg, your babbling words warbling with pain and emotion. You don’t want to be left behind, not again, not by him. It’d hurt more than the searing kiss of the sun.

“I ain’t leavin’ you, darlin’.” He says with finality through gritted teeth, even as every instinctual thing inside him whispers to leave you here to die, to save himself and let you be engulfed in the flames of your mistake. He circles behind you, taking a deep breath before beginning to tug at the chains, hissing as they burn the calloused skin on his hands. Despite the pain, they steadily come undone, dropping to the ground around you so you can finally take in a gasping breath.

“I told you to stay with me, didn’t I? Would it kill ya to listen for once?” Remmick snaps as he undoes the last of the chains around your legs, leaving you to stumble forward. You’re charred and covered in wounds, but now your body can finally begin to regenerate. You look a mess and you feel like one too, tears stinging the corners of your eyes as you struggle just to stay standing.

Before you can even get out an apology, he’s grabbing your wrist and tugging you with him. His own blood smears on your skin, the smell threatening to cloud your mind. “C’mon, or else we’ll both be fried.” His tone is low and angry and focused, telling you to save whatever you need to say for later.

You eagerly follow him, doing your best to keep up as you both run to outrace the rising warmth of morning. Panic hangs heavy around you, knowing how quickly those final minutes tick by, feeling the heat licking at your heels. Your skin threatens to begin sizzling again, sweat gleaming on your forms.

But by the grace of some cursed god, it turns out the hunters had dragged you not too far from where you and Remmick have made your home in a tiny little house hidden in the trees. It’s temporary, of course, and you’ll no doubt be moving again after tonight, but in the moment it’s like finding a blessed sanctuary in the midst of damnation. You both fly up the porch steps and burst into your home just as the sun clears the horizon line, its beams filtering through the trees while you slam the door in its face.

You fall to your knees instantly, panting and heaving like a dog as your deep injuries throb and ooze. Your whole body is shaking, weak from a pain and hunger you haven’t experienced before. You can feel the ache in your teeth, the drool that still runs down your chin despite how many times you’ve wiped it away.

Remmick is less fazed, simply shrugging off his sweat and blood soaked button up and tossing it aside, his suspenders falling loose around his hips and leaving him in his once white tank. The thin gold chain around his neck glints in the dim lighting, a twin to the gold band on his ring finger. He’s cut it close enough times in his long past that he’s familiar with the sensation of the sun at his back, but he’s been more careful with you. He makes sure to have you both fed and back with time to spare, but everything seemed to go wrong tonight. Though, he supposes the scare was probably good for you. Teach you not to wander off again.

He looks idly at his hands, at the blisters that are already beginning to fade. He’s always healed pretty fast, while you on the other hand aren’t as fortunate. The scent of your blood fills his nose, fills the room of the house. You’re both lucky his hunger was satiated earlier, otherwise he’d be on you like a leech. Even after he turned you, your blood stayed just as mouthwatering, just as delicious to something twisted inside of him. It proved to him that you were something different, something he’d been searching for without really knowing it.

“Are you upset with me?” You sniffle, quite pathetic really. But it’s been a long while since you’ve felt this much shame and embarrassment, and your body doesn’t quite know what to do with it besides force it out through tears.

Remmick stands in silence with his thoughts for a moment more before he sighs, defeated. “I ain’t angry with ya, sugar. Just worried, is all.” He turns, his steps marked by the too-soft thud of boots against hardwood. You see the toes of his shoes in your vision, but you still can’t make yourself lift your head, to look at him—so he does it for you. He crouches down, taking your face in his hand, making you meet his eyes. “Fuck, darlin’, they almost killed you.”

You can see the concern etched onto his eternally young face, the memory of seeing you chained in silver and presented like a sacrifice to the morning sun. You can’t even begin to understand the fear he’d felt; hearing all the commotion far off in the woods, hearing your screams and hoping he ran fast enough to reach you. He could smell the way your blood poured from your body, the way it burned under your confines. He’d sensed your terror too, your emotions sitting just behind his own like a second pair, locked together by a bond too ancient to be understood. You’d called out to him without your voice and he answered without a second thought.

Oh, how he’d raged seeing you against that tree, begging your captors for a quick death. Your face was covered in tears and blood, you’d looked to the horizon with a mixture of acceptance and panic, something he’s seen plenty of times before. He never should have let it happen, should have known to keep you closer, should have known you were still too young into this and got too excited over fresh meat. Hell, he didn’t even know how you managed to sneak off but he’d looked away for one damn minute and then you were gone. He’d been a fool to trust that you’d come back before a gunshot rang through the forest.

Killing those men was one of the easier things he’s done. Remmick barely even registered their deaths, the only thought in his mind being eliminating any threats to you and getting some food out of it as well. Their wards and stakes and silver bullets did nothing to deter him, they were weak and weightless—the opposite of the other hunters he’s come across, the ones with real strength. No, those men were new and ultimately inexperienced, and yet still stupidly dangerous.

He’d worry about them later. They’re dead and gone while you’re still bleeding and sniffling in front of him.

You lean into his touch like a cat, desperate for comfort. “Yer starvin’, ain’t ‘cha?” He murmurs, running his thumb along your cheek. He can see it clear as day in your gleaming eyes, the drool that won’t stop, and the way your wounds are refusing to close because you don’t have enough sustenance. You nod sadly, your head bowed while tears of frustration burn behind your eyelids. Remmick is quick to wipe them away. “Shh, don’t cry, sugar. You’ll be alright. You got food right here.”

You look at him with confusion before seeing the way he’s presented his thick forearm to you, underside up. Your eyes widen and you almost jump immediately at the opportunity, your teeth aching painfully and hunger howling within you. He nods his head towards his arm. “Go on, darlin’. You know I wouldn’t let ya go hungry.”

You sit up, acting on autopilot as you grip his arm in both of your hands, your drool dripping onto his skin before your teeth sink in. Blood immediately comes to the surface of the puncture wounds, and you take every drop you’re offered. The iron-sweet tang on your tongue instantly brings out your hunger tenfold, your fangs digging even deeper into the soft skin. Remmick makes a low noise, something between a groan and a grunt, watching with satisfaction as you take from him.

It’s rare when he lets you do this. Typically there’s enough food for the both of you, enough to keep you happily satiated until the next time that primordial hunger comes knocking. But sometimes there’s nights when the hunt fails, nights like tonight when the need to feast is bad enough to kill you if it’s left too long, when you need to rely on your last resort. However, no matter what, Remmick will never let his lady go hungry.

The age of Remmick’s blood blooms in your mouth, rich with an aftertaste of ancient iron and old, hidden stories. Only people like you would know how much you can learn from someone’s blood, from the life force of their body. The whispers of the lives they led running along your tongue as you feast, the emotions they held within hopes and dreams. It’s fascinating, and it was something Remmick was eager to show you when you were first turned, teaching you the crimson stained wonders of being what he is.

You relish the feeling of his blood flowing through you, working to heal the wounds littering your body. His other hand rests firmly on the back of your neck, his fingers occasionally squeezing and letting you feel the pricks of his claws that have begun to slide from their sheaths. He keeps you there, encouraging you to take and take and take.

You eventually pull back, twisting out of his hold on you and releasing his bloody arm with a pop. Your breath comes as pants through your open mouth, blood staining your lips and teeth, the gleam having returned to your eyes. Your bites have always been cleaner than Remmick’s, less gruesome and destructive, leaving his forearm with tiny wounds that will heal quickly. The sight of red beading from them still makes you salivate but it’s easier to reel yourself in now, dragging your hunger back by a leash around its neck to keep it from going rabid. It allows your fangs and claws to be more willing to retract, your mind no longer running in restless, desperate circles around the concept of food.

You notice the way Remmick has been looking at you, full of some type of reverence mixed with relief, you think. Relief at the fact you’re not a sniveling, bleeding mess on the floor anymore, your usual shine quickly coming back. Your wounds have stitched themselves back together, bone no longer showing and just the outermost layers still being torn and burnt. It makes you feel like you can breathe again, every movement free of the horrible agony.

“C’mere.” Remmick says, voice dropping a few levels as he continues staring at your blood stained mouth. He pulls you in before you even have the chance to sit up properly, your lips meeting in a clash of tongues and teeth. He groans when he tastes his own blood on you, practically taking it from you with the way he licks you. You gasp against him as he fully invades your space, your back hitting the wooden door so that there’s nowhere else to go, his body effectively caging you in. His hands easily roam over your form, knowing every inch and detail with the precision of a man who’s explored them a hundred times before.

Hands come to rest on your waist and before you know it, you’re being hoisted up with a startled noise that Remmick quickly swallows with a kiss. His muscled biceps flex as he easily holds you against him, your legs coming to wrap around his hips and your hands gripping at his shoulders for purchase. You’re carried upstairs with a newfound urgency, Remmick kicking open the bedroom door and roughly laying you onto the soft sheets of a bed that used to belong to somebody else—before you two took over, of course.

Blood, sweat, and dirt immediately stain the covers beneath you, smearing across the fabric as you move. It’s nothing new, this happens just about every time you return from an exhilarating hunt. You both barely ever have the foresight to wash off first before climbing into bed together. Remmick follows after you, your hands resting on either side of his face to draw him in, never wanting to be apart for too long. His fingers pull at the shirt that was tucked into your pants that are too big on you, the ones you always wear on a hunt that are now ruined by the burn marks of silver chains.

His touch is always just on the side of too cold, a consequence of being undead, the same one that you suffer from. It’s something you were quick to grow used to, along with the way his temperature fluctuates depending on how much fresh blood he has coursing through him. His ring bites like ice beneath your shirt as he eases it up and over your body, tossing it somewhere into a corner to be picked up later.

“Mm, Remmick..” you mumble, your hands coming up to run through his short black hair, his bangs plastered to his forehead with sweat. His bloody chain dangles from his sternum, hanging just above you like a taunt.

“I know, sugar.” He responds, feeling the way your legs rub together beneath him, your body quivering with anticipation. His kisses trail from your lips to your jaw, then to your neck, past the spot where he bit you all those years ago. He licks away stains of the dried blood remaining from your sealed injuries, groaning like an animal at the taste that leaves him drooling.

Saliva smears across your skin on his way down your body, stopping briefly at your breasts. He takes a nipple into his mouth, swirling it against his tongue and teasing it between his thankfully normal teeth as you arch into him, little breathy moans and gasps tumbling out of you. He envelops the other breast in his calloused hand, squeezing and rolling the soft flesh between his fingers. “So beautiful… so good fer me, sugar.” He murmurs against you, his nose nudging at the space between your breasts where more blood has dried. It doesn’t take long for him to clean it off.

He makes quick work of your pants, undoing the buttons deftly and lifting your hips to tug them free. His hands run along your thighs lovingly, goosebumps rising in his wake. He straightens, red eyes roving over your now exposed body with appreciation. Drool beads at the corners of his lips, steadily building and running down his chin while you smile at him.

“Pretty thing, all fer me.” Remmick says it like a confirmation and a vow, even though he needs none. There’s nothing that could separate you two besides a stake through the heart or the sun’s warmth. You gave yourself to him completely the day you let him bite you, let him take your life and forge it into something new, something unholy and damned.

“All yours.” You agree, stretching your arms above your head like a cat. You give him a sly grin. “Now stop teasing.”

His eyebrows shoot up, a deep chuckle leaving him, even as he hooks his fingers beneath your underwear and tugs it off. “Always impatient, huh?”

You hum as he kneels, his strong arms coming up to wrap around your thighs and settle them nicely on his wide shoulders. “I just know how good you feel. Can’t a girl be excited?”

Remmick smirks, huffing a laugh. “Shoot, I don’t see why not.”

His breath fans across your cunt, already wet and glistening with your arousal. The red in his eyes smolders like coals, burning brighter with his desire as he looks at you like you’re his next meal. He leans in, that first connection acting like lightning shooting through you, your body arching and mouth falling open. His tongue licks between your folds, collecting your slick and dragging it up to your clit where he toys with the bud, circling it with little flicks and pecks while you moan above him.

Remmick sucks your clit into his mouth, the rest of you immediately responding in turn as you jolt from the pleasure. He knows how to play you like his banjo, how to keep you easy and pliant while he works you to climax. He knows your body like it’s his own, the bond you share allowing him to hold a presence within you, to tell your emotions and thoughts. Most of all, he knows how you like to be licked, his tongue dipping into your hole as your noises raise a pitch.

“Remmick.. fuck-“ You moan, hands coming down to run through his hair, tugging after a particularly harsh kiss to your clit. He groans into your pussy, the sound reverberating through you as he swallows down your arousal with an eagerness he doesn’t even display during feedings. His drool makes your cunt shine, mixing with your slick to the point you don’t know where he ends and you begin.

He practically buries himself into your cunt, licking and kissing and taking whatever you have to offer. His hands are like vices on your thighs, the unmistakable tips of his claws occasionally pricking your skin as they again slide from their nail beds with his excitement. You can feel the way pleasure courses through you, tightening your muscles and creating a familiar knot in your lower abdomen that will steadily build until it’s ready to come loose. It won’t be long with the way Remmick eats you like he hasn’t had a meal in years.

His nose nudges at your clit, his tongue circling your hole before slipping inside, collecting the wetness you continually drip for him. You whine loudly, pulling harder at the black strands of his hair, your thighs attempting to clench around his head. “Shit- feels so good Rem, fuck-“ You curse, falling back against the pillows, chest heaving.

You writhe under his ministrations, his hands having to move up to your hips just to keep you still, his biceps flexing against your legs. He knows how close you are so he ramps it up, licking from your center to your clit and drawing it into his mouth, his brows furrowed in concentration. Your moans and whimpers are music to his ears, listening to the way you call his name with a breathy gasp as he makes you cum.

