#RIGHT AFTER GOING OVER IT IN THE ACTUAL POST

[luveline]

omg post prison Spencer and concussed!shy girl….I would go feral I fear

“I’m gonna be sick again,” you whine, covering your eyes with both of your hands. The nausea roils and the pain in your head reaches a new crescendo. You moan without thinking about it, worse when someone grabs a hold of you from behind. 

“Don’t bend!” he says, not shouting but not happy with you either. “You aren’t going to be sick again if you stay sat up. I know it hurts, but you’re making it worse.” 

Spencer’s strict voice isn’t one you’re used to. An embarrassed flush rushes over you, quick to cry ‘cos you’ve wanted to for hours. 

“Sorry,” you mumble tearily, slouching back into your seat with a wince. 

“Oh, angel, please don’t cry again.” 

“I’m not.”

“I’m not angry with you, I just need you to listen, because being sick like this isn’t good for you, and you’re gonna feel sick again if you bend over. It’s your head, angel. It’s the inertia.” 

You shuffle across the couch to flop against his chest. It’s a desperate move; if he doesn’t hug you, you’re going to start crying for sure, so you’re begging him to hold you without having the courage to say it out loud. “Sorry,” you say. 

“It’s okay.” Hands wrap around you immediately. “Don’t be sorry. Just stay like this for a bit, until the nausea stops. Please.” 

You’d love to stay there. You can smell the black coconut soap he uses on his skin, rubbing your nose into his neck and taking obvious breaths. 

Spencer pats your back, saying, “Good, take a breather.” He sounds surprised, but when you glance up at him he isn’t panicking or moving. He’s closed his eyes. His hand is on the small of your back.  

You hit your head so hard the very first thing that happened was the wave of vomiting. It just… didn’t end. And for a while all you could think about was nothing, just being sick and crying and a hand on your back, eventually traded for colder ones, bright white lights and strangers asking how you were feeling. You couldn’t not defer to Spencer, not really sure if he was Spencer in a permanent sense but aware intrinsically that he was to be trusted to answer for you. 

Your brain is shaken, then stirred. 

“If I give you a pill, do you think you can keep it down? It’s okay if you can’t. Honest answer,” Spencer murmurs. 

“I don’t know.” 

“An anti nausea pill you need to swallow isn’t exactly mankind’s best invention.” He cradles the nape of your neck, then, sounding more on your side than anyone ever has. “I wish I could fix it.” 

“You should’ve put your brain to work for science,” you say agreeably, “you can fix anything. Big pharma are lucky you chose to catch the bad guys instead.” 

“I meant your concussion.” You can barely hear him, and at the same time, it’s like he’s speaking into your marrow. 

“You did fix that,” you say, tipping your head back to see him. “You took me to the doctor.” 

He smiles. “Yeah, I did, but you’re still sick and hurting.” 

It’s not that bad in Spencer’s arms. You had dreams like this, daydreams and sleeping, where he’d wrap you up and comfort you after some hurt, but you’re struggling to remember what made it feel as painful as it did at the time. Spencer felt far away. Now he’s right here. You curl your arm behind his neck to be squished together, tight tight tight. Spencer actually groans. 

“Sorry,” you say. 

“No, m’not in pain. I can’t remember the last time I got to hold you like this for so long.” 

“I don’t know why.” 

“I do, and it’s okay. I know why you get freaked out. I’ll never rush you. I don’t mind. But I feel guilty ‘cos I’m enjoying this and you’re in pain.”

It’s a dull throb in the skull. You can barely feel it. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles. 

“I’m confused.” 

“That’s a common theme tonight.” 

“You feel guilty ‘cos I’m hugging you?” 

He covers your eyes with his hand. You laugh at first, but it’s oddly nice. Warm, dark. The throbbing pain ebbs a bit. 

Spencer can feel you relaxing against him. He’s all warmth and smell and sound under your ear. Exhaling, humming, the sound imbued with a fondness you don’t understand. His chest is solid under you, his hair begging to be touched where it flirts with his shoulders, the slopes and lines of him a tactile wonderland for your greedy hands: you want to feel everything. You haven’t the faintest clue as to why you weren’t allowing yourself the privilege before. 

“I just need you to get better fast,” he says, breathless. “That’s all.” 

“I am trying my best.” 

Spencer rubs a thumb over one of your eyebrows, start to end. “And you’re so, so good at it,” he says. 

You aren’t concussed enough to miss the lightly mocking coo of it. But you don’t care. Your nose drags up the line of his neck clumsily, in what you hope says tease me more, but more likely says concussive brain injury, second degree. 

[side-by-side-sideblog]

As a butch individual I will not like you, fuck you, talk to you, make friends with you, or entertain you if you hate men, neither will my partner and other butches I know. It is not progressive, man hating isn't queer culture, because men are queer culture. Men are why I am masc, they accepted my masculinity first, lesbians were butch and masculine phobic to me for 8 years till I figured my shit out. I know that isn't the norm, but it isn't rare either.

These people put me back in the closet over and over. They don't support gender or sex being a spectrum, if they do they're showing no signs of it. They think saying men dni will stop guys who harass people but they don't stop because they don't care about consent and a dni doesn't change that. There are plenty of girl bloggers who also don't respect consent and send people gore and threats over minor disagreements. We don't go after them hardly at all in comparison considering we have people who've been doing that since 2016 and earlier that people still reblog and uplift because they're women. Men doing that on here don't get that treatment, because it's rightfully wrong. Most other sites white non queer men do getaway with that more while women don't, the Tumblr user base reversing that isn't progressive, because cis white women here get more slack then anyone else because trans fems, trans mascs, intersex people, and non white people get the "evil" tag over small shit, let alone actual bad things.

We teach in current society that men are incapable of consent, as if it's in their nature. This isn't true, but it sure does create a lot of guys who lack boundaries. That doesn’t mean Man = Bad it means society saying Man = Wild Beast is bad. A man is just whoever identifies as one, and identifying as a man has nothing to do with lack of consent, or toxic masculinity. I sometimes wonder if I identify as butch in a man way, idk, and I don't care, I am who I am, and women are who I spend time with in a queer way. My closeness to masculinity isn't traitor behavior. Femininity isn't Divinity, I do not worship women. Masculinity isn't an Ignominity, I do not criminalize men. Masculinity is also not Divinity, and Femininity isn't an Ignominity. Both can be fallible at times when the conditions are right, but they are neutral markers.

To make man = good we do that by just changing ourselves and our ideas of masculinity being bad, then we teach it to everyone else, including kids, friends, partners, and parents. When people stop the "boys will be boys" then more men will be taught consent.

I have an actual irrational hatred for a character that makes me burst into anger and hour long rants (not joking) because I see him as the epitome of toxic masculinity. Seeing him in a profile picture can ruin my day, but I do not put him in a dni list because I am not going to blame fans of him for my distaste in how the media itself supports his bad actions as good. Just like if I get harassed by men who lack consent, I will not blame all men and put men dni.

Saying "I block ＿" is better anyway.

Plus, how can you know someone's a woman? Not everyone has pronouns listed, gender listed, or just a big neon sign saying "I'm a woman." you will have no idea if people are respecting your frankly outrageous ask of who can follow or reblog your posts.

Men on this site who respect women and reblog posts do exist, and there are a lot of them. Also trans eggs who are on this site are not going to figure themselves out through media like mlp, she-ra, and whatever you post by saying men dni. My trans sister cracked her egg six months ago, so for her blog she would have steered clear of men dni disclaimers and probably blocked them out of respect. Now how does she undo that, go through her entire block list? That would be crazy work for people who wouldn't have respected her pre transition (which they didn't, not even other trans girls or queer gurls in highschool did, only now would they support her. That's what man hating does to people.)

There is no simple solution to keeping people away, oh wait... It's called blocking.

tldr; Having a dni for an entire demographic of people just for the flaws of a few inside doesn't work. It never will. People who don't care about consent will breach it to hurt you.

if you have "cishet men dni" in your bio i, a trans man, will not touch you with a 10 foot pole. i should not be forced to out myself as a trans man just to interact with you. on top of that, cishet men are not inherently evil. stop trying to reinvent bioessentialism with your "girl good, boy bad!" mentality.

[piastrisun]

don’t smile.

pairings: lando norris + singer female character.

summary: unfortunately everyone has their owns ways to deal with a breakup. she turned heartbreak into lyrics, he turned it into a performance.

faceclaim: sabrina carpenter.⠀warning: none.

notes: named protagonist and messed up dates (as usual)

liked by username1, username and others

f1gossip according to close sources to the couple, lando and marlene decided to end their relationship after three years together.

tagged landonorris, marlene

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username idgaf about any celebrity couple but THEM?????

username1 i just fell at my knees 😭😭

username2 WHAT??????

username3 this has to be a joke, i’m NOT believing it until one of them confirms it

username4 thank god, she was too much of a goddess for him

username4 (i’m actually not taking this news in a healthy way)

username5 don’t tag them, it’s fucking weird

username6 source: trust me bro

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marlene ⠀ and ⠀ landonorris added their stories!

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liked by reneerapp, username and others

marlene this year has been WILD

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username she’s losing her mind probably

marlene i am, ty for noticing 🤍

username GIRL?????

username2 prettiest crier award goes to… marlene!!!

username3 if i say attention seeker for that second pic then what

username4 you’d be wrong, get out

username5 she’s been posting pictures like that years before meeting lando, what are u on

whitneypeak i’m obsessed w you

marlene i LOVE u

username6 we love you and hope you’re okay!!

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liked by marlene, carlossainz55 and others

landonorris good days at home

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username so glad to see your smile!!

username2 that happy face 🥹

username3 is it my thing or he’s been too happy for a person that just ended a 3 year relationship

username4 i thought it as well tbh

username you don’t know this man wtf???

username6 live love laugh lando

username7 marlene liking this, so unserious

username8 the difference between his post and hers is very…

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liked by username1, username and others

f1gossip has a new love affair arrived for our dear mclaren driver?

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username SAY SIKE RIGHT NOW

username2 oh that was quick…

username3 these comments??? he doesn't owe grief to a relationship that didn't work out

username4 true but dating two months later after a breakup it’s insane

username5 play ‘is it over now? (taylor’s version)’

username6 LMAOOOO that’s an insane thing to say

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marleneupdates marlene recently with her team at electric lady studios in new york!

tagged marlene

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username2 NEW ERA INCOMING???

username3 the gasp i just let out

username4 off topic but she’s three apples tall

username5 quite literally 😭😭😭

username6 need new content NOW

username7 not ready to let go emails i can’t send

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marlene added to their story.

replies to your story:

madisonbeer so excited about this 🩷🩷

marlene i’ll try my best 4 u

georgerussell63 musical gossiping?

marlene you already know!!

landonorris and others liked your story.

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liked by username, georgerussell63 and others

landonorris :)

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username pookiest pookie to ever pookie

username2 he‘s pregnant with the 2025 wdc here

username3 IM CRYING i hope he reads this

georgerussell63 oh yeah?

username4 WHAT DO YOU KNOW GEORGE WILLIAM RUSSELL

username5 kinda hate when a man is the happiest after a breakup

username6 as a lando defender, i agree

username7 why do you exist if you’re not mine 😭😭

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liked by maxfewtrell, taylorswift and others

marlene you think it's happy hour, for me, it's not

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username WAIT. is this what i think it is

username2 babe wake up, mother is serving cryptic lines again

whitneypeak i know a song lyric when i see one

marlene 👀

username3 SUBTLE LANDO SHADE????

username4 you dropping hints like breadcrumbs and we’re HUNGRY

reneerapp your move is coming and i’m so ready

marlene you know me too well!!

username5 i swear, if this is a breakup song, i’m going to scream. i’m not ready

username6 i feel like the breakup will become real once she starts singing about it 😭

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landonorris added to their story.

replies to your story:

maxfewtrell FIREEEE

landonorris we look kinda lame

maxfewtrell so lame

keeganpalmer do u know what being home is

landonorris no, next question

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liked by madisonbeer, username and others

marlene ‘don’t smile’ is officially yours now!! go listen, i hope you love it as much as i do. thank you for your endless love and support. 🤍 ୭  ׂ  𓈒

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username on repeat already

madisonbeer this song is beautiful. congrats, love! 🩷

marlene couldn’t have done it without you

username2 IM NOT OKAY

maxfewtrell such a bop, mar!!

marlene thank you for believing in me 🫶🏽

username3 i love they stayed friends 🥹

username4 “i want you to miss me, you're supposed to think about me every time you hold her” SO REAL

username5 heartbreak into art as always

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©⠀piastrisun original work. please don’t translate, claim or repost any of my writing, 25’.

[saeist]

what people don't know about sae itoshi is that despite being known as the nonchalant final boss, he's actually the most chalant person known to man when it comes to his lover

it's quite hilarious really. people who know about your relationship usually come to you and ask how the soccer super star prodigy has been treating you but you always answer the same— he's treating you well

although people don't really buy it. the way sae acts around you in public is rigid at best. yes, he's your boyfriend and yes, he loves you very much but when you two are out and about, media outlets just can't help but publish articles about how the famed middle fielder is totally "an emotional unavailable partner" (sae reports every single article about this btw)

sae itoshi is a man of few words. letting his actions talk for him is one way to put it

but behind closed doors? it's another story

it might be considered a legend that the sae itoshi is actually a pretty hands on boyfriend. in fact, sometimes it becomes a little too much when he dotes on you so much

one time you texted him that you had a headache for a while now and you almost forgot who you were texting the second he replies that it's because you didn't do this and that today

[3:14 PM] mi corazón: ? [3:14 PM] mi corazón: did you drink water today? i didn't see you drink before i left for training [3:15 PM] mi corazón: have you eaten? fucking hell don't tell me you "forgot" to eat again because you were caught up at work? [3:16 PM] mi corazón: wya? i'll order you food. ask your shitty co workers what they want too so i can treat your department while i'm at it. tsk [3:17 PM] mi corazón: tsk. what will you do without me [3:17 PM] you: sae... it's just a headache.... it's hot out today [3:18 PM] mi corazón: you forgot to bring the fucking umbrella i got you from pasotti? [3:19 PM] you: ykw i don't have a headache anymore [3:20 PM] mi corazón: read 3:20 PM

another time was you had joined him into going on a hike with his friends (shidou and aiku) and you accidentally had spluttered mud all over your legs

aiku and shidou were kind enough to stop so you could clean yourself up but you simply brush it off and say that it's part of the nature experience of hiking but sae thought otherwise

he grabbed a wet wipe from his backpack (another hc: he comes prepared like a boyscout with shit like this like personal hygiene shit💀), kneels down behind you and starts wiping the mud off your legs

much to everyone's surprise

"be careful next time" sae mutters, wiping the last bit of mud on your calf before disposing the now dirty wipes away

when you don't say anything, sae looks up and raises a brow

"what?"

he then watches your eyes motion to the bystanders being aiku and shidou, who both had their jaws dropped to the floor

who knew their little soccer super star friend could be this down bad to their lover?

sae immediately gets up from the ground, brushing his trousers as he clears his throat. as if that could erase that beautiful moment shared with you from aiku and shidou's minds