It crashes over you like a wave, that knot coming undone and pleasure wracking your body. Remmick drinks it all, not letting a single drop of it go to waste as his eyes burn red. He’s quick to slip a hand between your legs, two fingers sinking into the plush heat of your pussy, his claws sheathed just for now. He pumps them in and out while you ride through your orgasm, scissoring your gummy walls to stretch you even further. He doesn’t let up, even as you grab at him to try and get him off, the attention bordering on overstimulation. He continues to kiss at your clit all the while, his fingers and his mouth bringing you straight into another orgasm that has you seeing white.

Every nerve in your body feels like it’s on fire, overly sensitive and leaving your legs twitching. Remmick licks you clean with as much care and diligence a man like him can muster, his fanged teeth occasionally scraping against you and making you shudder. His fingers slip out of your warmth covered in your cum, your walls fluttering and aching at the emptiness that you know won’t last long.

He finally releases your thighs, letting them fall from his shoulders as he lifts himself from between your legs. The lower half of his face is covered in a shiny mixture of drool, cum, and blood, making him look all sorts of a mess. You couldn’t care less, knowing that no matter what he does, it’s going to be a little messy—and you love that about him.

He slowly makes his way back up your body, kissing from your clavicle to your ribs, to your breasts, and then up the column of your neck before at last reaching your lips. You’re eager to kiss him, hands tugging at his shoulders to pull him in, keeping him as close as possible. You taste yourself on his tongue, along with a familiar iron tang that has your hunger flaring again. You pull away only to lick along his chin, eagerly collecting the bloody mixture until there’s none left. Your fangs released without you even realizing.

“Yer still hungry.” He says it as a statement rather than a question, seeing the blatant craving in your dazed eyes, feeling it within himself as if it was his own. You’ve tried to subdue it all this time, not wanting to take more than you’re allowed, but it still makes your stomach clench, your teeth ache. Your body is too weak to resist the pangs, still too busy patching up whatever damage can’t be seen externally. Remmick coos at you, “c’mon, s’okay. You don’t have to hide it from me.”

You begin to protest, your more human sensibility allowing guilt to take charge. “You already gave me-“

He shakes his head, silencing you. “Sugar, ya won’t last long if yer starvin’. I think I ate enough for the both of us anyhow.” You think back to all those dead hunters in that clearing, their bodies strewn along the forest floor and their blood splattered on the grass like paint. You can still smell their foreign iron-laced scents on Remmick, and it only serves to make you crave more. Drool falls down your chin, and he just smiles knowingly. His head tilts, the skin on his neck becoming taut as he bares it to you. “C’mon now.”

There’s a singular moment of hesitation, where you look into those red gleaming eyes of his for a type of confirmation, and all you find is that he’s just watching you expectantly. Well, if a meal’s going to be served to you on a silver platter like this, you’d do good to take it.

Your jaw goes slack, your teeth sharp and ready, before your body lunges up to latch onto his neck. As the first drops hit your tongue, he grunts, his form falling over yours while he wraps an arm swiftly around your waist so you can both fall back onto the bed. His other hand slams down next to your head while his blood fills your mouth and you gulp it down like there won’t be a tomorrow.

Being fed on is always jarring for Remmick, his body still not used to it after the centuries of him being the only one to feast. His neck is so much different than his arm, he realizes, something dangerous being set off within him this time as a result. But it turns out he’d do just about anything for you, so he makes himself ease into the sensation, even as his claws dig into the bedsheets and his fanged teeth grind together hard enough to shatter, the primal part of him fearing that, for once, he’s being preyed on.

“That’s it, sugar.” He says with a husky laugh. “Shit.”

Past the initial shock, it’s easy for the pain to shift into pleasure. It is quite erotic, really, the way he can feel his own blood coursing through your body. The little noises you make while you feed on him, the trickles of blood mixing with spit on your chin, your strength returning all because of him. It fills him with a twisted sense of pride, knowing that he’s the one satiating that bone deep hunger, knowing his blood is mixing with yours and becoming one inside you. “Take it all, darlin’, suck me dry.” He groans, the tips of his claws making little pinpricks in your sides as he holds onto you.

It’s almost involuntary, the way his hips rut against you, his cock straining in his pants and demanding attention. It has his hands fumbling between your bodies, eager to undo the thick buckle of his belt with a clink, the buttons of his trousers following after. You nearly choke on his blood when you feel his shaft rubbing between your folds, coating himself in the mixture of your cum and his drool. He does a few slow, experimental thrusts, not sinking in just yet but simply feeling you instead. It has you groaning against his neck, your teeth digging in deeper and greedily drinking at the ambrosia that is Remmick’s blood while he pants above you.

You release him with a sharp gasp when the head of his cock catches your entrance, at last pressing in with slippery ease. His moan is throaty and guttural, a shiver running through him at the way your walls draw him in, enveloping him in plush warmth. He sheathes himself completely and he stays with his hips flush to yours for just a moment, allowing himself to enjoy the initial pleasure. It amazes you how he never gets tired of it, even after his centuries of being alive and his years of fucking you.

You pull him back down with hands on either side of his face, encouraging him to kiss you. He does, of course, his mouth enveloping yours just as he begins to thrust, drawing almost completely from your cunt before slamming back in. His tongue roves over yours, licking away any remnants of his blood and swallowing down your moans. He pulls away with his chest heaving, a sharp groan falling from his open mouth, fangs on full display just beneath his lips.

There’s a sudden wetness against your collarbones that makes you jolt, looking down to see blood from Remmick’s neck splattered along your skin. The wound you’d bitten into him is still bleeding, droplets coming loose with his thrusts and the way he’s bent over you. He smirks, taking two fingers and drawing them over the bite marks, collecting the blood smeared there. “Clean up yer mess, sugar.” He tells you between breathy pants, bringing his fingers to your mouth.

You take them eagerly, swirling the pads against your tongue, licking off every bit of blood and enjoying the earthly, metal taste. He watches you in awe, his eyes burning bright red in the dim lighting, full of adoration and reverence and desire. Your spit coats his fingers generously, leaving them shiny when you let go with a wet smack. He buries his head into the side of your neck with a disbelieving chuckle that quickly morphs into a moan, his hot breath fanning across your skin as your hands clutch at his bloodied white tank.

You take the opportunity to mouth at the bite on his throat like an animal, like a cat grooming its mate. You whine suddenly when he hits that spot at the top of your core, the one that has you keening and pleasure sparking like lightning beneath your skin. “Fu-fuck, Remmick-“ You mewl, claws digging into the expanse of his back, even through the tank. He growls appreciatively at the pain, at the red, angry lines undoubtedly rising along his skin and beading with blood.

Remmick nips hungrily at your neck, his hands digging harshly into your sides. He’s practically laid over top of you while he thrusts his cock deep into your throbbing pussy, keeping you as close as possible. There’s something possessive and raw about it, about the way he breathes you in, clutching at you desperately, biting you as if to prove you’re there.

“Ain’t never lettin’ you out of my sight again. Nearly fuckin’ lost ya.” He snarls with a groan, his claws digging in a little deeper at the memories of what happened just hours prior. Though your body no longer holds proof of it, he won’t forget anytime soon. He’ll chain you to him if he has to, just to make sure you’re safe.

“I- I know- I’m sorry-“ You say, moans stuttering with the way his hips slam into you, fueled by his declaration and the feral desires that howl a constant song within him. It’s not often that Remmick reveals any kind of vulnerability to you, instead letting you guess at it based on what you can gather from the bond you share. But it seems the very real idea of you bound in silver and burning brought it out of him, even if only a little.

You’re both nearing release, the pleasure burning in your core while his movements grow choppy and uneven. The noises he makes change, becoming breathy at the edges as his brows furrow, his nose nudging at your jaw. “Rem- Remmick- shit-“ You whine, feeling the way you’re so close to tumbling off the edge.

“I got ‘cha, sugar.” He says, voice rumbling right next to your ear. One hand comes between you, his calloused fingers finding your clit and swirling it in hurried circles, your mouth falling open and your eyes pinching shut as your muscles tense. His response is near instant, his free hand pinching your chin like a reminder, “nuh-uh, look at me, darlin’.”

You have no choice but to oblige him, meeting his gaze through tear stained lashes. You learned quickly how obsessed he is with seeing your face, seeing your eyes. No matter what position you’re in, he’ll make sure he can still see you or else you’ll find yourself flipped around to rectify it. You think he does it as a way to ground himself, a near impossible feat in an immortal body that’s hundreds of years old. You let him use you as an anchor, keeping him tethered here with you, two lonely souls finding company in one another.

It feels like all the breath gets knocked from your lungs as your third orgasm overtakes you. You whimper and whine and moan Remmick’s name, your hands scrabbling at him desperately. The way your cunt spasms around him makes him quick to follow after you with a loud curse, his cum hot as it paints your walls white, filling you to the brim with him. He rides out his high, emptying every last drop into you with small jerks of his hips and soft words, encouraging you to take it all.

“Fuck, sugar, yer somethin’ else.” Remmick pants, muscled chest heaving, straightening just a little to look at you in your fucked-out state. Hair wild, skin flushed, looking almost human if it weren’t for the unholy gleam in your eyes. There’s sticky trails of blood and spit all along your forms, remnants of both the hunt and your copulation. It’s made a further mess of the sheets below you, but quite frankly, you’re too tired to care.

He slowly pulls out with a groan, cum dribbling from your abused hole with his cock no longer there to keep you plugged full. You wince at the feeling, your energy spent and your body rightfully exhausted. As much as Remmick would love to keep you ruined with the reminders of what he did to you, he knows how you hate sleeping while sticky—and he needs you to be able to rest. He gently pries himself from you, even as you continuously try to wrap your arms around him again. “I’ll be right back, darlin’.” He promises, finally getting free despite your grumbling.

He gets a washcloth from the bathroom, wetting it with warm water before returning. Your arms are open for him, welcoming him back into your embrace so you can feel him against you, so you can feel complete. He holds you like something precious, cleans you like you’re made of delicate glass. He wipes the blood off with no issue, his appetite blissfully satiated for now, and he’s gentle between your legs, this routine so familiar that he could do it with his eyes closed. You go limp from his touch, your body pliant beneath him. He kisses you more than once, unable to help himself when you bask so nicely in the afterglow.

When he’s finished, Remmick tosses the cloth absently into a corner somewhere, followed by his bloody tank that joins his button up on the floor to be washed later. He then settles into a non-soiled part of the bed, sitting back against the headboard and easily pulling you on top of him. You simply follow wherever his hands want you to go, more than happy to relax in his lap with your head pressed to his bare chest and his thick arms enveloping you. His scent floods your nose—sweat, iron, dirt, and old leather, making you hum appreciatively.

“My sweet girl,” Remmick murmurs against your hair, his hand running along your back in soothing lines. He pulls one of the spare quilts free and wraps it around you and you nestle into its comfort, the heavy material soft against your bare skin. You nuzzle against Remmick, too tired to resist fully giving in to those base desires for warmth and safety, knowing he’ll give you exactly that. There’s a kiss pressed to your forehead. “Rest. Y’need it.”

“You’ll still be here?” You mumble, barely able to muster a sentence, eyes already beginning to shut. Sometimes there’s days when you need that extra confirmation, his promise that he won’t leave you behind, that he’ll still be waiting for you by the time you wake up. You feel his grip on you tighten, just for a moment.

“‘Course I will, sugar. I ain’t ever leavin’.”

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆ .。.:*

Tags; @vesnaragast

[ruusawa]

✶⋆.˚ MDNI, 18+ ONLY

✶⋆.˚ ᴍᴀʀᴋ ɢʀᴀʏsᴏɴ x ғᴇᴍ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

✶⋆.˚ ᴏʀᴀʟ ғ!ʀᴇᴄᴇɪᴠɪɴɢ, ʜᴀɴᴅᴊᴏʙs, ᴍᴀʀᴋ ɪs ᴀ ᴡʜɪɴᴇʀ, ᴅᴇʙʙɪᴇ ɪɴᴛᴇʀʀᴜᴘᴛs, ɴᴏᴛ ʙᴇᴛᴀ ʀᴇᴀᴅ

✶⋆.˚ 𝟺𝟾𝟼 ᴡᴏʀᴅs

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

Mark eats you like he’s being starved. He’s all tongue and lips, mouthing at your pussy with a kind of desperation that you’ve never seen before. You’re moaning into your fist, because you’ll be damned if you make too much noise and wake Oliver, or god forbid, Debbie.

Mark gives a harsh suck to your clit, and you’re gone. It’s like lightning, your body tenses, and then you’re biting your fist, moaning around it, spit slipping down your fingers.

You let out a breathless laugh, your body relaxing against the sheets of Mark’s bed.

Mark huffs, coming up your body, his chin resting on your stomach. “Good?”

“So good,” you coo, bringing up a hand to card through Mark’s hair softly. He just… admires you. Taking you in, laid there in the afterglow.

Mark hums, then shifts, throwing a leg over yours so you can feel how hard he is. Sticky precum paints your skin, and wow. He’s that hard from eating you out.

“Let me return the favour,” you murmur.

You both move, you’re curled to Mark’s chest, your hand creeping down his chest. And then your nails are scratching down his happy trail. Mark sighs, leaning his head on yours. You tease a finger down to his cock, a gentle, teasing touch.

Mark whimpers when your hand finally wraps around his leaky dick, tugging softly. You pump him torturously slow, gently squeezing the head as another bead of preum pearls there. You smear it over the head, slicking your hand up with it to make it glide smoother down him.

Mark’s hips jerk, he lets out a breathy whine, the whine that lets you know he’s close. You twist your hand on the upstroke, Mark’s breath stutters and-

“Mark? Are you home?��� Debbie’s voice comes through the door, and the doorknob jiggles. Thank fuck for locks.

Mark pushes your hand away, “Yeah, Mom, I’m home.”

“Are you okay? Why’s the door locked?” You love Debbie, you really do. She’s mom of the year. But right now, you really wanna tell her to leave so you can tease her son into an orgasm.

“Uh… I’m naked!” Not entirely a lie.