"tsk. don't make a big deal out of it" sae clicks his tongue in annoyance as he leads the pack back on the trail. consciously ignoring aiku and shidou's loud giggles and teasing

sae knows damn well that they won't ever live this down but who cares. if it's you, he'd do anything in a heartbeat

a few weeks pass by and my, was sae was right. those two idiots did not in fact live it down. so much that they just had to leak it to the media that the nonchalant final boss, sae itoshi isn't the final boss to nonchalance after all

the first thing he sees on his phone was a new article posted by pop base

[EXCLUSIVE] SAE ITOSHI ISN’T EMOTIONALLY CONSTIPATED AFTER ALL? JUICY INSIDERS SCOOP!

when he takes a peek at the article (before he reports it), it was oddly specific and detailed about that one hiking trip you had a few weeks ago. he didn't have to put two and two together to figure out who these "juicy insiders" were

"god damn it" sae clenches his jaw as he continues to skim through the article

suddenly sae hears you burst out laughing from the living room

oh no.

sae trudges to your shared living room with your own cup of kombucha for the day and sees you laughing your ass out while reading the same article

"stop reading that" sae groans, settling down the cup on the coffee table. he takes a seat next to you and leans his head on top of yours

"they're right you know" you giggle, reading the article "for a guy who acts all cold and collected on the outside, you sure are the exact opposite on the inside"

sae rolls his eyes, "gee. i wonder where they got that information from. i'm going to kill both of them" he mutters, pertaining to shidou and aiku

"you're just embarrassed that you've been exposed for the secret lover boy you are"

"they don't need to know what goes on behind closed doors" he points out. true

"okay lover boy. whatever you say" you laugh, holding your hands up in surrender. there was no point with arguing with sae when it comes to shit like this

there's a moment of silence after that. you glance up to catch sae quietly looking at you. like he was all caught up in the moment within your shared humble abode

"jesus. you really are down bad" you gasp quietly, covering your mouth pretending to be shocked. sae snaps out of his little trance hearing your words and flicks your forehead

"am not!"

"are so!"

"no!"

"yes!"

"i love you" you interject, catching sae slightly off guard

you meet sae's eyes as they soften. he simply shrugs and wraps an arm around your shoulders as he pulls you close to his chest

"and i love you more— now stop reading that stupid article before i report you and that damn news media outlet"

"sae!"

[thegamingcatmom]

@groovestrawberry Thank you so much for your words. They mean a lot. Especially because I'm prone to taking stuff way too seriously, so I really appreciate the reminder to just chill tf out. 😅❤️

Right so, onto your questions!

1) the last sentence you wrote

"It didn’t take long for your heart to pick up its frantic rhythm once more, terror seizing you anew at the horrible realization that, who…whatever was chasing you, it had been close enough for you to feel it."

Wrote that only yesterday. 💪

6) the word that appears the most in your current draft

(This is Chapter 4 btw.)

17) talk about your writing and editing process

Oh boy, what to say. Where to start.

I mean, I tend to take things a bit too seriously, as mentioned before. Which means I'll sometimes go over a sentence or paragraph until it no longer makes sense to me, lol. I know it's probably fine as is and ppl are gonna enjoy it anyway, so this is a habit of mine I'm working on. Also because, in my experience, whatever your brain comes up with after you first get your thoughts on paper, it most likely won't be as good as what you first came up with, so you end up going back to the OG anyway. 🤷🏻‍♀️

So ye, editing ain't fun, but it must be done because I'm really not happy with some of the stuff my old self has come up with. 🙃

As for the writing: This goes hand in hand with editing, actually. First things first though: Music. Most important. If I have a song I can vibe to and it fits the mood and all, then it's going rather smoothly. But, even then, I'm by no means a "fast" writer. Even when vibing, I'm still hyper focused on not making mistakes and especially using the correct tense (something I find surprisingly difficult when you're actually focused on it, lol). So, just like with editing, I'll read over a section a few hundred times before I proceed. I know some say it's more important to just get that first draft done and correct any mistakes after but, honestly? When a chapter is done, I wanna post it, not spend another few hours/days/weeks editing stuff. 🤷🏻‍♀️

So ye, writing and editing is more or less the same for me because it happens simultanously. Or it will, once I'm done with editing TBRH (The Bumpy Road Home) and things go back to "normal." 😅

What else to say...hm, I guess a few other "quirks" of mine when writing are:

Writing out a piece of dialogue and putting it somewhere on the page to use later because I just know that if I don't do that, whatever I come up with instead (because my ass forgot half of what I originally came up with) won't be as slapping. OG always wins and all. 😉

Pausing to take a breather because I get so immersed in the scene, I actually need a moment to process it. (I read somewhere that someone referred to it as "zoomies." This was more in the sense of reading a fic and coming across a section so damn good, you need a moment to process it. But, sometimes, this is very much the case for writers too. 🫠)

Looking up images, videos etc. of the ppl or things I'm writing about. For Chapter 4 of TBRH, the Denali house was my trusty companion. Just chilling in the background (aka: another tab), lol.

Starting on another scene even though I haven't finished the current one because I just need to know what happens next. (Yes, I'm aware I'm the writer.)

Well, that's all I can come up with for the moment. I'm sure there's more and maybe I'll post it at some point. ✌️

.

.

.

Thanks a lot for your questions and your lovely words! 💋

✍️ more fic writer asks!

reblog & your followers can send asks with the questions they’d like you to answer!

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first sentence of the fifth paragraph of an unpublished WIP

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share a fic you’re especially proud of

[militaryapple]

Hi, I'm not sure if you're taking request but I love the way you write Caleb ☺️ Is it possible you can do a cute little fake dating troupe in college with Caleb?

It goes like, reader (non MC) and Caleb are friends and reader wanted a bf but she can't find one so she tried out this "men will start chasing you when you have a bf" theory with Caleb when Caleb thinks this is an opportunity to do couple things with his crush 🫢

wc. 939.

add ons: hii yes I can!! so glad u guys love my caleb he's so crazy I miss him

college. it was definitely something. work load 20 times heavier, professors who don’t really give a fuck wether you live or die or right, and dating. how you loathed the couples in your university. was it because you were unable to get a boyfriend yourself? maybe. was it also because half of every guy on campus was either a massive jerk, a guy in a frat or taken? maybe.. partly.. yeah.

everytime you were close to finding a guy, a perfect suitable guy who was funny or sweet or kind— he had to bail or he already had a girlfriend! yeah, total dreamboat. you could only sigh at the thought of you and someone on a date, going to the movies or watching some corny movie. wow you were really single and mindlessly scrolling on social media wasn’t helping your case one bit. post after post, jesus how did they do it? then you had an idea.

maybe you were pathetic and desperate.. oh fuck you’re in college. what’s worse? graduating with no love life or dying without someone who loves you. yeah, you would take your chances.

you silently typed up on your phone “how to become more attractive to men”. was it weird? yes. did you care? not really. it’s not your roommate was here, she would go on about how “life is amazing without a lover!” and “you don’t need to cry over a man!” in which she was silently resigned everytime you brought up how she had a boyfriend. so it’s come to this. better now than never anyways.

“men like taken woman, gives them a chase.” well fuck! that was your issue from the start?! what were you gonna do? get a boyfriend out of thin air to make guys ma— then you heard a knock.

you closed out of the tab as you walk to your dorm door, opening it as your gaze shifted upward, and holy mother of pearls did you find the holy grail. he was your answer.

“hey, pipsqueak!” caleb said as he held his arms out for you waiting for a hug, just to be greeted by a grab on the wrist and a soft ‘thud’ on your bed. you stared up at him, inspecting him closely. caleb was a perfect candidate! he could be your fake boyfriend!

.

.

“be my fake boyfriend.”

you were met with small chuckle as he covered his mouth and muffled out apologies. you were embarrassed, god this was embarrassing. if only you could rewind 2 minutes. god god god.

caleb smiled widely, “are you sure you want me as your fake boyfriend? what’s this even for anyways, pipsqueak?” his eyes soften as he got more comfortable on your bed. you could only smile in content. he didn’t say no, so you’ll take that as a win.