Like the little shit you are, your fingers wrap back around Mark’s cock, stroking him quickly. Mark chokes, glaring at you. You grin at him.

“I’m gonna go to-” Mark swears under his bed. “I’m gonna go to bed, night, Mom!”

There’s a pause, “Okay, goodnight, honey.”

Debbie’s feet pad down the hall, away from where Mark is panting into your hair. “Not cool.”

You giggle as Mark rolls over you, kissing your lips.

“I’m so getting you back for that.”

(Mark yawns as he heads down for breakfast.

Debbie looks up from the pancakes she’s making. “Sleep well, sweetie?”

Mark nods, moving to grab some plates.

“Also, honey, next time your girlfriend is over, prewarn me so I can put some earplugs in.”

“Mom!”)

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

i’ve been working on a longer piece so that’s why i haven’t written anything for a few days, oops

eventually my wedding day fic will come out (if i ever actually write it)

hopefully this reads okay, smut is still weird to write

[anremithrl]

In all the hills of Nolorei, no name was spoken with more bemused admiration—and in equal parts frustration—by the Arcane Constabulary than that of Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

When I first heard it, it was as a muttered expletive from that befuddled dwarf whose crime scene had, according to his account, been “prematurely and unnecessarily solved” by a man neither enrolled in the Guild of Sages nor licensed by the Circle of Justice.

Holmes, it was said, was either a rogue diviner of the old school or a conjured simulacrum made flesh by some forgotten theorem of logic. Tales of him were almost certainly exaggerated. Some claimed he’d exposed a ring of elven counterfeiters in Arithmorei without ever stepping into the forest. Others insisted he’d unmasked a shapeshifting fae by the scent of its boots.

No two tales agreed on his origin. Echoriath, said some; others claimed Neros, or even distant Swanward. I had no reason to believe he was anything more than a myth conjured by failed detectives to explain away their own shortcomings

He was, surely, a kind of folklore that grew in every telling.

But then, on the sixth month, he took up residence in Eldalar, my city.

The stories only grew more absurd. He had recently been in Veloria, and it was said that he unmasked a were-hydra by the way it folded its laundry. Before that, in the frozen north, a frost giant chieftain reportedly gifted him a ring of loyalty after Holmes predicted the outcome of a tribal war using only a map, two spoons, and a broken harp string.

He had hardly left the strange abode I had heard rumours of, and was conjectured to be irritable and antisocial.

And so when my mistress at the River Academy received a summons—signed only “S.H.”—requesting “a capable assistant, preferably quiet, literate, and ambulatory,” she handed it to me with the weariness of one discarding a cursed object.

“He’s rejected all I’ve sent so far. Best get this over with.”

The address led me to a most peculiar place. Not cursed—no whispers in the stones, no shadow at the edge of sight—but wrong. Not enchanted, but fundamentally… foreign.

It was made of brick—brick. But unlike the sand-coloured bricks of the Chiss, these were reddish orange, roughly cut. Not arranged in the dome-like structures they used either, here it was arranged into precise, utterly graceless lines. No flowing silverstone, no cantilevered spellwork, no ivy guided by gentle charm to trace the contours of a roof. Just angles. Right angles. Everywhere.

A strange green sign bore writing in an unfamiliar but legible script. Brass letters, blocky and undecorated.

I knocked.

“You are late, Watson,” a voice called from within.

A tall, oddly Swanward-looking man peered out.

“Not… Watson,” I said awkwardly.

He waved this off. “Yes, but you’ll find it’s easier if I keep calling you that. I’ve no time to alter habits. No point in it anyway. You’ll do just as fine if I call you Watson as anything else.”

He said this offhandedly, immediately returning to what seemed to be a pheonix feather, dipped in a strange chemical, under a microscope.

There were shelves—but not carved or grown. They were hammered and nailed into place, groaning under the weight of paper-bound tomes. Some of these lay open, written in a blocky, monochrome script. Incredibly precise. I could hardly imagine the handwriting of the person who had formed them. How were they so precise, uniform, and soulless?

There was a fireplace, entirely unconnected to any heat-stone, which he fed manually with blackened lumps of fossilized tree. The resulting smoke drifted into a chimney like some relic of age of shadows.

The walls were papered—papered!—with patterns so intricate and repetitive they made my eyes twitch. Across the floor stretched a patchwork of rugs that had clearly never met. One bore the woven crest of a beast that no Guild recognized. Another was covered in stylized lions that repeated at jarring intervals.

Strange objects cluttered the tables. Vials of some form of potions, though none I recognised. Artifice, I guessed. The last thing I had expected.

“You aren’t going to interview me?”

“I already know all I need.”

“What—”

“Freshly educated—there’s scroll dust still on your sleeves. Ink under your nails. You walked here; shoes are worn, cheap make. Left heel cracked, recent. Scuff marks on your knees to match. Marks of dust on your belongings as well. You no doubt tripped on the way here, and spilled everything. Hence why you are late. Left-handed. Recently unemployed. From the southern quarter. And that charm against scrying in your pouch? Ineffective and not of your crafting.”

He didn’t even glance up.

How in the nine hells? I stared at him for several seconds, hand still halfway to the pouch at my belt where the charm nestled. He must have had the Sight, it was a rare skill. Incredibly rare if it could break past my charm.

“I didn’t bypass the charm. Haven’t the Sight anyway.”

I didn’t believe him. He was lying. But I racked my brain for another explanation all the same.

I decided I would find out eventually. I had a more pressing curiosity.

“One thing,” I asked. “You’ve turned away all the others. Why me? None of your reasons have told me that.”

“You paused before you entered, to note the strange architecture. Once inside you have looked around with great interest. You didn’t believe me, but still considered other explanations. So, you are Watson.”

“You didn’t ask if I wanted to be.”

“You’re curious. One of the best qualities of Watson. So of course, you want to figure all of this out. You’ll accept.”

He stood up from the microscope with a start. “We have to go. Come on.”

“But-”

“You were about to ask for a gold piece a day. Hoping that I'd at least settle for seven silvers. My numbers may be slightly off. You know your duties, they’re on the slip. I’ll give you two gold pieces and we’ll skip this nonsense. Come on.”

He strode out without turning back to check if I was following.

That was how I became assistant to the strangest man in all of Earendor—a man who called himself Sherlock Holmes, wore a ridiculous longcoat, and spoke of London as if it were a real place.

If Sherlock Holmes was Isekai'd to a fantasy world he would just deduce the rules of this world and get back to solving crimes. He'll find an elf girl sidekick,name her Watson, and pretend like nothing happened.

[thediormulan]

PICK A CARD

THE COURTING PHASE- HOW WILL THEY WOO YOU?

This isn’t a situationship. It’s sacred courtship—slow, intentional, and kissed with clarity. In this collective reading, you’re not chasing—you’re being chosen. Four piles. Four prophecies. One truth: someone is about to woo you like a ritual. No gender roles. No fluff. Just soul-deep devotion wrapped in warmth. Pick the pile that feels like a whispered promise. And if you want to go deeper—to name them, feel them, claim what’s next—you’re invited to book a one-on-one Velvet Offering: a private prophecy stitched just for your story.

It doesn’t begin with fireworks. It begins with stillness. With the breath they take before speaking your name like it’s something holy. You’ll know it’s them by the way they pause—not out of hesitation, but reverence. Their tone changes around you. Their voice lowers not in seduction, but surrender.From the beginning, this love feels like someone laying down their armor and asking, “May I come in?”

And darling, they wait at that threshold patiently.They don’t come in hot—they come in steady. Their presence doesn’t rush the room. It lingers like incense in the air, like the heat from a candle long after it’s been blown out. You’ll notice how they never miss a moment. How their affection feels like a series of gentle check-ins: “Did you sleep okay?” “Did you eat today?” “Just thinking about you.”

Simple, consistent, sacred.And when your guard starts to lower, you’ll see it in their eyes. That soft awe. That quiet admiration that never demands, only observes. They don’t need to be poetic—but somehow, they are. Every glance, every half-smile, every time they catch themselves staring just a little too long—it’s all a love poem in motion.

Their courtship lives in the ordinary.In bringing your favorite snack after a long day.In making space for your silence, not filling it.In playing you a playlist that somehow knows your past better than your therapist.They don’t play games. They keep their word. They show up when they say they will.You’ve known chaos. They offer calm.

You’ve known noise. They offer the kind of silence you can rest in.And it won’t be a grand gesture that makes you realize this is different.It’ll be the moment they ask about something you mentioned weeks ago.The night they send a meme that makes you laugh while crying.The way they remember the tiniest parts of you—because they were paying attention the whole time.

This is what love sounds like when it’s real: a voice that softens, a hand that doesn’t grab, a gaze that says, I’ve already chosen you.No loud proclamations. Just presence. Just proof.And one night, they’ll whisper something small—something silly, like “I missed you”—and it’ll hit deeper than anything anyone’s ever screamed.Because this isn’t performance. This is prayer.This is romance written in lowercase, not because it’s small—but because it’s gentle.

You’ll find yourself exhaling without realizing it.You’ll hear them say your name and feel safer just because they said it.And when they realize they love you?They won’t say it right away.They’ll just breathe it.Again. And again. And again.

Channeled Song: “Blessed” – Daniel Caesar

Angel Numbers: 1414, 1122, 717

Confirmation Letters: T, M, S, A, J

This isn’t a love that interrupts.

This is the kind that leans in.

They don’t push past your pain—they sit beside it, hand resting near but never clutching. They watch the way your body tenses before vulnerability and build their love in response to that tension.

Every time you prepare to explain, they’ve already made space.

You tell them you were ghosted once, and suddenly, they’re the one confirming plans, not leaving you unread. You express how long it’s been since you’ve been prioritized, and they begin showing up before you ask.

They don’t just hear your “I’m fine”—they decode it.And they respond with actions, not promises.This is a love built on sacred reparation. They aren’t perfect. They won’t always get it right.But they’ll always make it right.They text back after a misunderstanding—not to defend themselves, but to ask how you feel.They memorize your love language. They ask about your grief and don’t flinch when you answer.

They don’t just love you… they learn you.

Confirmation Letters: L, E, D, B, Y

Angel Numbers: 515, 411, 202

Channeled Song: “Still” by Seinabo Sey

“I don’t want perfect—I just want honest.”

They felt it the first time they met your eyes:

That you were not someone to approach lightly.

This isn’t arrogance.

It’s earned elegance.

Your energy is velvet steel—soft but unbending.

You don’t play hard to get. You simply don’t hand over sacredness to anyone who doesn’t offer reverence. And they feel the weight of that. Every date, every text, every word—echoes with the choice: “Do it right, or don’t do it at all.”You don’t audition for love anymore. You embody it. And that turns their hesitation into action.They plan dates that feel like devotion.

They introduce you to friends not for clout—but as ceremony.They touch you like they’ve already said a hundred silent prayers of gratitude for the access.You don’t raise your voice—they just listen closer.You don’t chase—they find themselves rerouting their whole life just to stay in your orbit.And the truth is? You never gave an ultimatum.

They just understood the assignment.

Confirmation Letters: R, A, K, V, Z

Angel Numbers: 1331, 707, 888

Channeled Song: “Golden Hour” by Kacey Musgraves

“I don’t know how I could’ve ever been without it.”

The world taught you how to hold everyone.But this time… someone shows up to hold you.They enter quietly—not to avoid being seen, but because they recognize the sacred in your stillness. They notice how hard you’ve worked to feel soft. And they don’t ask for more. They offer less.Less performance.

Less pressure.

Less pretending.

They cook for you without comment.

Buy your favorite tea just because.

Read your silence as scripture—not something to be broken, but something to be respected.When you cry, they don’t panic. When you get quiet, they don’t flee.They wrap their presence around you like a soft cloak and simply say,

“You don’t have to carry this alone.”You’ve spent years being the strong one.And they make rest feel like worship.With them, your softness becomes a sacred altar—not a liability.And they kneel before it every time they show up and whisper:

“I’ve got you.”

Confirmation Letters: H, C, N, E, W

Angel Numbers: 144, 626, 404

So… which pile traced its fingertips across your chest and whispered, “I’ve already chosen you”?

Drop your pile. Reblog if you’re ready to be courted like ceremony.

And if your soul’s still craving more—if your body already knows who this is—

you’re invited to book a private one-on-one Velvet Offering made just for your timeline.

Channeled by Dior Harris

Stay infinite. Stay divine. Stay velvet.

À bientôt, mon ange.

[5tarchaser]

.:･˚₊ mission: evacuate

pairing: assassin!jay x fem agent!reader ft. jungwon and jake of enhypen genre: rivals to ??, inspired by mcu fics

synopsis: you and jay are asked to work together on a mission, even though it is well known around the compound that you guys don't work well together.

word count: 1.6k

warnings: swearing, mentions of wounds, poor attempts at humour, a little angst, fluff, although inspired by mcu no plot spoilers

a/n: im backkk!!! havent written in forever cause uni took all my writing motivation away :/ still have a bunch of fics drafted from forever ago but wanted to post this first. inspired by mcu fanfics cause they created thunderbolts for me (i love bucky barnes give him more screentime). thank the mcu for reviving my bucky era (which never left) and fanfic writing gears :p honestly not entirely sure about the ending of this fic but what can i do T-T hopefully writing block doesnt hit me like a truck again, enjoy!!!

“You guys get that?”

You look up from the mission files in your hand, making eye contact with Jungwon, the team’s leader. 

“One quick question,” you say while raising your hand. “Do I really have to be paired up with this prick?” 

There wasn’t anything wrong with Jay per se—at least skill-wise—but something about his personality was always off. You can agree that he is good at what he does and has is impressive on the battlefield, but that doesn’t take away from the fact that he’s always given you a cold shoulder since entering the team. You don’t know if it’s because you’re a simple agent while he’s a trained assassin, but there’s no need for him to be so condescending.

“I could ask the same thing,” the said prick mentions.