“guys are more attracted to you when you have a boyfriend.” you said shoving your phone in his face. he scanned over the phone closely before pushing your hand down to look at you. god were you pretty.

“that’s.. not real pipsqueak.” he said trying to cover his laugh. were you serious about this? you couldn’t actually believe this crap. this is why caleb prefers for you to come to him for this sort of thing, not some lousy thread you found on a very sketchy site. though he couldn’t just trample on your dreams so he went along with it, even if it was funny.

“I’m serious!” you snapped back. “just for a while, until someone shows interest in me! well more interest than my supposed boyfriend.. please caleb?” you begged, and he could never say no to you. you jumped up happily before leaning in for a hug but instead you were met by a subtle push and “ah-ah”. you looked at caleb puzzled as he got up. his arms moving to your hip while he leaned down, his and your breath almost kissing.

“if im gonna be your boyfriend for a while pipsqueak, don’t I deserve a little reward for helping you out?” he smiled, “even if it’s a fake we have to get used to kissing.”

kissing.

your first kiss, would be him.

you stared up at awe, he was handsome. just one kiss, it wouldn’t be bad right? you were flustered but no backing down now. better make this as real as possible.

You nodded in subtle approval before you leaned in, your lips touching as his grip on you held tighter. his free hand cupping your face. he was a natural at kissing, his movements were tender and he was so gentle with you. it was as if he didn’t want to wreck you. caleb moved his head back, breaking away from the sweet moment. “okay then, it’s official.” he said softly.

caleb would take you out often, every week, everyday to be exact and there seemed to be absolutely no luck with other guys. it’s not like it mattered anyways though, you were having fun with caleb, almost like he was your actual boyfriend.

as for caleb, this was perfect, he was almost glad he checked on you the day he did. you were a dream, and this “fake boyfriend” idea? would soon wash away when you start to only think of him as your actual boyfriend. taking you out, kissing you, holding you while you’re upset. everything.

as for the guys who chase you around? haha as if! he personally made sure on your first day of university that everyone knew you were his. well it doesn’t matter, it worked out either way. for both you and him.

[pacofprunes]

NO TIP?

pairing — racer!jeno x reader w - noncon, misogyny, g - dark, smut | masterlist

summary — you had been working on a new paint job for a pretty well known racers car. when he comes in to pick it up and you tell him it won’t be done until tomorrow, he switches gears and starts being a total asshole. you tell him to just get out, but he makes sure to give you a tip before he goes.

a/n — hencheri got this stuck in my head after this and this specific post, so i had to make something about this

you’d been working on a paint job for a pretty well known racers car for a couple days now. you think the guys name was jeno? you worked at a car shop but you didn’t keep up with that type of stuff. you hadn’t actually met him, but you were the one who’s been doing all the paint work for him. a new shiny coat on his expensive car for his show. you’d kill to have a car like this, it was nice as fuck.

you heard the door open and you realized it was probably him. you forgot that you hadn’t called to let him know that it’d be another day as the car needed some more time to dry. you fully prepare yourself for him to be a little angry, but you could’ve never prepared yourself for what he’d do instead of throwing a few snarky remarks at you. he walks up to your counter and eyes you up and down with an almost confused look on his face before he looks back at his car and turns back around to face you.

“i’m here to pick that up. should be under the name jeno.”

you cough before biting the inside of your cheek preparing for an outburst of some sort.

“sorry sir, it should be fully dried by tomorrow. it’s still a bit tacky.”

you swear he gave you a dirty look, but whatever, it was better than him screaming at you. you couldn’t speed up how fast a car could dry. if you could, you would, it’d make your job a lot easier.

“are you the one working on my car?”

“uhm, yes?”

he scoffs before looking back over at his car once again. he mumbled a “no fucking way…” under his breath and you just rolled your eyes before turning around to reach something hanging on the wall behind the counter.

“so then you wouldn’t know if it’s done or not.”

you still for a second and laugh slightly under your breath before you turn back to face him. what the hell was he talking about?

“sir, i worked on it, therefore i know that it’s done…even if i hadn’t painted your car, which i did, it’s pretty obvious to anybody that your car isn’t done. you can go touch it if you want, it’s still sticky to the touch.”

you hadn’t meant for it to come out with such attitude, but he was literally doing the same thing to you. you knew he was a racer or some shit but that doesn’t mean you should just bow down to him.

“i hope you’re not expecting a tip.”

seriously? he probably makes thousands a month and he can’t spare you a fucking tip? look at that nice ass paint job you just did. a gorgeous bright red, and it’d look even better when it was completely dry and shiny. you just ignore his comment and move over to him at the register.

“cash or card?”

he just slams the cash on the table without making a sound and you go to count it before he opens his mouth for yet another snarky remark.

“you really think i didn’t give you enough? you think i don’t got enough money, huh?”

you have to hold back from giving him a dirty look which was insanely hard by the way, and you’re sure you gave him some sort of look anyways because he made sure to give you a nasty look right after you had felt your eyebrows scrunch together at him.

“i have to count, sir. it’s got nothing to do with my personal beliefs. despite you not tipping..”

he slams his hand on the counter and you knew he had heard you.

“so, what? you’re just some greedy bitch who’s tryna empty out my pockets?”

you would have just told him to take the car and go but it’d literally be done by tomorrow and he already gave you the cash and you knew with his status that it’d be made into some huge deal. you put the money into the register and step back before placing your hands against your hips.

“excuse me? you can leave. you can pick up your car tomorrow since you already paid. unless you’ve got anymore questions, you can see yourself out.”

he looks down at the counter for a second before you see his fingers start to grip against the glass.

“i’ve got a few questions actually, ma’am.”

he takes a step towards the entrance of the counter.

“how long you been working here?”

he doesn’t give you a chance to answer before he take another step towards the opening to enter behind the counter.

“you’re a woman, what makes you think you have any business working here?”

he’s standing right at the opening to the counter now and you open your mouth but a small sound only gets the chance to slip out before he cuts you off again.

“you want a tip so bad, right?”

he’s takes his last step and is now fully behind the counter, standing right in front of you and staring you down intensely. you take a small step back and he quickly grabs your shoulder, his finger nails digging deeply into it.

“so why don’t i fucking give you one.”

he immediately turns you over by your shoulder and presses you against his back, wrapping a hand around your waist so you couldn’t get away from him. the place was empty, you were meant to close up tonight. you didn’t know what the hell he wanted. he literally just paid you the exact cash you needed, no way it was a robbery. you curse at him to let you go but he pulls you from behind the counter and over towards his car. he feels you up on the way there, forcing a hand into your pants and attempting to finger you, and that’s when you realized what he wanted and what was going to happen.

finally, you let out at least five screams before he slams a hand over your mouth. you were standing in front of the hood of his car now and you could feel his boner poking you right in the ass.

he continued to shove his fingers into you mercilessly and pulling out every few seconds to add a weak attempt at providing your clit attention. you stomp on his foot and he lets out a pained sound and a “you fucking bitch” before he pulls his hand out of your pants and shoves you onto the still tacky sticky hood of his car. you put your hands onto the side of the hood to push yourself up but he quickly presses his hand against your back to hold you down. you try to swing your arms back at him, hoping to hit something, but it does nothing, obviously. his other hand is still tight on your face and it’s threatening to slide up and cover your nose.

“what’s up with you uptight bitches, huh? thought you wanted a tip? i’d say fucking with a racer is a pretty big tip, right?”

he pushes your pants down along with your panties before you hear a belt from behind you and your pathetic squirms below him get more intense and reckless.

“you wanna be a bitch, right? i’ll treat you like a bitch then.”

and right then, he pushes his dick right in you. no easing, no stopping, he just goes right into you and immediately starts thrusting. you start to whine underneath him and you move your feet up from the floor hoping to hit him, but he just steals your idea and kicks you right in the back of your calf, hard. you immediately scream into his palm and feel like you’re sinking deeper into his car. you just lie there for a little, breathing heavy and you move your eyes up slowly and through his windshield you’re able get a slight look at the situation. you felt disgusting. you could see the sweat sticking to his face, his bangs bouncing with every relentless movement. and from how much you were sticking to the car, your body barely even moved from all the thrusts he was making. all you heard was the slight creakiness and bouncing of the car and his grunts and shitty moans. you hated him.

“you feel how big this tip is slut? wanna complain like a stripper not gettin’ enough money.”

he leans down into your ear and his thrusts suddenly quicken like a machine.

“maybe this’ll teach you not to take men’s jobs. what’s a woman like you even doing in an area like this?”

you whine against the palm of his hand and you just shake your head no. not at anything he said in particular, but just the whole situation. you try to mumble a few ‘stops’ underneath his palm, and you know that he hears them. you know he understands you don’t want this, but why the fuck would he care? was this really all because you were working at a job predominantly done by men…? seriously? when you feel yourself squeeze around him and hear him laugh, you feel absolutely disgusted with yourself and your body. your pussy was getting wetter and wetter, finally making noises everytime that his balls slapped against it. you get frustrated and you start sobbing angrily into his palm, stomping like a child against the floor. you would kick him again, but you knew the next time he kicked you right back, it’d be ten times worse than the first time. and so what if you managed to kick him off of you anyway? you wouldn’t get that far. he was ten times bigger than you and with your pants halfway down your legs, you’d trip over your own feet before you could even get one step in. the only thing you could do was wait until he was finished.

when you feel his fingernails squeeze into your back and feel something leak down your legs, you know exactly what it is and just pray that that’s enough and that this is all over. and when you hear the fabric of his pants brush against his legs and his belt clasp, your hopes have been fulfilled. or at least that’s what you thought. he didn’t release the palm that was on your mouth, only having moved his hand off of your back, now giving you more room to squirm. but he doesn’t let you get up. he moves the palm from your mouth to your head, pressing your cheek into the car and you can only yell so much in a position like that.

“get off of me! take your car and just go!”

you hear him scoff from behind you and you feel him circle his fingers on your clit before sliding them alllll the way down your slit until finally pushing them into your embarrassingly wet hole.

“you’d think after all that you’d get rid of that bitchy fukin’ attitude.”

he continues to finger you but once you feel him push a third finger in, you have to stop a moan from slipping. you try to move your hands up the car to create as much distance as you could between you and him. it became painful to do so as the paint had started to dry to your hands, but you continued anyways. but it wasn’t doing anything though, his fingers only follow you.

“we’re gonna stay here until you stop your bitching.”

and that’s when he slips a fourth finger in and you can feel yourself clench, and this time your body doesn’t let go, holding onto his fingers for dear life and he lets out a sick laugh. the moment you can tell that you’re about to cum all over his fingers, you try to push yourself up the car even more, becoming desperate, but it only encourages him to play with your clit as well now and he pushes your face harder against the car.

“i’m sorry—i’m sorry! okay? you can have the car for free—please!”

he scoffs and ignores your whining and continues to thrust his fingers into you. you became desperate, okay? what more could you do besides beg him to stop? he didn’t like your attitude? okay then, maybe your begging for mercy would detour him! but that’s not what he wanted. he wanted to strip you of any confidence and pride that you once had. he wanted to absolutely humiliate you. and when he saw you finish all over his fingers, he knew that had had. he immediately pulls his fingers out and he slaps your ass while laughing before moving back and you can hear him fumbling with something. you quickly push yourself up off of his car and it feels as if the skin is about to be ripped off of your face, but luckily, none comes off. when you finally free your face from the car hood, you’re met with a sight that would forever be engraved in your mind. your face print was totally embedded into his car. your hand prints littered it as well, and although your work top prevented a perfect outline, your chest was imprinted on there as well.

you quickly pull up your pants and go to move back but he quickly walks up beside you and throws an arm into your shoulder before looking down at you.

“it looks good doesn’t it?”

you just stare at it in disgust and he throws his shoulder off of you before taking a step back, grabbing his wallet and reaching in it before throwing a couple sorry ass twenty dollar bills at you like you were some stripper and a white strip of paper that lands on the car. you pick it up and realize it was a ticket to one of his shitty racing shows.

“you’re lucky i’m giving you one for free, front row too. better see you there, i want you to see my awesome new car design in action.”

he points to the prints on his car and you snap your head up to him, face wet with tears and painted with concern. you didn’t want to keep that shit on his car. so what if people didn’t know that the face print was yours? that’s humiliating as fuck! he squats down to your level as if you were a child and throws a hand onto your arm, squeezing it threateningly.

“if those prints aren’t still there by the time i pick it up tomorrow, i can assure you that you’ll see me again.”

he straightens his knees again, menacingly looking down at you before slowly removing his hand from your arm, dragging out every second before his hand finally drops and he simply just walks away. you just stand there stunned, money surrounding you and his car staring you dead in your face.

you turn to your side to get one last look at it. what were you supposed to tell your boss about what the hell that was? you can see yourself once again in the reflection of the windshield, your face has red paint all on its side and your hair is sticking up in a million different places, bits of paint stuck in it as well. a million showers would never be able to wash away what happened tonight, and a crummy hundred dollar tip didn’t make up for it either.

you stare the money dead in the face and let your tears drip onto the numbers printed on the paper. you’d be thankful if you never got a tip from somebody ever again.

[burreauxsss]

its over, im sorry

background: y/n a wag for the chiefs who is dating travis kelce of 3 years finds out he cheated on her. she assures herself that she'd never watch the nfl nor date another nfl player, until a convincing quarterback hits her dms.

(all pics from pinterest/ all tweets are fake this is a 2 part series fyi)

notes: posting twice in a day because my x account gets unsuspended tomorrow won't he do it!!! anyways warnings: none??

joe burrow x reader x ex!kelce smau

duexmoi

❤️ 420,494 💬 33,000

Liked by: tmz

duexmoi: ladies!! what do we think?

username_1: bro she deserves so much better.

username_2: i hope she upgrades

username_3: about time.

username_4: i need to hear about her experience with him fr.

username_5: my favorite wag????? seriously!!

*load more comments*

y/n_handle

❤️ 84,100 💬 5,000

Liked by: yourbsf and others

y/n_handle: the world is finally healing.

username_6: wym by that..

username_7: so its healing because of you leaving that man.. oh!

username_8: rule 1, dont date a athlete, got it.

username_9: you deserve better.

*load more comments*

joeyb_9

❤️ 755,111 💬 87,915

Liked by: lahjay10 bengals and others

joeyb_9: keep fighting.

lahjay_10: joey b is back.

bengals: we missed 9.

username_10: yall sucked this week, pull it together against kansas city.

username_11: that man was scared and we all know it.

username_12: who dey as always!

*load more comments*

y/n_handle 📍kansas city, mo

❤️ 82,100 💬 6,987

Liked by: yourbsf

y/n_handle: with yourbsf

username_13: my algorithm is messy since that tweet.

username_14: i wish he wouldve just broke off the engagement and been done with it.

username_15: shes so pretty, he fumbled.

username_16: her friend is a bengals fan, is she going with her to the game this sunday?

username_17: i fear travis is beating himself up about this rn.

username_18: who did he even cheat on her with, thats the million dollar question.

*load more comments*

bengals 📍kansas city, mo

❤️ 900,777 💬 120,337

Liked by: lahjay_10 joeyb_9 and others

bengals: business trip.

username_19: if this business trip doesnt involve a dub then i dont know what.

username_20: joe actually looks nice today.

username_21: hes so fine its unreal.

username_22: chiefs been deadass silent on insta since last week..

username_23: travis talking 💩 on his podcast as usual.

username_24: yk what would be crazy... travis's ex showing up to see travis lose.