Jungwon shakes his head. “Jay, you are one of our best assassins,” he says sternly. Assassin, more like asshole. Jungwon turns to you, “And Y/N, you’re one of the best agents in this compound, and believe it or not, the assets both of you bring to the table work well together.”

“I find that very hard to believe,” Jay states as you roll your eyes.

“Look, as much as I know how much you guys despise each other for some unknown reason, this mission is a quick grab and go, and I trust you both enough not to have this mission turn sideways no matter what differences you guys have.” Jungwon states. “Plus you guys won’t be fully alone, Jake will be on comms during the whole mission.”

“Oh great, put us with the rookie who happens to be Jay’s best friend,” you mutter.

“So with that, I hope to see you guys at the jet by 5AM tomorrow morning. Meeting dismissed.”

Without so much as a word, the two of you guys head out into your respective rooms, preparing for a short but dreadful mission.

As you suit up waiting for the jet to land, Jay comes up to you, dropping the map of the base onto your lap. “Here’s the map of the base, all you have to do is get to the panel room and extract the CCTV footage. Don’t fuck it up.”

You purse your lips and furrow your brows, feigning annoyance. “You’re giving this to me as if Jungwon didn’t already explain the mission. I know what I have to do, I’ve done it before.”

As the jet comes to a stop, you turn to Jay, “You better not fuck up either. The moment someone spots you, we’re both dead.”

"You saying you have no trust in me sweetheart?" He states with his hand to his chest, acting hurt.

"Yup."

You both enter the facility without any difficulties, which garnered suspicion. “Everything seems a bit too easy,” you mutter to Jay. “The only time I’d actually agree with you,” he responds. “Just get to the panel room as quickly as you can, then we’ll be out of here.”

“Roger that.”

Finding the panel room was just as easy as breaking and entering into the facility. It’s as if people expected us to come here. “Hey, Jake,” you speak into the comms, “Can you scan the surroundings? Check if there are any traps around or inside the base.”

“Copy.”

Looking at the screens in the panel room, it wasn’t hard to locate where to collect all the drives. But it just didn’t make sense as to why it’s been so easy. No traps, no guards, it was just given to you.

“Seems like there’s no suspicious activity in or outside the base,” Jake speaks into your ear. “Y/N, just get the CCTV footage, and do it quickly. The longer we’re here, the more time people can come and get us.” Jay says.

“Ok, ok, calm your tits, Jay, I have the USB in.”

Watching as the files move to the USB, you take a better look at your surroundings. The room was just like any old panel room in these abandoned bases. Nothing looked out of the ordinary, but normally by this time, guards would come and start shooting, or traps would be set off. Yet nothing has happened. Maybe I’m overthinking it. This is an abandoned base anyways.

When watching the screen, a small red glow catches your eye in the corner of the far left camera. You had told Jake not to switch off all the cameras, just in case that set off an alarm. But the red glow was quite distracting. As if there was a camera recording you at that moment. But that shouldn’t be. Jake said there was nothing suspicious about this room. Must be some random glitch on the screen. 

You can’t help but stay focused on the red glow that was beeping. Almost like it was using Morse code. It was sort of hypnotizing. It drew you in, blocking all your senses. You walked closer towards the panel, unbeknownst to the smell of something burning and the sound of Jay yelling into your ear. 

“Y/N,” Jay spoke urgently, “we need to evacuate. Y/N evacuate now, the mission’s been compromised.”

Smoke fills your vision and nostrils, not being able to recognize your surroundings. As you close your eyes, the last thing you remember is the feeling of being lifted off the ground.

Opening your eyes, you recognize the bright white walls of the compound’s infirmary. You groan as you sit upright on the bed, not remembering a single thing from the mission. One second you’re extracting CCTV files, and the next second you’re in bed with a pounding headache and what seems to be a bunch of patched-up bruises and cuts. Well, now I feel like shit.

“Knock, knock.”

You see an unscathed Jay by the door, with a steaming mug in his hand. “Can I come in?”

You grunted as a response.

“I bought you hot chocolate, Jungwon says it’s your favourite,” he says, looking at you expectantly.

You reach your hand out to receive the hot chocolate. “What are you doing here?” you say after blowing on the hot chocolate. He shrugged, “Just wanted to see how you were doing.”

“That’s surprising to hear. I would’ve thought you were sent here by Jungwon.”

“I mean, he did tell me about the hot chocolate.”

An awkward silence filled the room, with the sound of you occasionally sipping your hot chocolate.

“What actually brings you here, Jay?” you asked. “I’m sure you aren’t here to just silently watch me drink hot chocolate. You here to tell me that I finally failed a mission like I inevitably would?” you say with discontent.

He gives you a displeased look. “I—” “Or are you here to laugh in my face and tell me how I suck at my job and need to go back to being an agent in training? Because whatever it is, I just need you to tell me straight up.”

“I wasn’t gonna say any of that,” he trailed off. “Is that what you really think I’m here to say? Do you think of me that lowly?”

“I mean, you tell me, you clearly don’t think I’m a good enough agent. Always avoiding doing missions with me and always nitpicking on every little thing I do.” You start to list, your hot chocolate being long forgotten.

“Y/N, when have I ever told you you weren’t a good enough agent?” Jay questions.

You think back to the prior interactions you’ve had with Jay, realizing he never straight up told you that. You shrugged, “Look, just because you haven’t said it, your actions have definitely said otherwise.”

“Cut the bullshit Y/N, you know I’m not one to drop inconspicuous hints if I hated somebody. If I hate someone, they’ll 100% know from my words.”

You turn to him expectantly. “Then why do you hate me so much, Jay?” 

He shifts to the side, avoiding direct eye contact with you. “Like I said, I don’t hate you.” Time seems to slow down as you watch him hesitantly speak up. “Funny enough, it’s actually the opposite.”

“What’s the opposite?”

“You think I hate you because you’re a bad agent, but it’s actually the opposite.” He states. “You’re too good of an agent, actually, it’s as if you've been training your whole life.” He shakes his head. “I guess I was sort of, I don’t know—”

“Jealous?”

“More like intimidated.” He finally turns his body toward you, picking up the courage to look at you. “I mean, it’s kind of embarrassing when an agent who’s only been trained for what? 10 years?” You nod. “And then me, someone who was literally programmed to kill, seeing you. God, I felt like I was useless.”

“You’re not entirely useless. You help me train when I imagine your face on the punching bag.” You joke.

He lets out a soft chuckle. “Good to know you think of me.” 

A silence fills the room. The silence that was once filled with tension was now somewhat comfortable.

Jay begins to speak up. “I know my reasoning isn’t entirely valid. But I do want to tell you that I’m sorry.”

You shake your head, which may have been a bad idea considering the headache that is still there. “You’re honestly good, Jay. It’s all in the past.”

“Hopefully we can start over.” He suggests. “Maybe we can make that punching bag scenario real. You can hit me as much as you want.”

“I’ll definitely take you up on that offer.” You reply.

He begins to stand up. “I’ll let you rest up now. You inhaled a lot of the chemicals the other day.”

“Thanks, Jay.”

“Anytime, Y/N.”

As you watch him leave the room, you reach out for the hot chocolate that is now cooled down. Funny, I don’t think I’ve ever told Jungwon hot chocolate is my favourite.

my masterlists

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[hockeyluvrr]

You’re Just A Boy || jh86

main masterlist

summary: You’ve always been the fixer. The one who kept things in line. The one who played it cool. Jack, though? Jack had the privilege of being reckless, the charm of a boy who never grew up. But when casual slips into something messier, you’re forced to confront the realisation: boys like him don’t belong to girls like you.

(inspired by the song You’re Just A Boy (And I’m Kinda The Man) by Maisie Peters)

author’s notes: sorry it’s a little short, it’s the first time I’ve written in a month since taking a bit of a mental health break. anyways I hope you guys like it 💕

warnings: I feel like fwb needs its own warning 😭, angst, Jack being a boy not man but he doesn’t mean to ☹️

word count: 1,011

It starts, as these things always do, with blurred lines.

Jack Hughes. Too confident for his own good. Too pretty for yours. You’d been friends long before this started. A careful friendship with shared laughs, lingering looks, and just enough tension to keep you on edge. He’d been charming, endlessly so, with that signature grin and a knack for making you feel like the only person in the room. And you’d been steady. The one who never faltered, the one who always knew how to clean up the mess he left in his wake.

The first time was an accident. A party, a little too much to drink, and a whispered confession as he pulled you into an empty bedroom. “I’ve been thinking about this for ages,” he’d murmured against your lips, fingers curling around your waist. And you, despite every warning bell in your head, kissed him back.

Because Jack Hughes was addictive, and you’d always been the kind of person who knew better, but did it anyway.

———

You’d set the rules early on.

“No strings,” you’d said, sitting on his bed one night, your legs crossed as he leaned back against the headboard. “We’re friends first. This…whatever this is…stays casual.”

He’d grinned, that boyish smirk that made your chest tighten. “Whatever you say, boss.”

It worked, at first. Late nights in his apartment, his hands tracing over your skin as if memorising it, your fingers tugging his hair as he murmured your name like it was the only thing he knew. You’d let yourself get lost in the way he felt, the way he looked at you in the dark, as if you were something precious, something he couldn’t bear to lose.

But in the daylight, it was always different. He’d text you like nothing had happened. Tease you, the way friends do. And you’d respond in kind, pretending that your stomach didn’t twist every time his name lit up your phone.

You were fine. You were fine because you had to be. Because you were the one in control.

———

The cracks started small.

A night at the bar, you with your friends, him with his. You’d spotted him across the room, arm slung around a blonde girl, her laugh too loud, her hand on his chest. It wasn’t like you had any claim over him, and yet, the sight of them together had your stomach churning.

When he’d caught your eye, his smile had faltered. He’d made his way over, weaving through the crowd, and leaned close enough that his breath tickled your ear.

“Jealous?” he’d teased, his tone light.

“Of what?” you’d replied, your voice sharper than you’d intended. “A boy who doesn’t know what he wants?”

His face had hardened, but he didn’t say anything, just stepped back with a shrug. “Whatever you say.”

Later that night, he’d shown up at your door. You’d let him in, despite yourself, and when he kissed you, it felt desperate, almost angry.

The thing about Jack was that he didn’t know how to grow up. He didn’t know how to be steady, how to hold onto something without breaking it. And you? You were tired of pretending you didn’t care.

“Why do you do this?” you asked one night, lying beside him in the dark. Your voice was soft, but the words felt heavy.

“Do what?” he asked, his tone defensive.

“Act like this doesn’t mean anything. Like I don’t mean anything.”

He propped himself up on one elbow, his eyes meeting yours in the dim light. “You’re the one who said no strings.”

You laughed bitterly, sitting up. “You’re right. I did. Because I knew you couldn’t handle them.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he snapped, his jaw tightening.

“It means you’re just a boy, Jack,” you said, your voice shaking. “You want the fun, the games, but when it comes to anything real? You don’t know how to handle it. And I’m tired of pretending I don’t need more.”

For a moment, he didn’t say anything. Just stared at you, his expression unreadable. Then he stood, pulling on his shirt, and without another word, he left.

———

You didn’t hear from him for weeks.

It was better that way, you told yourself. Easier. But when you saw him again, at a mutual friend’s party, his hair a mess and his smile forced, it all came rushing back.

“Can we talk?” he asked, his voice low as he cornered you in the kitchen.

You shook your head. “I don’t think we have anything to say.”

“Please,” he said, and for the first time, he looked like he meant it.

You let him pull you outside, the cold night air biting at your skin.

“I’m sorry,” he said, the words tumbling out all at once. “I’m sorry I didn’t…I don’t know how to do this, okay? I don’t know how to be what you need.”

You crossed your arms over your chest, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “And what do you think I need, Jack?”

“Someone better than me,” he said, his voice breaking. “Someone who doesn’t screw up everything they touch.”

Your heart ached at his words, but you didn’t let it show. Instead, you shook your head, a sad smile tugging at your lips. “You’re right about one thing,” you said quietly. “I do need more. And if you can’t give me that, then this…whatever this was…is over.”

He didn’t try to stop you as you walked away. And for the first time, you felt like you were the one in control.

It wasn’t a clean break. These things never are. But as the days turned into weeks, you found yourself breathing a little easier, standing a little taller. Because you’d realised something Jack never could. You were more than the girl who fixed his messes. You were more than a temporary distraction.

And as much as it hurt to let him go, you knew you deserved someone who could be the man you needed.

And Jack? Jack was just a boy.

[starsjulia]

Almost, Always // Leah Williamson

a/n : sorry i’ve been gone guys… i don’t really have an excuse but it’s whatever. also you know when you watch a show and see lesbians in love and remember what it was like to be in love, basically this is written on what it was like for me (i also miss my ex so much please come back)

warnings : suggestive but no explicit smut

It started, as these things often do, with a kiss that wasn’t meant to mean anything. One of those soft, lingering moments born out of laughter, tequila, and the kind of glances that last too long to be innocent. You remember it clearly because it was Leah. Leah with the wild hair and smart mouth and eyes that saw too much. Leah who teased you relentlessly in front of the girls but always walked you home when you stayed out too late. Leah who said, “It doesn’t have to be a thing,” with a smirk after that first night—right before she kissed you again and pushed you back against the headboard like you were the only thing she wanted to worship.

You lost count of how many times it happened after that. The first time was maybe an accident. The second? Just curiosity. The third? That was something else. That was her fingers on your skin like she was memorising you. That was gasping her name like it meant salvation. That was her smirking down at you after, sweaty and smug, whispering, “Told you it’d be good.”

But you never talked about it. Not really. You just… were. Tangled in each other more often than not, but no one ever said the word relationship. You weren’t her girlfriend. She wasn’t yours. You were something between best friends and soulmates and fuckbuddies and whatever else you could name—but it wasn’t defined. And weirdly, it worked. It shouldn’t have. But it did.