*load more comments*

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

conversation between joe and y/n on instagram dms

joeyb_9: saw one of your pics, you're very beautiful.

y/n_handle: thank you. 🤍

joeyb_9: i also see you're travis's ex.

y/n_handle: yeah, crazy story. i know you hate kansas city but

joeyb_9: i heard what happened, therefore ive always seen you on tv and loved how well you carry yourself.

y/n_handle: if this is you asking me out, i promised myself i wouldnt date another athlete.

joeyb_9: maybe it is, but i promise you if this "stage" doesnt work you can block me and we'll forget about eachother. deal?

y/n_handle: so basically this is a talking stage.

joeyb_9: i mean we've dmd eachother every once in awhile to congratulate eachother so... we know about eachother.

y/n_handle: deal.

y/n_handle: i need to admit this also, you're very handsome.

joeyb_9: i appreciate it.

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

y/n_handle posted a story

caption: im here for the orange team. w/ yourbsf

duexmoi

❤️ 350,823 💬 12,920

Liked by: tmz and others

duexmoi: blind alert!! according to a spectator fan at the bengals vs chiefs game cincinnati bengals quarterback joe burrow ended up flirting with travis kelces ex?!?!?!?

now this is awkward after y/n just confirmed the cheating rumors with the engagement speculations.

username_25: this has to be crazy

username_26: she deserves all the love she can get.

username_27: and the bengals won?? oh honey i wouldve hard launched right then and there.

username_28: her bsf is a bengals wag so that might be a connection.

username_29: you could tell travis was pissed as hell that his ex girl showed up lmaoo.

username_30: long distance might be even worse for her..

*load more comments*

y/n_handle posted a story

caption: flirting with the don julio

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

conversation between joe and y/n

joeyb_9

❤️ 667,009 💬 78,403

Liked by: bengals lahjay10 y/n_handle and others

joeyb_9: another week, another dub

bengals: hes him!

lahjay_10: f the chiefs.

username_31: y/n liking this post might be insane knowing whats going on..

username_32: i love jamarr's comment so much lmaoo

username_33: travis kelce crying in a corner rn??

username_34: joe has to have the most insane villain arc ever to be hitting travis kelces ex fiance

username_35: kermit 🤮 who dey!

*load more comments*

note: crazy ending, possible friend zone, possible rejection idek... sike yall know damn well

[whos-the-seme]

Shen Yuan is actually a cuddle bug. Had a ton of Luo Binghe body pillows back home not just for the merch reasons but because he needs something in his bed to squeeze when he's sleeping.

Since he started having weekly planning (boozing and bitching) sessions with Shang Qinghua, he sometimes accidentally sleeps over. After he's finished his paperwork and started on some of Qinghua's, sometimes the wine gets to him and he's just so sleepy. Or, sometimes, Shang Qinghua will let the other read some of the short stories he had written early on in his transmigration when fighting to not lose his mind. Shen Yuan would critique them, before harassing him to publish them anonymously.

("Oh, so you are capable of writing more than papapa trash."

"Aw, you like it?" "...it's good." 🙄)

But by the time he finished them, it would be so late, and it didn't make much sense to leave when a bed was right there. And Shang Qinghua had custom ordered goose feather pillows and blankets, which was so unlike his porcelain pillows, and Shang Qinghua himself is right there. Therefore. The man himself becomes his new object of comfort when asleep.

At first, Shang Qinghua used to just wave it off. Then he started to playfully complain and tease about how clingy Shen Yuan was in his sleep, and Shen Yuan would grumble and turn bright red and turn his back on him... only for them to wake up with Shen Yuan basically curled around the other like an octopus in the morning. And then it just became normal because, of course, they really only had each other, so like why not? It brought them both comfort and two people could totally cuddle platonically.

Before long, more than half the week, Shen Yuan was spending the night over, and some rare times, Shang Qinghua goes to the bamboo house. Shang Qinghua learns when to give up his piles of paperwork when his friend starts getting tired and to get more fucking rest himself. Otherwise, Shen Yuan will just walk in, curl up on his lap with his head resting on Shang Qinghua's shoulder, and fall asleep there.

("Really? I ordered those extra stuffed pillows for you, you know. Go to bed, I'll be done in a minute."

"Ugh, shut up, sleeping isn't the same when you're out here ordering new fighting posts for Bai Zhan Peak for the 5th time this month. I'll just wait here for you to finish."

"In my lap...? That's kinda gay--" 😏

"Qinghua."

"Shutting up and finishing the work." )

Those of An Ding Peak, being the peak that was basically the backbone of the entire sect and kept it running through sweat, blood, and some other bodily fluids, knew how to keep secrets from other peaks. You don't become a disciple there without knowing how to keep your mouth shut when outsiders are around. But between each other, whispers abound.

"I don't think Shen-shibo has left in two days," one disciple murmurs to another when they see Shen Qingqiu flouncing around yet again, ordering one of the disciples to bring some two small meals to their Shifu's rooms for a late dinner.

"Do you think they're... you know?" Another asks quietly after delivering some new contracts to their Shifu. The door to his bedroom had been slightly ajar, and through the cracks, green leaf-pattern outer robes were on the ground.

("I'm not sleeping in these, okay! You should have written in pajamas while you were busy adding in chocolate, and whatever else doesn't exist in Ancient China, to PIDW!" 😒

"Oh my god, just sleep in your inner robes, then! Better yet, borrow some of my clothes. But you're sure as fuck not sleeping naked on my silk sheets, bro!")

The disciples on Qing Jing Peak certainly notice when the bamboo hut isn't occupied for the night. At first, they just thought that their Shizun was extra silent in his house now, but once, Ming Fan had to go to Shizun for a small issue late in the evening, and he wasn't there. Nor was he there the next night, or the next. They're not sure where he is, or what he's doing, but he's always there in the morning, so they don't worry too much.

On the fourth night, Shizun was home, but Shang-shishu was also there. And... stayed there. The lights went out, and the disciples who were sent out to spy came back and reported that Shang-shishu had never left.

("He... is Shang-shishu still in there?"

"I think so. M-maybe he stayed in the extra bedroom?"

"..." 👀

"..." 👀)

The disciples eye each other and simultaneously agree to never let those outside the peak know about this. When crossing paths with A Ding disciples, there are discreet looks and nods of understanding, and they pass each other by with not a word.

(Shen Qingqiu and Shang Qinghua?)

----

One bright and sunny morning, Liu Qingge slams his way into Shang Qinghua's office. He is followed by Mu Qingfang, and Yue Qingyuan, all needing to speak with Shang Qingqua to figure out Shen Qingqiu's whereabouts. He wasn't in his bamboo hut this morning, nor was he anywhere else that he typically frequented.

Mu Qingfang because it was time for his bimonthly check-up to ensure that his treatments with Liu Qingge were progressing as they should. Yue Qingyuan due to peak matters (though, technically, he could do it on his own, but if he got to see Xiao Jiu--). Liu Qingge because the beast that he had dropped on his doorstep yesterday afternoon had yet to be removed, which was odd. And also, he had ordered new fighting posts a week ago, and usually they would have been delivered by now, which was also odd.

Wei Qingwei and Qi Qingqi also follow along because they could smell drama. And also they were a tiny bit worried about their shixiong. Whenever he disappeared for too long, it was likely that he had gotten kidnapped or poisoned. Again.

Shang Qinghua scrambles out of his bed chambers with hastily thrown-on outer robes, blurry-eyed, screaming "Whoosit!?" He barely has time to open his mouth before he is instantly bombarded with several requests, most of them pertaining to the apparent missing peak lord. Liu Qingge also asks about his fighting posts, which Shang Qinghua pretends not to hear.

"We've not seen him in a few days," Mu Qingfang says to him over the noise, with an apologetic smile for waking up his overworked shixiong. "I know you two are somewhat friends, so if you see him soon, please tell him he really needs to come to Qian Cao for his next physical."