Leah was always showing up at your flat like she owned the place, dropping her keys on your table, making herself toast, wearing your jumpers, leaving her shampoo in your shower. She called it “convenience.” You called it “suspiciously girlfriend-like behaviour.” She winked and said, “Shut up and come here,” and you did, every time.

You’d wake up with her wrapped around you, legs tangled, her nose buried in your neck. Sometimes she’d fall asleep mid-conversation, her voice drifting off with a mumble, and you’d stare at her, wondering when exactly you’d become hers, unofficial as it all was.

And when you were out? It was constant chaos. The way she’d brush her fingers over your back when she walked past. The way you’d whisper something in her ear just to watch her face go pink. The way the others stared at you both like they were waiting for the inevitable.

At training, Beth would side-eye you constantly. “I swear to God, if you two start dry humping in the canteen again—”

You grinned. Leah shrugged. “Don’t be jealous, Beff.”

Beth rolled her eyes. “I’m jealous of your delusion.”

Katie, of course, just stared at the both of you and muttered, “Yous are absolutely unhinged.”

And maybe you were. But it was fun. It was flirty. It was yours.

Like that time you were at an Arsenal girls’ dinner, and you wore that red dress—the one that clung like sin and dipped just low enough to make Leah choke on her wine. You didn’t even have to say anything. She spent the whole night with her hand on your knee under the table, thumb moving in lazy circles, eyes dark with all the things she couldn’t say out loud.

“You wore that to kill me,” she hissed.

You smirked. “You’re not dead yet, are you?”

“I will be. On God.”

And later that night, in the taxi, with the driver politely pretending not to notice, she leaned over and whispered, “If you don’t let me take that dress off with my teeth, I swear to God—”

You kissed her before she could finish. Because yeah. You wanted her too. Always.

There were quiet nights too. Nights where it wasn’t about sex or flirting or chaos. Just you, curled into her side on the couch, her hand tangled with yours, a movie you weren’t watching playing in the background.

“Everyone thinks we’re dating,” you said once, voice quiet.

She snorted. “Aren’t we?”

You looked at her. “Are we?”

She didn’t answer. Just kissed your forehead, like that was enough.

It wasn’t always perfect. Sometimes she got distant. Sometimes you panicked and pulled away. But you always came back. Always found your way back to each other like gravity. Like fate. Like something inevitable.

And it got harder and harder to pretend you weren’t in love with her. Because you were. You are.

Like that time she was away for England camp, and you got sick, and she called you five times a day to check on you, sending Deliveroo to your flat, threatening to murder your immune system personally.

Like when she found you crying once after a shit day, and instead of asking questions, she just pulled you into her lap and held you like you were the only thing that mattered in the world.

“You’re allowed to fall apart,” she whispered into your hair. “Just not without me.”

One night, after a win, after too many drinks, after a celebration that ended with the both of you tucked into each other in a corner of the pub, she looked at you and said, “You ruin me, you know that?”

You blinked. “In a good way or a bad way?”

She smiled, slow and lazy and full of something that felt like forever. “The best.”

Then she pulled you into a kiss so soft it broke something inside you.

Eventually, something had to give. You knew that. She knew that.

So when she showed up at your place one night with a bottle of wine, your hoodie on, and a nervous look in her eyes, you knew something was different.

“I want to call you mine,” she said.

You stared at her. “You already do.”

She shook her head. “No. I mean—mine. Girlfriend. Partner. The real thing.”

You swallowed hard. “Are you sure?”

She nodded. “I’ve been sure. For ages. I just… didn’t want to scare you.”

You grinned. “Terrified, actually.”

“But still here?”

“Always.”

And then she kissed you. And that kiss? That kiss tasted like something new. Something real. Something that was always going to happen.

Because this thing between you? It was never casual. Not really. It was fire and softness and chaos and safety. It was teasing and inside jokes and clothes stolen from each other’s wardrobes. It was forehead kisses and hand squeezes and whispering “marry me” half-jokingly when you caught each other staring. It was Leah saying “I’d fight a bear for you,” and you replying, “Good, because I attract danger.”

It was everything. It is everything.

Almost, always. Now? Just always.

[satanslovergirl]

The Art Of Loving You

“You know, I’ve been thinking. I want to be a part of your life.”

— Dean Winchester

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Female!Reader (She/Her)

Tone: Fluff, Sweet Romance, Established Relationship, Sweetheart!Dean

Rating: T

Written by: Little Devil ♡

Word Count: ~6,700

Based on: Season 4–5 (canon-compliant, non-episode-specific)

---

Synopsis

Y/N has always loved Dean Winchester quietly. Not with fireworks, but with pencil shavings, stolen looks, and every small moment he thought no one noticed. She’s spent months drawing him: the hunter in repose, the man beneath the armor. His birthday gift isn’t something he can use, or shoot, or drink—but it just might be the most precious thing he’s ever held. When Dean discovers how deeply she’s been seeing him all along, it rocks something inside him he didn’t know he still had: the desperate hope to be loved exactly as he is.

---

=° Scene One °=

Setting: A small town motel room. Early afternoon sun filters through slatted blinds. Dust motes shimmer like suspended prayers.

The motel room was caught somewhere between a nap and a song. The air smelled faintly of old wood and motel soap, and Dean’s voice carried from the bathroom—a low, half-mumbled rendition of Led Zeppelin’s “Going to California” as he shaved.

Y/N sat cross-legged on the edge of the bed, her sketchbook balanced in her lap. The page in front of her was already smudged—his profile, drawn from memory. The arch of his brow. The stubborn set of his mouth when he’s thinking too hard about things he’ll never say out loud.

She had dozens of them now. Drawings. Little snippets of Dean from every angle imaginable. Dean laughing with his head tipped back, sun catching in his lashes. Dean asleep in the passenger seat, mouth parted slightly, fingers twitching from whatever dream dared to visit. Dean sitting on the motel floor with the Colt balanced across his knee, cleaning it like a priest polishing a relic.

It had started with idle curiosity. A sketch here, a gesture there. But something happened after that first drawing. She couldn’t stop. Not because he asked her to—God, he didn’t even know. But because there was something sacred in the way he moved through the world, and she wanted to capture every fleeting flicker of it before it disappeared.

A leather-bound journal rested beside her on the bed. Not her usual sketchbook. This one had weight. Gravitas. A hundred pages of Dean, wrapped in thick paper and the kind of love that doesn’t ask for anything in return.

She hadn’t planned on giving it to him.

But his birthday was today.

And for once, she wanted him to see himself the way she did.

The bathroom door creaked open, steam billowing behind him. Dean stepped out, shirtless, a towel slung low around his hips and another around his neck. He was still humming faintly, wiping condensation from his jaw when he noticed her gaze—and froze mid-step.

“You’ve got that look again,” he said, suspicious. “The one that means you’re either plotting a surprise or hiding a body.”

Y/N blinked and closed the book quickly, like it might catch fire under his eyes. “Just sketching,” she said with a tight smile.

Dean arched an eyebrow. “You’ve been twitchier than a cat near water all morning. Not in the fun way.”

She shrugged, trying not to visibly tuck the leather book beneath a pillow. “You’ll see later.”

“Aw, hell no.” Dean crossed the room, bare feet scuffing against the carpet. “You know I hate surprises.”

“I know.” She looked up at him, chin tilted just enough to challenge. “But I love them. So you’re stuck with one.”

Dean narrowed his eyes, mouth twitching. He leaned down, kissed her forehead, and muttered, “One of these days, woman…”

But he let it go.

For now.

---

=°A Hidden Moment °=

Later that night. Motel room dim and quiet. Only the sound of her breathing.

Dean woke to the low hum of the bedside lamp and the slow rise and fall of her chest beside him. She’d fallen asleep on her side, a pencil still tucked behind her ear. The leather-bound journal lay a few inches from her hand, almost daring him.

He sat up slowly, careful not to wake her. Reached over.

His fingers barely brushed the cover when—

“Dean Winchester,” she murmured, eyes still closed. “Put that down.”

Dean jolted like he’d been caught stealing pie from the fridge. “What? I was just…”

“Touch it and I’ll draw you with a black eye,” she added, voice muffled by the pillow.

He smirked, retreating. “Damn. That book got a force field or somethin’?”

She cracked one eye open. “It’s enchanted. By me.”

“Noted,” he grinned. “Witchcraft. Hot.”

---

=° Scene Two °=

Setting: That night. Outside a rural gas station. The Impala idling beneath a flickering neon sign. The world quiet.

Dean leaned against the Impala, brown paper bag in hand, Johnny Walker inside. The night was cool, air brushing over his neck like a whisper. Y/N stood beside him, holding the journal to her chest like it might break apart if she loosened her grip.

“Alright,” she said softly, stepping forward. “Happy birthday.”

Dean tilted his head. “This the thing you’ve been guarding like it’s the Ark of the Covenant?”

“Just open it.”

He opened the cover.

And stilled.

The first page was him, behind Baby’s wheel, eyes closed, face tilted toward the wind. The second—him asleep with a book still propped open on his chest. Then—him laughing. A real laugh, wide-mouthed and honest.

Each page was another moment—private, sacred. Unfiltered. Raw. Him. Over and over, in ways he never knew she saw. Ways no one had ever seen him before.

He turned another page. His fingers trembled.

“You okay?” she asked, voice small.

Dean didn’t answer at first. Just swallowed hard.

Finally: “No one’s ever done anything like this for me,” he said. “Not even close.”

Y/N’s heart threatened to fall out of her chest. “It’s just sketches, Dean. I just—”

“No,” he cut her off gently. “It’s not just anything. This… this is proof. That I exist. Not just as some screwed-up hunter, or a soldier, or Sam’s brother. But me.”

He closed the book slowly, carefully, like it might fall apart. Then looked at her like she was the only thing tethering him to earth.

He stepped forward and kissed her—slow, lingering, reverent.

“You gonna cry?” she asked against his mouth, teasing, brushing a knuckle under his damp lashes.

“Shut up,” he muttered, his voice cracking. “No. Maybe. Shut up.”

---

=° Scene Three °=

Setting: Motel room, later that night. Lamplight warm and forgiving. The book sits open on the nightstand.

Dean lay stretched beside her, one arm tucked beneath his head. He was staring at a particular page—him and Y/N sitting on the hood of the Impala, stars above, her head on his shoulder. She’d drawn it from memory. From a night he thought she’d forgotten.

“You drew us,” he said.

Y/N, half-asleep, murmured, “That one was new. I added it last minute.”

He rolled onto his side, hand finding her waist.

“Think maybe next time…” he said, voice barely a whisper, “you could draw us again?”

“Yeah?” she blinked.

“Yeah,” he smiled, thumb brushing her hipbone. “But this time—draw me lookin’ at you.”

She smiled into the sheets, hand reaching for his.

He squeezed gently.

And for once, Dean Winchester didn’t need to be saved.

He just needed to be seen.

=✓= AND I SWEAR, YOU MAKE ME FEEL WORTHY OF ART. =✓=

[usedpidemo]

4th anniversary update! (reflection, future, and other thoughts.)

Hi everyone! π here.

Can you believe how fast time has flown by? It’s been four years since I opened this account and began my blogging/writing journey. Four years. Even writing this, it’s still kinda insane to comprehend that I’ve been this chronically online for so long. Normally, whenever I have a hyperfixation or interest, it tends to be strong for a few weeks, hell up to a year maximum, before it ultimately flames out—but not writing and specifically this blog. I may not be as active as I used to, but even during my limited down time, I always get that itch to write, and I wish I cherished and made the most of the times when I was actually free, because Lord knows how hard finishing up college is.

As is now tradition, here’s a brief timeline and log of the blog so far:

First work: Sandwich (Red Velvet Wendy) (published 05/13/21)

Number of works published: 105 (1 fic every 13.91 days)

Work with highest note count: Tell your friends (Ive Yujin x Wonyoung) (published 01/14/23, 1317 notes)

500 followers: June 18, 2021 (36 days)

1000 followers: October 12, 2021 (152 days)

2000 followers: June 18, 2022 (401 days)

3000 followers: November 12, 2022 (548 days)

4000 followers: May 22, 2023 (740 days)

5000 followers: December 18, 2023 (950 days)

6000 followers: September 10, 2024 (1216 days)

Current follower count: 6626 followers (1 new follower every 4.54 days)

It feels like I’ve written quite a lot, but at the same time not enough considering how long I’ve been doing this hobby/profession. As of writing this update/reflection, I’m smack dab in the middle of the final two weeks of college, so I do apologize there isn’t anything huge or bombastic to celebrate the milestone, but rest assured, once I finish up finals, activity will ramp up for at least a few months—from June to August. 

I can’t understate or declare my sincerest gratitude and appreciation for each and every single of you, be it reader, follower, or lurker. For giving me a chance and for all the feedback, both good and bad, it motivates me to always be better. Never in my wildest dreams would I think that I could make something out of writing, but now, it’s become a passion, and more importantly, a semi-reliable source of income on the side. So once again, thank you. 

—————

I cannot stress how bad 2024 was. Like even with a few good moments, 2024 was easily one of the toughest years of my life. So much so that the fallout continued into 2025 and even now. The family was dangerously close to falling apart, our business was tanking, and there was so much going on that every facet of our lives was put through the ringer. It was taxing for all of us—emotionally, financially, spiritually, physically. 

Five months into the new year, and the challenges never seem to stop. We’ve been forced to temporarily close our restaurant and go into a big corporate restructuring. Utilities and daily needs at times feel like a huge blow to our budget. The mall that houses our shop won’t release our assets unless we pay them an exorbitant fee despite the fact they did not provide some sort of compensation when they closed off our section because they were building a new parking area and at times, were seemingly trying to sabotage and undercut us. Everyday feels like a struggle just to get by.

However, not all hope is lost. For one, the relationship between my mother and my sister has slowly been repairing since December, and thank God. I can’t imagine how worse off we would be if there’s still this tension between the three of us. Then there’s this property that, court willing, we could turn into another form of passive income or outright sell for millions. And then there’s me. I’m currently hard at work writing up my thesis, hence the lack of activity and new fics. While I won’t have to formally defend it till December, I have to submit a proposal for my final this semester. It’s been hard. Business and research has never been my strong suit; if I had a choice, I should have gone into a creative course when I first started college, but circumstances kept that from happening. Nevertheless, graduating has been my mom’s priority for me so that I can help out in some shape or form.

So once again, I apologize for lack of activity recently. Thankfully, it’s only at least two more weeks, then we can get back to writing. But also, I’ve been trying to find a part-time job online so I can make some money on the side while waiting for the next academic year to start. Gonna be a challenge to balance so much all at once; I don’t even know if I’ll follow through on the latter.

With all that said, while this isn’t in my field of expertise, and this is something I usually keep to myself, I have been doing AI edits of K-pop idols in my free time. Edits that would probably get me booted off this site; they’re really lewd. I’ve been keeping a stash for a few months and I figure that there are people who actually pay for this stuff (wild!). So I’ve made the executive decision to add a membership that you can subscribe to, both in Ko-fi and Patreon. 

Membership on either site will give you the same benefits—from having a dedicated server/access to the aforementioned edits/pics, the ability to request an idol you wish to have an edit of, the ability to vote on membership-only polls deciding what I will write next, discounts on commissions, and previews to my upcoming works, including being able to read them days ahead of their public release. 

I would like to reiterate that none of my published fics/written work will be paywalled; this is a bit more degenerate in nature. I recommend if you’re gonna avail of the membership to subscribe to Patreon, since I don’t wanna nuke my Ko-fi account with the explicit content I might upload on it, and Patreon is seemingly more adult content friendly. Regardless, this is all optional and changes nothing otherwise, but is merely another means of showing support :). As long as it’s on any of the four sites I post on—Tumblr, AFF, AO3, and Wattpad—my work will be readily available to read. Also, this is all completely optional; support if you’re compelled to do so, but don’t feel the urgency to help. Everything will work out by itself.

As the clock winds down on another year around the Tumblr sun, I would like to take this opportunity to personally thank everyone—to the community, to my peers, to all my followers, and to you, dearest reader, for sitting through another year with me. I don’t need to beat it over your head that my personal life has been shit, but if a recent movie has reminded me of anything, it’s that we’re never alone (shoutout Bob). If I were given a chance to walk a different path or redo everything, I would go through this journey all over again—that’s how special and meaningful it has become. Most importantly, the story isn’t over yet; there’s still pages to be written, memories to be made, and a great reward that’s waiting at the finish line. 

With grace,

Peter / π

[blufblucake]

⋆˙⟡ Wildest Dreams | Chapter One

Paring: Starscream x GN!Human!Reader.

Trope: Fated mates.

Warnings: This story will eventually contain sexual scenes, so MDNI. Potential sensitive topics addressed in the story will include a trigger warning before the chapter.

Summary: You have a quiet, ordinary life; a normal job, a few good friends, and a wonderful fiancé you're set to marry in just a few weeks. However, the normalcy of your life begins to unravel when you start having strange and inexplicable dreams about a certain red-eyed Seeker. From that moment on, everything you once felt sure about no longer means anything at all.

Word count: 2,8k

❝He's so tall and handsome as hell He's so bad, but he does it so well And when we've had our very last kiss My last request is❞

Author's Notes: Hi to everyone who might’ve stopped by to read my story. I would like to start by saying that this is the first fanfic I’ve written in five years, and english is not my first language, so I’m a little nervous, haha. The fanfic was originally written in my native language and later translated into english, so if you find any mistakes, please let me know, it would help me a lot. Enjoy the reading! :)

⋆˙⟡ Chapter One

After a long day at work, all you wanted was to get home quickly, take a relaxing shower, and sleep for the next twelve hours. As much as you loved your coworkers, you just weren’t in the mood to go out for drinks. The wedding preparations had been taking up all your free time, it had been weeks since you last stopped to read a good book or simply be alone, in silence, in the comfort of your own home.

Weaving your way through the crowd, you hurried down the subway stairs. If you managed to get there a bit earlier, maybe you could find an empty seat — which would be a miracle, considering it was rush hour. You leaned against one of the pillars, pulling your backpack around to the front of your body. People were flooding the station, some busy on their phones dealing with their own problems, others looking lost as they tried to follow the maps posted on the walls. Near a snack vending machine, a gray-haired man in a long black coat and a pair of red gloves played a drum skillfully, hoping to earn a few coins. Not far from him, a woman dressed in worn-out clothes and a funny hat danced enthusiastically, not caring who might be watching. A tired smile tugged at your lips at the sight. Maybe, if you were a little more carefree and joined her in dancing, things would feel just a little bit easier.

As you notice the subway approaching, you quickly straighten yourself and walk toward the platform. As soon as the train stops and the doors open in front of you, you step inside and immediately look for a place to sit. You spot an empty seat not too far away and hurry to claim it before someone else does. Once seated, you can finally relax — it would be a journey of just over thirty minutes, so maybe you could take a quick nap.

Throwing your head back with a loud sigh, you close your eyes and massage your temples with your hands. Who were you trying to fool? Every time you closed your eyes and surrendered to sleep, that same pair of red eyes invaded your dreams. Unusual eyes, not human. But for some reason, they were strangely attractive. You had lost count of how long you had been dreaming of that being. You couldn’t focus on their face; it was as if everything was covered by a thick mist, and the only thing lighting the way was their crimson eyes. When you woke up, you didn’t remember much, only carrying that strange feeling with you for the rest of the day.

As you open your eyes, your gaze quickly falls on the engagement ring on your finger. The medium-sized, oval-shaped diamond matched well with the golden metal, simple but beautiful. You had been with your fiancé for three years; he was caring, gentle, loving, and thoughtful, making you feel loved and desired. He was obviously the right and safest choice. You had never doubted that… Until now. Since the dreams began, a sense of unease had consumed your heart day by day. It felt like this wasn’t the right thing to do, like your fiancé wasn’t the right person. And guilt was beginning to eat away at you more and more as the wedding date approached.

The invitations had already been sent, the vendors had been paid and wouldn’t refund at the last minute, your family members were starting to travel to your state, all excited about the big day, ready to celebrate with you. Even so, a persistent voice screamed in your mind, telling you to give it all up. You didn’t have a plausible reason for it; you just felt that this was, somehow, wrong. The soft voice of the woman on the subway announcing your station echoed through the train's speakers, snapping you out of your thoughts.

You quickly stand up and head to the doors. As they open, you step out of the train and walk through the station toward the exit. Before you can take the first step on the stairs, your gaze is drawn to a small purple card lying on the ground. Curious, you bend down and pick it up, carefully inspecting it. Fortune teller, divination witch, learn about your future. The words on the card make you smirk slightly. You couldn’t say you fully believed in that sort of thing, but you weren’t entirely skeptical either. Deciding it might come in handy, you tuck the card into the back pocket of your jeans.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

You step out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around your body while drying your hair with another one, walking toward your bed. As you sit on the soft mattress, you notice your phone vibrating, indicating that a message has arrived. A smile forms on your lips when you see it's a message from your fiancé.

‘Good night, my love. How was work??’

‘The same as always, honey.’

‘Are you okay? You’ve been acting strange lately...’

‘I’m fine, just tired. The wedding preparations and work are draining my energy.’

‘I get it, babe, but it’ll all be over soon. I can’t wait to finally become your husband. I’m going to bed now, good night, babe. I love you!’

‘Good night, me too...’

Your hands fall onto your lap, guilt twisting your stomach. You couldn’t even bring yourself to say you loved him back. It wasn’t right, and it certainly wasn’t fair. You felt like crying. Why was this happening? Why, suddenly, did you feel deep down that he wasn’t the one?

Before you could dwell on it any longer, you stand up and put on your pajamas, determined to try and sleep quickly, praying that, at least for one night, you wouldn’t dream of those haunting red eyes.

Unfortunately, for your bad luck, as soon as your head hits the pillow and you drift into sleep, you find yourself surrounded by thick mist. Your bare feet touch the grass, instinctively leading you in one direction. You didn’t know where you were going, but your heart screamed it was the right way.

The fog didn’t let you see a step ahead, so when your body suddenly collided with something solid, you prepared for a fall. But the fall never came, abnormally large, firm hands caught your waist.

Slowly, your gaze traveled up the body of that being. For some reason, you couldn’t focus on his features — everything seemed blurry — but you were sure of one thing: he wasn’t human. He was tall, much taller than anyone you’d ever met, and when your eyes finally locked with his, a wave of euphoria consumed your body. Those same red eyes, intense, glowing.

This time, you managed to focus a little more, noticing his features. He was handsome, different from anything you’d ever seen, yet still handsome. His harsh expression softened as he studied your face, and before you could do anything, you felt him pull your body closer to his. And you didn’t stop him, didn’t protest, didn’t even feel guilty. Because it felt right. He was right.

When you wake up the next morning, an emptiness grows in your chest. For the first time since the dreams began, you managed to notice more than just his eyes. Everything felt so real, it was as if you could still feel his strong arms around you.

Then your rational side takes over. This was wrong. You had a fiancé, an incredible one who loved you unconditionally and whom you would marry in just a few weeks. You needed to forget about this and focus on reality because these dreams were just that, dreams. Dreams about someone who wasn’t even human. Your brain must be really fucked up to create something so surreal, and your fiancé was the right one. Soon this would end, and you would enjoy your honeymoon on a beautiful tropical beach far away from here.

You get out of bed and walk around your room, tidying up the mess from the night before. You had come home so tired that you had simply tossed your clothes somewhere. As you pick up your jeans to fold them, the purple fortune teller’s card falls out of the pocket where it was kept. When you pick it up, you examine it once again. A witch, huh? It wouldn’t hurt to pay them a visit, maybe the cards could rub in your face the wonderful future you were supposed to have with your fiancé.

Determined, you finish tidying your room and start getting ready. Once ready, you head downstairs to the kitchen. You didn’t have dinner last night, and your stomach was growling, begging for something. When you open the fridge, you see it’s practically empty, you needed to do some groceries. You’d stop by the market after visiting the fortune teller. It was a nice day outside, and it would be the first weekend you weren’t busy with wedding stuff.

After breakfast, you pack a bag with a few essentials and leave the house, heading to a bus stop. Checking the address on the card, you notice it’s not far from your neighborhood. Coincidentally, the first bus that arrives goes that way, so you get on.

The ride is peaceful, nothing but a few noisy teenagers in the back of the bus and a chatty old lady starting a conversation with you about how beautiful the day is. When your stop arrives, you get off the bus and start walking toward the address. After a few minutes, you reach a house. It’s just an ordinary house, maybe even a bit boring, not at all what you would imagine for a witch’s home.

You walk up to the front door and knock a few times, but there’s no answer. You even wonder if you got the right address, double-checking the card. A tired meow catches your attention, and you look down to see a black cat stretching on the ground. His green eyes are so intense they look like two emeralds, and his fur is so shiny it could spark envy. Lazily, he walks over to you, brushing against your legs, purring as he rubs his head.

You crouch down a bit and scratch his ears, giggling when he pulls your hand to his head with one of his paws, not letting you stop petting him. “Hey, little guy, you clearly have an owner. If you didn’t, I’d take you with me...”

Suddenly, the cat gets up and walks toward the house. For some reason, the door is open, but you didn’t hear anyone unlocking it. As the cat crosses the threshold, he stops and looks back at you, meowing incessantly, almost like inviting you in.

“If you insist...”

You walk up to the door and knock again, out of politeness. “Excuse me, the door is open... I’d like a card reading...” before you can say anything else, a soft voice calls out from a room, “Come in, please. I’ve been expecting you.”

It all seemed strange, but for some reason, it didn’t scare you. You step inside and close the door behind you. Now it did look like a witch’s house. The maximalist decor, filled with statuettes of deities, crystals of all sizes, plants everywhere, and the strong scent of incense was exactly what you expected. You walk into a room, pushing aside a curtain of lilac beads. In front of you, the fortune teller is sitting at a round table, a cheerful smile on their face.

“I knew you would come. I had a vision of you.” they says excitedly while shuffling tarot cards. “What do you mean you knew I’d come?”. They laughs and gestures to the chair in front of them for you to sit. Hesitantly, you pull the chair and sit down, resting your bag on your lap. “Nothing happens by chance, my dear. I had a vision of you coming here. Now tell me, what troubles this poor little heart of yours?”

Contrary to all common sense, you feel comfortable with the witch. You imagined they said this sort of thing to everyone who came here, yet strangely, you felt welcomed. “I’d like to know about my love life.”

A faint smile appears on the fortune teller’s lips as they continues shuffling the cards. “My dear, I need you to be a bit more specific. The answers depend on your questions. The more precise, the more detailed the answers...”

A lump forms in your throat, and your stomach twists at the thought, but you need to ask this question. “My fiancé... Is he the right one? Should this wedding happen?” they stops shuffling, focuses for a moment, then begins laying out some cards. When six cards are arranged face down on the table, they places the rest aside and starts revealing them one by one. You don’t know what any of them mean, but you watch their expressions anxiously.

They looks at you and smiles mysteriously. “What a situation you’ve gotten yourself into, my dear...” you shoot them a confused look, silently begging for some answers. "Your fiancé is a wonderful person, but he’s not meant for you. You have a fated mate. A soulmate. Whether you want it or not, you won’t end up with your fiancé. I can see you've been dreaming about this mate of yours, and I can assure you, you've also been invading his dreams." They lets out a laugh. "My dear, I see a lot of trouble in your future. I advise you to prepare yourself. This wedding won’t happen, he won’t allow it!"

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

As you wandered aimlessly through the forest, your thoughts drifted back to what the fortune teller had said. After that, you simply got up from the chair and demanded that they draw the cards again, but they just smiled and said the cards never lied. At least didn’t charge you for that nonsense. How could you be so foolish to believe any of it made sense? A crazy person living alone, telling lies to idiots who came to them.