"Wait, who's missing? Ah, please don't touch that." The last part is directed at Qi Qingqi, who is combing through his shelves. "Shen Qingqiu is apparently missing, according to this bunch," Qi Qingqi says, smirking at him. She pokes the figurine he told her not to touch. Oh well, she'll realize why he told her not to touch it soon enough.

"Shen Qingqiu? What do you mean, he's--" Shang Qinghua instantly closes his mouth, hoping that no one heard that. "I-I mean, yeah, I'll let you guys know if he stops by! No problem, will absolutely send him your way--" "What was that?" Liu Qingge narrows his eyes at him. "You were about to say something. You know where he is. Tell me."

Shang Qinghua begins to sweat immediately. "Whaaat? No, you must have heard wrong. Seriously, I'll let you guys know if I catch him. Now, if you guys can be on your way--" He starts trying to herd people out.

Unbeknownst to him, his bedroom door cracks open and a figure, eyes barely open, shuffles out and heads towards him. Wei Qingwei, idling in the office, is the first to notice the person wearing another set of An Ding Blue outer robes over soft Qing Jing Green inner ones. His jaw drops.

"Qinghua?" A soft, sleepy voice murmurs in his ear, arms circling around his waist and a head laying on his shoulder from behind. "It's too early, come back to bed." A small yawn.

Shang Qinghua can feel himself freeze with a nervous smile on his face.

Shit.

[luveline]

can we get coworker James and reader not getting along despite having obvious feelings for each other and not knowing how to say sorry, so they really awkwardly try to play nice? maybe reader apologising with a kiss

coworker frenemies <3 fem, 1.6k

“It’s the wrong file.” 

“Nope. Open it up properly.” 

You roll James’ rugby stress-ball under your hand. “It’s not, I need the Lang and Co test reports from last year, this is dated from April 14th.” 

“That’s because the fiscal year ended on April 6th. If I send you something from before April, that won’t be last year, it’ll be the year before.” 

“No, we still have a month left in this year,” you argue, “so these are from two years ago.” 

You both turn to Remus. He tenses at the sudden silence, pen paused over blue post it notes. “What?” he asks finally. He doesn’t actually need you to repeat yourselves. “If you need a test report from the last fiscal year to cross check the RAS number, then you need one dated before April. We’re in the current fiscal year right now until April again.” 

“See,” James says. 

“That’s what I said, James.” 

“It is not.” 

You roll your shoulders. It’s what you’d thought you were saying. From the look Remus is giving you, James is the correct one, and you’re too confused about the logistics of things to argue your case. You should say Okay, alright, even apologise for getting wound up, but you hate being wrong when it’s with James, it’s like a flinch reflex. “I shouldn’t even be doing this, you’re supposed to double check this stuff before you send it back to me, the RAS number should be printed at the top,” you say with heat. 

“Open the files properly,” James says, almost spits, apparently more wound up than you’d been. As soon as he says it, all his fire burns out. He bites something back, clears his throat, an unarmed emotion on his face as his gaze dips to his coffee. “The RAS numbers are all in the headers. They’re just hard to see.” 

A few weeks ago his spitting retort would’ve made you laugh, or maybe made you want to hit him with your car, but a few weeks ago you didn’t know what it was like to be on James’ right side. You’re aware now of how it feels to have his hand on your shoulder, his smile pressed to the top of your ear. The idea of not feeling it again fills you with dread. 

“Sorry,” you mutter.

“I’m sorry,” he says back, sounding three times as awkward. “I shouldn’t have such an attitude. I’m just– hungry or something.” 

You don’t really like being snapped at, but James probably didn’t like being reprimanded for something he’d apparently actually done, so… You’re not sure where you go from here. 

Remus breaks the tension for you kindly. “Look, we don’t have to argue about the Lang and Co anything today, because it’s all properly finished. Finish checking the RAS numbers for the rest of them and then I can go over them after dinner.” 

“I doubt you’ll need to,” you say. 

“I know, but if I don’t and something is wrong, I’ll get the flack for it.” Remus rips a sticky note off of the pad and puts it on his monitor. “It’s alright. I’ll just glance at them.” 

You feel properly chastened, then, and retreat into yourself for a while. You hate feeling like this at work, it’s exactly how you felt when you first started. You haven’t been such a hindrance to their working for months. Your accounting team Smiskis attest to your burgeoning friendship with Remus and your more than that with James, each of them exercising. A week ago, James bought you a museum themed one, a little green figurine that pays homage to the Girl with the Pearl Earring. You’d laughed for ages, only bothering to stop when James had kissed you and asked if you were pleased. 

With the kiss or the Smiski is anyone’s guess. Sometimes you think James might like a performance report from you, a job well done sticker or something, but you don’t know if he’s bad or good or mediocre, he’s just James. He annoys you beyond words and he’s the kindest boy you’ve ever met. 

You work in tepid silence until dinner rolls around and Sirius swings by the desks to retrieve Remus. You’re relieved when James turns down their offer to go with them and quickly follow suit. 

“Will you eat with me?” he asks you. 

Which is nicer than pretending you’re eating together out of coincidence. “Uh, yeah.” 

“Are you done?” he asks, nodding at the computer. 

You click off your monitor. 

Together, you retrieve your Tupperware boxes from the fridge and steal the single sofa in the break room by the window. James cracks it open like you like without having to be asked, and you sit on his left side, close enough to touch him. On your best days you’ll eat thigh to thigh, shifting if someone comes in but otherwise comfortable. Today, the inches between you feel like miles. 

You don’t know what to do. You both said sorry, it’s not like you were furious or anything, but maybe James is more annoyed than he’s letting on? 

You try to think of what you can do as he peels his tangerine. The smell is sudden in the air, fresh, a tad sour now they’re out of season. 

“Do you want some?” he asks. 

You hold your hand out for a piece too early, he’s not done peeling, but he hurries and cleans the white strings of pith from the fruit and passes you two slices stuck together. “There, lovely,” he murmurs. 

“Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome.” 

There’s nothing really for it, is there? You eat your tangerine and summon your courage, putting your untouched lunchbox on the table and turning in your seat. James turns to look at you too, locking eyes with you, hands paused in his lap with his own slice of tangerine waiting. “What?” he asks carefully, as though worried you have another bone to pick. 

You should ask if you can kiss him, but you can’t make the words form. Your lips feel sticky, citrus still sharp on your tongue. 

Tentatively, your raise a hand to his face. You feel his skin under your thumb, light stubble grazing your palm. Gentle, you work your fingers around the side of his neck and pull him toward you, raising your chin, but keeping your eyes opened. He doesn’t kiss you —James is eager now he knows he’s allowed yet he won’t cross boundaries, he’s careful with the word yes— but he doesn’t pull away. He lets you guide him to your lips. It’s only when his eyes shutter closed that you close your own, lips a hair’s width apart when you manage to say sorry again. “I shouldn’t have made out like you hadn’t done the RAS numbers,” you whisper. 

“I shouldn’t have snapped at you. You couldn’t have known I’d fixed the Lang and Co one’s already.” 

“I don’t like being mad at you anymore.” 

“Yeah, you do. You just don’t like thinking I’m mad back.” 

Your noses brush. “I don’t… it wasn’t fun for me, James. Us hating each other. You’re not a bad person, but it was quite miserable. I don’t want to go back.” 

“We won’t,” he says, pulling away before your lips can touch. You open your eyes and find him looking right at you. “I didn’t hate you. I didn’t always like you, but I didn’t fully hate you, either, n’ there’s nothing like that to go back to.” 

Being vulnerable is hard. You struggle to find the words. “I’m not saying it’s your fault or anything, I just really don’t want you to not like me again.” 