That session had ruined your day. As you furiously walked through the forest floor, you kept muttering how wrong that lunatic was and how your fiancé was the right man for you. You had come to the forest hoping that being close to nature would help you calm down, but, as if things couldn’t get worse, nature seemed determined to eat you alive. You were already covered in mosquito bites and had lost count of how many times you'd tripped over branches and rocks.

A loud noise pulls you out of your miserable state, and when you look up at the sky, you see something falling fast, leaving behind a trail of smoke. A helicopter, maybe? Thinking someone might be hurt, you start running. Judging by the sound, the crash couldn’t have been far.

It doesn’t take long before you find a trail of upturned earth and fallen trees. Not far ahead, a metallic structure lies on the ground. It didn’t look like a helicopter, but someone could still need help. As you carefully walk toward the object, you start to notice its colors more clearly, and a tingling sensation spreads from your head to your toes. As if with a will of their own, your legs carry you closer and closer to the thing.

However, when the thing starts to slowly rise, growing massive and standing on two legs, you freeze in place. It was definitely not a helicopter. The metal being straightens itself, and your breathing becomes erratic as your eyes scan its body. A giant metal robot, covered in scratches, with what looked like a broken wing hanging awkwardly. When your gaze rests on its face and you see those crimson eyes, you stop breathing. It was him.

The being that haunted your dreams and disturbed your mind. Your mouth falls open in utter shock, and you’re paralyzed. Was he real, or had you finally succumbed to the mosquito bites and were now hallucinating, passed out somewhere on the forest floor? But when you realize those eyes are staring back at you, all the air trapped in your lungs escapes in a high-pitched scream. Freed from your shock, you turn and start running the way you came.

Heavy footsteps reverberate through the ground, and your heart beats so fast it feels like it might explode. The sensations were far too real to be just a figment of your messed-up mind. Your escape is cut short when an explosion nearby throws you violently against a tree. In that instant, the air is knocked out of you, and all you can hear is an irritating ringing and muffled sounds. Your head throbs like hell, and your vision is blurry. Was this really the end? Left alone in the middle of a forest? Visiting that fortune teller had definitely not been a good idea.

Author's Note: I hope you enjoyed the reading. I may not be the best writer, but ever since I joined the fandom, this urge to write and share my ideas has come back, and it had been a long time since I felt this way. In my native language, we don’t have a gender-neutral pronoun, but I really wanted to keep some characters’ gender ambiguous so that as many people as possible can feel included. I hope I didn’t make things too confusing when translating. :)

[imogenkol]

Bix Caleen isn’t a soldier, but she is a fighter. I’ve seen some people try and justify Bix’s storyline this season, in particular her continued lack of participation and being constantly sidelined, by saying that she’s not a soldier so why would she be involved? Bix is a character who thrives on work, keeping busy, doing something—anything with her hands, because when things get slow or quiet, she starts to lose her mind. Bix cannot stay idle. She has explicitly stated this in the show, yet the show forced her to be idle. Unless of course she’s taking care of Cassian, then she’s a nursemaid who fawns over her husband when she’s not waiting around for him to come home. Never mind the fact that she’s a very skilled and intelligent mechanic, which would be extremely valuable to the Rebellion, but we don’t see any evidence of her skills being utilized after she leaves Mina-Rau. On top of all that, she has a nearly unbreakable will. When push comes to shove, Bix locks in and has to be tortured for several days before she breaks, and she knows how to use a blaster and a hammer. She struggles with the aftermath of these things, yes, but she has always been a fighter since season 1 and is fully dedicated to the Rebellion.

So it is frustrating and deeply disappointing to see her be idle, to see her conform to a housewife role with a smile on her face, to have to remove herself completely so that she isn’t a distraction for Cassian because that’s somehow the only value she sees herself having for the Rebellion. It is also extremely out of character for the woman we met in season 1. Bix may not have been at the front lines, but the Bix I know would be up every day at dawn contributing whatever she possibly could to the cause with all the skills she has at hand and she would fight when she has to, just like she always has. I also find it hard to believe she wouldn’t want to be by her peoples’ side while they put themselves at risk to assassinate the ISB woman who literally interrogated and tortured her. Wilmon is still a kid and he has a far more active role in the Rebellion than Bix does.

Hardly any of the scenes she’s in feel at all like Bix Caleen to me. They stripped her of so much, so many core traits that make her the character she is, for the sake of a poorly written romance between two characters that really should never have gotten back together, but were force to for a reason we are never shown or told. Now all of a sudden the show that was about normal nobody people fighting tooth and nail for a better galaxy is about a flat love story with barely any real substance in between.

[hanespiritu]

ON HIS KNEES

(Hermes x Telemachus (?))

written by: Han Espiritu

Note: I just got this idea from @ccoldsodaa from tiktok ....the animatic made me blush.

---

It was the third evening since the temple fires had dimmed, and still the sea had not yielded his father. Telemachus stood on the balcony of the palace at Ithaca, his robes untouched by the breeze, his hands clutched tight behind his back. The court within murmured of suitors, of inheritances, of long shadows stretching into fatherless nights.

He was tired. Gods, he was tired.

He had prayed already. To Athena, to Poseidon despite his fury, to Zeus. He had even left offerings at minor altars, hoping one neglected lesser deity might take pity.

But there was one god he hadn’t dared ask.

Until now.

The moon rose bright, polished like a coin. And on the temple steps, Telemachus knelt—not inside the sacred threshold, no. Outside. In the chill of dew and stone, he bared his knees to the cold. The temple of Hermes, Messenger of the Gods, Trickster of Olympus, Patron of Thieves and Travelers, stood silent. Telemachus bowed low.

“…Hermes. Argeiphontes. Fleet-footed one,” he whispered. “Please.”

No answer. Not even a breeze. The torches flickered and hummed in the windless night.

“I’m—I’m Telemachus. You know me. I am my father’s son.”

A pause.

Then, louder, with something cracking in his voice:

“I know you don’t care about mortals. That you flit between skies and shadows, laughing while we toil—but please, I’m begging you—”

He dropped flat to the marble, forehead pressed against cold stone.

“Please. I will do anything. I’ll honor you every day. I’ll build a shrine. I’ll burn golden honeycomb for you every festival. I’ll be a good boy. I promise.”

A sudden gust of wind—no, a whoosh—swept through the colonnades.

“...A good boy?” came a voice like a chuckle hidden in windchimes.

Telemachus looked up fast. His breath caught.

He had never seen a god in true form before.

Hermes hovered just above the ground, sandals winged and gleaming, his cloak fluttering weightlessly, curls tousled like ivy vines under sunlight. A staff twirled in his left hand, lazily, as though everything here bored him. But his cheeks—

—his cheeks were red.

“Did you say,” Hermes drawled, descending with infuriating elegance, “that you’d be a good boy for me?”

Telemachus flushed, but didn’t move. “I meant—I mean—I’ll be loyal. I’ll serve. Please, I just—”

“Oh, no no no,” Hermes waved a finger, then pointed it directly between Telemachus’s eyes. “You do not get to say things like that and then grovel on marble like some pious little virgin prince. That’s unfair.”

“I’m—what?”

Hermes blinked. “You’re lucky I’m into that.”

Telemachus blinked back.

“I—I didn’t mean to offend—”

Hermes, flustered and flapping his wings awkwardly, stepped back, pacing in a small circle like someone trying to reset their mood.

“Oh Olympus, you mortals and your knees, I swear—” he muttered to himself. “I was just passing by. Literally just flying to Delos to drop off a love letter from some Mycenaean barmaid to Apollo, and this—this beautiful mortal princeling just drops to the floor and says, ‘I promise I’ll be a good boy’—Are you trying to make a god combust?!”

Telemachus, who had until now never been flirted with by an immortal being, looked wildly between Hermes’ rapidly pacing form and his own trembling hands. “So…you’ll help?”

Hermes froze. Then turned.

“…You’re serious, aren’t you?”

Telemachus nodded, voice shaking now. “Yes. I’m not asking for riches or glory. I don’t want war. I don’t even need you to stay. I just want him home. I want my father.”

Hermes’ smile faltered. For a heartbeat, he looked young—not eternal, not divine, just…young. A boy with too many places to be, too many burdens on his feathered heels.

“You miss him.” Hermes said quietly.

“Yes.” Telemachus’s voice cracked. “He doesn’t even know the man I’ve become. He fought gods and monsters for us. And now everyone thinks he’s dead. If I let them say that, I—I lose hope too.”

The god stepped forward, crouching so their faces were level. His eyes—brilliant and ancient—studied the trembling prince.

“I don’t often do this,” Hermes murmured. “But I’ll tell you a secret.”

Telemachus blinked.

Hermes leaned close. “The thing no one tells you about gods is—we like it. When mortals beg.”

Telemachus stiffened.

Hermes grinned, soft and sharp. “Not because of power. That’s Zeus’s thing. But because we’re lonely, princeling. You kneel and pray, and for once, someone isn’t demanding. You’re offering.”

“I’m not offering much.”

“Oh, I think you offered plenty.”

Hermes’ hand brushed Telemachus’s chin, and the boy nearly reeled at the featherlight touch. Then Hermes stood, cocky again.

“Alright, alright. Enough divine vulnerability. You want your father? Fine. I’ll go nag Calypso. She’s got him holed up like a love-struck nymph.”

Telemachus gasped. “He’s alive?!”

“Very.” Hermes twirled his staff, spinning it into the crook of his arm. “And bored. I’ll get him moving again.”

The boy’s knees gave out with a soft gasp. “Thank you—thank you, thank you—”

Hermes whipped around. “Don’t kneel again! I already said yes!”

“But—”

Hermes pointed a warning finger. “If you say ‘good boy’ one more time, I will make you my personal shrine attendant for a decade.”

“…Is that a punishment?”

Hermes turned red.

Then disappeared.

A gust of wind.

A swirl of dust.

Silence.

And the faint sound of laughter from the sky.

---

Later, in Ogygia…

Odysseus sat beneath the laurel tree, eyes lost in clouds. Calypso stirred beside him, braid tangled with salt.

“I feel a wind coming,” she whispered.

He sat upright.

Hermes landed with a crash, wings disheveled, face flushed, and attitude aggrieved.

“Get. Up.”

Odysseus blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Your son made me blush, Odysseus. He begged. He said he’d be a ‘good boy’. Do you understand what that does to a messenger god?!”

Odysseus stared. “…My son said what?”

Hermes grabbed his wrist. “Say goodbye to your sexy nymph. Ithaca is calling.”

Calypso sighed. “He could’ve written a letter.”

Hermes muttered, “He did. With his knees.”

---

⚠️ Plagiarism Warning:

This work is original and written by HAN ESPIRITU. Do not copy, repost, or translate without permission. Plagiarizing or claiming this story as your own is strictly prohibited and will be reported.

[cut-it-out29]

been a bit since last I've heard of Nightmare, any fun lore to share?

Why yesss there is :D Not anything too out of nowhere but some smaller things

“Smaller” I say with probably around 400 words.. uhm.. sorry..

That super fun little shape in his skull? Heh.. so that is a “religious” symbol representing purity and cleansing within the village. I think you can pretty much guess what happened there, but I’ll expand more on that in the fic!! The first chapter actually shows the full Apple incident.. it’s written but I want to get the first 3 done before anything…

(Ik it’s been months but I’ve been busy and am really picky with my writing.. unfortunately..)

Fun facts and tidbits about Nightmare! (Not lore heavy but fun)

- He’s actually pretty clumsy.. especially with his tendrils! He has very poor control of them and often breaks things (and even occasionally hurts people on accident but that’s rare)

- Totally mot lore but FADT!NM x FADT!Killer actually has their “own” ship name.. I tend to refer to them as NewMoon. I also use this for Swan x Killer because they have similar dynamics and FADT!NM is definitely a little inspired by Swan. (Thanks .randomcat that name :3)

- He actually has pretty frequent panic attacks (side effect of the trauma :P). Whenever he needs negativity (feeling sick without it) he actually has a bit of a breakdown. Killer often makes negativity without telling Nightmare, but Nightmare gets better at asking for what he needs at some point. (NEWMOON SAVE ME- and yes they’re absolutely cannon if you couldn’t tell)

- Nightmare and Ink actually know each other. Well. moving on!!

- Nightmare’s memory from when he was younger is.. blurry.. he also sometimes get really bad migraines- all this is a sideffect from his head injury.

ANYWAY TIME FOR A BIG RANT!!! :D

I’ve mentioned it before but Narcolepsy (With Cataplexy) , his cataplexy is pretty mild and mainly triggered when he experiences stronger emotions- more often with positive but it can happen with any. It shows up with smaller things like his finer motor function like: his hands being weak, his eyes drooping a bit, semi-slurred speech (rarely noticed by other people cause his southern accent making it sound like an exaggerated“southern drawl”)

Ah, building onto this- his Narcolepsy has a role in the reason why the villagers treated him so badly. He was isolated, he never interacted with the villagers because it was hard for him. He didn’t really have the energy to and being near the tree physically gave him more energy. The isolation meant Night never proved their rumors wrong, they just spiraled. FURTHERMORE his Narcolepsy was from an autoimmune disease, so he was sick often. In the villagers eyes he was cursed.. and it didn’t help the fact that his brother was the opposite being energetic, strong, healthy- constantly. It really just pushed the “Negativity is a Curse and Positivity is a blessing” idea..

[Also I personally don’t have experience with Narcolepsy so y’all feel free to correct me on anything but I put a decent amount of research into Night so I hope it’s decent representation while still being a bit more magic based]

And I’ll leave this rant on FADT!NM here but trust me there’s definitely some more to him still :)

And uh.. don’t want a good image to be entirely smothered from text so I’ll post an image to “go with this” right after :P

[valentine-cafe]

hi. rich boy anon here. can I just say I S(CREAMED) when I saw you answered my ask and made absolute ART. I was actually floored. anyways 1 affogato please!! so imagine vespasiano (hope I spelled that right..) with a really really dumb himbo bf. like he wears clothes two sizes two small and is just oblivious to the stares he’s getting, whether good or bad and he has basically just one brain cell on life support. so as I was writing this I forgot my idea so you can make up a scenario here with the details I’ve given you. bottom male reader btw!! as usual ignore this if u need to <3

🍒 𓂃 𝑶𝑹𝑫𝑬𝑹 𝑼𝑷 : affogato !! . . . vampire ⊹ bttm m reader .

. ᘛ 𝑓𝑒𝑎𝑡​​​​​​​𝑢​​​​​​​��​​​​​​​𝑖𝑛​​​​​​​𝑔﹕verse 781 ꮽ  vespasiano 781

 𐔌𖹭 ˖ ࣪  who's that ?⠀﹕a charismatic, vampiric lieutenant. with years of experience turning his hair grey and a sharp eye

ּ  ֗ recepit ℘ ... vespasiano loves his himbo boyfriend ⊹ cw ٬٬ smut . ⊹ notes : I'm sooo glad you liked the other piece ! and this was honestly so cute and funny to write.

Vespasiano loves his himbo boyfriend sooo much. The way you look at him with those big, beady eyes with not a thought behind them? An immediate relaxant after his long deployments away. You're like a puppy, so eager, so affectionate and so, so silly. He finds it beyond endearing.

He's never been one to comment on your clothes. Why would he? As long as you're safe, he doesn't care. However, he prefers you with him. So that he can stare down all the looks you get with a lazy glare that makes just about anyone back off. Also so that he can place his hand on your hip while you so enthusiastically spout the name of your order wrong to the very confused cashier. Before he's chuckling and ordering for you instead.

Especially loves when you go on little rambles about just about anything. Here he is, 7am in the kitchen about to head out and you're on a very passionate talk about . . . butter. Of course he indulges you! His favourite pass-time is listening to your voice.

Loves whenever you're so oblivious to giving him a boner too. He's sat there, obviously hard to you on his lap and rambling on about your day. And once you realise and look down with a slow blink? He only flashes you a sly smile and a tilt of his head. "What baby, didn't notice?"

He especially loves that dumb look written all over your face once he's got you on your back. Eyes crossed and tight shirt rolled up so that he can have a go at your hard nipples. Hips effortlessly, cruelly, pounding against yours until you're muttering and whining unintelligibly.

"There we go, pretty boy. My pretty, dumb boy for my cock, huh baby?" His deep chuckle only induces more of your whines. Try speaking and he'll just shallow his thrusts. So that you're squealing and drooling. All the more reason to mock you.

꒰ ۪ ˖ ࣪ 𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑢 ... info ꮽ mlist ꮽ verse ꮽ wiki . 

[the-ultimate-romanian]

“Well I’m an expert in autism” having autism ≠ being an expert. Like I said earlier, having a disorder doesn’t make you an expert in that field. “Oh but I’ve know what autism is done 5!” Well so did I (since I have many autistic family members) but I did not claim to be an expert at any point, at most that I am more qualified tot talk about this because I’ve studied this disorder in my courses (accredited by The British Psychological Society — an actual organisation btw)

When did Geo ever say that Connor was programmed with autism? The whole point of the game is that the androids aren’t anything like their programming. “Why would CyberLife program that?” Good thing they didn’t, and good thing Connor broke away from his programming! The whole point of the game flew over your head didn’t it? The androids are supposed to behave like humans, to be human like, but they don’t want to be just human like, they want to be treated like humans. CyberLife doesn’t need to program disorders like this because they can happen naturally in androids. “Oh but you’re born with autism” the androids can’t be born so if it is possible for them to be neurodivergent, it will manifest differently in them. You keep talking about “being born with autism” and while in real humans that is true, let’s remember that we are talking about a fictional game with sentient robots, not everything is going to translate 1:1, symptoms and behaviour are going to translate pretty well, but that little fact isn’t going to translate as well.

“You haven’t given me any resources to prove your point” I’ve literally give you credible resources about autism (such as UK’s NHS, WHO’s ICD11 and UK National Autistic Society etc which are all written by professionals who work with autistic people for a living and are medical professionals) and you dismissed it because “I’m an expert w/ no credentials besides my experience”

Wanna talk about family? Sure, let me talk about my family then. My maternal grandma had autism, my mom has autism & adhd, my full brother has diagnosed adhd and is suspected to have autism as well, my half brother is suspected to have autism as well (currently being evaluated by psychologists), my stepdad has suspected(suspected by a psychologist btw) add, my cousin has diagnosed autism, my paternal grandma had paranoia and suspected schizophrenia. All diseases one is born with, however when did I argue that they are not? You just pulled this shit out of your ass and started being mad about something I or Geo haven’t said.

“Conor is not autistic and never has been” oh my gosh, I can’t believe I’m talking to David Cage! Or are you Adam Williams?! Oh wait… you’re nether of them 😬 thus you can’t go and claim stuff about Connor as if they’re canon w/ no proof. Geo provided clear reasons for why she thinks Connor might be autistic which are in line with the ICD requirements for autism and are close to her relationship with her neurodivergence. She has provided her reasoning that is sound, you just said “uhh you’re born with autism and he was programmed by CyberLife why would CyberLife do that?” By that logic why would CL design Connor to deviate and orchestrate an android uprising?

“You don’t have to play blah blah for these kids” first of all “these kid” ? Learn how to write before you type shit😭😭 and second of all, I will jump in to defend my friends when an asshole like you has nothing better to do with his life except live on social media 24/7 and be a dick because he has no job or life just because he wants to be a hater. I’m not playing moral high ground, I’m rightfully calling you an asshole because you a grown ass man, is mad at a teenager because… she likes the idea of relating to her favourite character? That’s just pathetic af😭😭

“And besides you’re a child too” which is why it’s 10 x more pathetic that you are so offended, anyways I’m a psych student at a really good uni in the UK, I have a loving family, I go on family holidays at least once a year, I have loving friends, I have a job, I excelled in my studies at secondary and sixth form college, I wrote an entire research paper about the effects of Communism in Romania etc. What have you done with your life except bitching about kids online?

“See, unlike you I'm actually maintaining my composure and you're raging like a child when they lose a battle game.” My guy, you’re the one who got mad first that Geo was head cannoning Connor as autistic lmaooo. You felt the need to reply and call autistic people “mentally handicapped” (which is offensive btw) just because? You’re a weirdo ig? You hate fun and whimsy? You have no life?

“My 9yo brother is more intelligent than you, and that's saying something because the guy is not very bright.” Yeah? I wanna see his GCSE results, his A Level results, his research paper analysing Communism in Romania, his results at a national math Olympiad, I wanna hear him speak 3 languages fluently and 4th one conversationally etc. If your brother is anything like you then I feel bad that he’s not very bright 😬

Anyways get your ass off tumblr and go find a job, because I’m no longer replying to you since you seem to not know how to write or have any reading comprehension. xoxo

it is so important to me that, no matter what path you take with connor, you cannot avoid him having humanity. him indulging in self-soothing, repetitive actions such as his coin tricks or rubbing his hands together, him lying to hank after seeing markus' speech and being visibly moved, him gently smiling upon seeing hank emerge from his room in the clothes he picked out for him — a sign of a want for a domestic life with him, perhaps? — hell he can even feel fear when he connects to simon, even though you may be going through with this in a machine playthrough.

in some ways, i find machine connor more deviant than deviant connor himself — because of the repression. as amanda says, it was planned from the beginning that he become deviant. it is extremely unlikely this is erased in the machine playthrough. him 'remaining' a machine is just repression of his true self.

...and not to make this post even more self-indulgent and insane, but fuuuck the autistic headcanon for him ties into this PERFECTLY. him 'remaining' a machine is masking — he is still a deviant (autistic), but hiding it to be accepted by amanda and cyberlife — while becoming a deviant means allowing himself to break free of what is expected of him (neurotypicalness) and unmasks, be loved for who he truly is.

i made another post about him being autistic here, so feel free to check that out for reasoning for the headcanon, but i cannot imagine a universe in which connor isn't autistic and doesm't have deviant tendencies. sure, he can be cruel, or a badass, or selfish, as a machine, but all of that still gives him humanity — to be able to feel, and hurt his fellow man. and his (partial or entire) lack of empathy is still a trait of autism, which can be paralelled with deviancy.

idk man i have many thoughts about connor dbh. the autistic agender aromantic asexual android ever. to me.

[torubeth]

degradation taken too far (mature content 18+)

context/warnings : it’s smut, so kids shoo! hell of a lot of degradation. they’re so mean i hate them. (swearing, words used : slut and slutty) angst to i have no idea what. and as always, its not proofread :p gojo ver.

✩ ryomen sukuna ‘is that all you can do? all your yapping earlier about ridin’ me was just talks? answer me’ his sudden shift in demeanour has you feeling really small. sure he is a rude ass prick but not to you. never to you.

‘no- i can take it. i really can ryo’ tears sting at your eyes as you struggle to take in his full length. his hands giving your waist a small squeeze.

‘yeah and that’s all you’ve been saying for the past goddamn fifteen minutes. either you take it like a good girl or i’ll just have to find someone who will. trust me, i can’ he eyes held no remorse of the words he just spewed and that’s when you break.

correction, you shatter.

somewhere in the back of your head you knew he’ll never leave you but him wording it out makes it seem like it’s bound to happen.

and so tears stroll down your cheeks, your hands and legs giving out on you, your body going limp against his and you whisper the same thing over and over again.

‘don’t leave me ryo. i’m sorry. didn’t mean to upset you. i’m so sorry. don’t leave’

quickly his arms wrap around your body protectively, your face between his shoulder blade and neck, wetting the area with fresh batch of tears.

‘i could never leave you. you’re-’ you’re it for me. ‘you’re always the one that keeps me sane. there’s no way i’ll ever leave you. i’m sorry baby, forgive me. i didn’t mean a word of what i said’ he says.

when he didn’t get a response from you ‘look at me’ he whispers. slowly you leave the comfort of his neck and meet his eyes.

‘i didn’t mean it. you could leave me on deathbed and i still wouldn’t mean it’

‘i can’t leave you ryo. i love you way too much’ you sniffle, new tears threatening to spill so you go back to huddle against his neck.

god. he knows you mean it. and that’s what makes him feel like a dickhead.

‘me too, i- i lo-’ he struggles, just as your palm reaches up to cover his mouth.

‘i know ryo, i know’ you whisper, placing your forehead against his, both of you basking in the quietness of the surrounding.

✩ geto suguru ‘fuckin-! ah shit! some insane grip you have on me baby. can’t move if you clench and lock me up like that’ he smirks against your neck.

‘and a bit quiet today ain’t ya? you sure had a lot to say to satoru earlier heh’ he remarks.

‘we were just catching up suguru, nothing-! nothing more’ you whine.

‘catching up you say? does catching up require smiles and touches? do they angel baby?’ he raises his eyebrows.

‘no..’ you avert your eyes away from his.

‘that’s what i thought. so for that, now you pay’ he pulls out suddenly, and pushes all the way back in making you yelp out loud.

‘sugu! ah fuck, i don’t think i can go another round. s’too much!’ the pressure was starting to get to you and you were starting to lose stability.

‘hah, i know you can baby, this slutty pussy’s all you’re good for anyway. fuck, doesn’t matter whose it is, as long as you’re filled. am i right?’ his words pierced straight through your heart.

since when did he-?

out of reflex, your hands reach out to touch his face to make sure that this was a dream nightmare. otherwise there’s no way he-

‘don’t touch me with those filthy hands’ he spits but makes no effort to push your hand off.

‘do you really think that’s all i’m good for?’ your voice is soft, filled with pain, and suddenly it’s like he’s broken out of his trance.

what the fuck am i doing, he thought.

slowly he pulls out, all whilst holding your hand against his cheek.

‘absolutely not. no. fuck, did not mean it angel. i promise. i- i don’t know what came over me-! didn’t mean it. please i’m sorry. next time if i ever lose my shit with you, i want you to take the nearest sharp object and plunge it into my chest’ he heaves out a guttural sigh.

‘you were really mean you know..’ you wipe your eyes.

‘i know baby, fuck. i didn’t mean it. i did not mean it. i’ll never do it again princess, ever’ he repeats.

his face lands on your chest, thanking all the gods and the stars out there for giving him another chance.

he’ll never screw up again and that’s a promise.

✩ nanami kento ‘you really couldn’t wait for a few hours? just had to go and think with your cunt, right? have you no- ugh! no shame?’ his thrusts were sloppy as his hands were placed around your hips.

‘kento- slow down baby, i- i don’t think i can last’ you whine, hands clutching at the sheets.

‘no. you asked for this you little slut. so shut. the. fuck. up. and take it!’ each syllable was accompanied by a harsh thrust.

the usually composed, sweet and calm nanami was nowhere to be found. he’s never once called you a ‘slut’ and what caused this? you rubbing him through his pants and riling him up at his office dinner earlier tonight.

he warned you off multiple times but did you listen? no.

‘why are you so quiet now? i thought this is what you wanted’ his voice comes out raspy and cold.

a quiet but audible whimper escaped your lips, making him halt his actions.

slowly he pulled out, gently laying you on your back as your body shook with each sob.

‘sweetheart…? why are you…’

you look up at him, eyes puffy and swolllen ‘i’m sorry kento, it’s just that, you’re never home these days and i missed you so much’ a cry that’s sure to crack his heart leaves your lips.

‘i just wanted you all to myself for tonight but i didn’t mean to be a bother-’

his warm body hovers over yours, ‘you’re never a bother baby. always know that. you will always be at the top of every and any list i make. there’s nothing more i want than coming home to you everyday after work. and i didn’t mean to lash out at you. you didn’t deserve that, i’m sorry’ he leans down to press a kiss to your forehead.

‘you will always have me sweetheart, never forget that. now let me make it up to you yeah?’

(rblogs appreciated💪🏼)