“I didn’t know you,” he says simply. You’re sure he’s done, but he pulls your hand off of his cheek to hold thoughtlessly to his chest. “And now I do. I can’t not like you anymore.”

“Do you think it’s normal that we still get mad at each other?” 

“Of course it is. Remus and Sirius argue every day, but they always say sorry.” 

You smile weakly. “We did that. Off to a good start.” 

James returns your smile tenfold, grinning as he squeezes your hand. “We’re off to a great start. It’s work that’s the problem, that’s all. Hate the James that’s your coworker and love the James who drives you home, hm?” 

“It’s the coworker one that I ended up really fancying,” you murmur. 

He goes pink with delight. “You fancy me?” 

“You’d hope so.” 

James peers down at your hand and gives it another tender squeezing. “Can I have an apology kiss or something? I felt like it was going that way but I ruined it, and now I’d quite like one.” 

“Can you kiss me?” you ask softly. 

James braces his hand against your shoulder and ducks in to kiss you. Chastely (lest someone see you snogging in the break room and get you written up), but a great kiss all the same. It makes your mouth tingle. It still feels exciting all these kisses later, better when James kisses your cheek and the side of your head in quick succession. 

“I don’t care that we argued,” he says, “I just don’t like how I acted, n’ I love how you look when you’re mad. It’s why I used to wind you up so much.” 

“You still wind me up now.” 

He tips his head to the side. “Exactly.” 

[girlsworldillusion]

Scream for me little lamb (FINAL PART)

PART ONE HERE

Ghostface!Aemond x Fem!Reader

Summary: You don't know him, you haven't even seen him before. Yet this cruel killer is in your mind, entangled like a parasite. For just one night you want to get rid of this feeling - to get rid of him. What could possibly go wrong after all?

Rated: Explicit (+18)

Word count: 15k (fuck, that's it, I'm physically incapable of writing something succinct)

Author's Note: This story contains themes that may be disturbing or triggering for some, such as: DETAILED DESCRIPTIONS OF PANIC ATTACKS, BLOOD, MURDER, OBSESSIVE BEHAVIOR, THREATS, AND ROUGH SEX. Your health (mental and physical) should always be your priority, if any of these themes are too heavy for you to handle I beg that you ignore this post.

Please do not mistake this for a love story. The reader clearly suffers from a serious level of emotional instability and the abuser takes advantage of this fragility to threaten and use her. This is NOT healthy and NOT romantic in any way and I obviously do NOT agree with this attitude in real life. This is just a FICTIONAL HISTORY and it is only in this context that something like this can be tolerated. The tags are all there however and if you do not feel comfortable reading something like this, there is no need to leave any derogatory comments. JUST DON'T READ IT.

To those who stay, enjoy reading!

English is not my first language, I apologize for any mistakes you may find.

In the previous chapter:

And then the masked figure takes a casual step into the bathroom, the easy confidence in this simple act foreshadowing his ease in overpowering his victims. You swallow hard, backing away slowly as you lock eyes with the killer’s empty holes. The knowledge that there is no way out of the room is painfully obvious to you. The man takes up the entire space of the exit; the width of his shoulders stretching almost from one side of the doorframe to the other, his long legs slightly apart to fill any gaps.

The only way out of here was if you stepped over him; and that wasn’t going to happen.

----

The hairs on the back of your neck stand on end as your head tilts down discreetly. Submission. It’s instinctive, really. Your body knows what this man is capable of, remembers the brutal, bloody state his victims were found in. You don’t want that fate for yourself.

He hums at that, pleased with your pliant reaction - and you blush at the raw humiliation of feeling so inferior to someone else.

“So good, sweetie.”

He sighs ecstatically, pushing the two of you deep into the bathroom just enough to close the door, the click of the key locking it sounding purposefully loud. You feel the shape of an invisible hand holding your beating heart between its fingers, your breath coming in shallow huffs through your lips. He’s locked you in here, with him.

How did this happen? How did you, probably the only person who was actually taking this whole police alert about a serial killer on the loose seriously, end up here? How the hell is this possible, God?

Your phone vibrates from where it's on the floor and you jump in fright, the screen facing down doesn't allow you to see who's calling when you look at it. But it doesn't matter. You immediately look up at the man, see how he understands what you're going to do before it even happens; his ghostly face tilts toward the ceiling, an almost disappointed sigh sounding from beneath the mask.

"I praised you too soon, right?"

It turns out that if showing their fragile parts to a predator seeking mercy and lowering the head in submission is a natural primal instinct when there's seemingly no escape, then it's also a natural instinct to act immediately when a glimmer of hope and survival appears.

And your phone ringing is a glimmer of hope.

You dive to where it lies with your heart racing, desperate for the opportunity to warn someone of your situation and get help. But your fingers barely graze the object before a large hand grabs a fistful of hair at the back of your head, holding you in place before you can reach it.

On your knees on the bathroom tile, you’re thrashing hysterically in his iron grip, ugly sobs of pain escaping your lips with each rough tug at the roots of your hair.

“No! Let me go, please! HELP!” You scream as loud as you can, hoping it’s enough to alert someone outside, even though the obnoxiously loud music downstairs limits your chances to almost zero. You barely register the heavy thud of the knife hitting the floor as you open your mouth to scream louder, your voice muffled by another heavy hand slamming into your mouth, the leather of his glove squeezing your lips and cheeks until they hurt.

He lifts you to your feet with just his grip on your hair, your scream of agony once again muffled by his gloved fingers. The man doesn't let you go even when he reaches the bathroom sink, where he practically throws you against the counter, your hip bones jarring sharply with the impact. You slip a little in pain, shaking hands gripping his wrist as you claw desperately to make him release your mouth, staring in horror at the shadowy figure behind your body.

Your heartbeat is roaring loudly in your ears as you cease the attack and stare at the dark, empty eyes of the mask in the mirror, his body against yours.

The indigo lighting makes his presence even more sinister, shadowing a tall, frightening silhouette looming over you like a mythological god of death, dressed all in black. Except, of course, for his bizarre mask with sunken, innocuous eyes, like black holes etched in an agonized expression, the mouth dark and open in an eternal silent scream. The material of the mask is so white that it contrasts exaggeratedly against the black background covering his body, even in the violet light of the bathroom. Over his head he wears a wide hood that frames his mask and gathers around the long line of his strong shoulders like an ominous shawl, followed below by a kind of ragged-looking tunic, long sleeves on each arm, a subtle tightening around his waist, deliberately highlighting the defined plane of his abdomen. Below his waist, the tunic continues flowing to his ankles, with an opening running the length of each leg clad in trousers - to allow ease of movement, you presume. He needs agility to stalk students and kill them mercilessly, after all. To finish off the somber look, he wears military boots on his feet, intricate lines of laces running the length of them.

"How about you and I play a little game?" He asks close to your ear, white mask poking the side of your face, empty eyes staring at your reflection in the mirror. You struggle to breathe between the gaps of his fingers on your face, your eyes growing moist as the desperate situation truly sinks in.

"A really fun little game called 'don't scream when I let go of your mouth and in return I won't decorate the floor with your entrails'. How does that sound?" The way he says it, casual and easy, rivals the cruel grip on your hair, or the way his fingers press into the flesh of your cheeks until you squeal in pain.

The smell of blood surrounds you again, the same metallic, damp smell you felt when you were near the dripping knife he had between his fingers, and your senses seem to be heightened by the adrenaline flooding your veins. It takes a few seconds for you to realize that the smell is coming from him this time. From his clothes, you notice, as if the slimy stuff had been splattered across much of the shadowy fabric covering his body. And it was. You know it was.

Who was the victim tonight? Who was stabbed so brutally that their blood splattered like ketchup all over this monster’s clothes?

Would you suffer the same fate?

“I asked you a question, princess. Do you want to play with me or not?” He presses, a hint of impatience in his voice, the already crushing grip on your scalp tightening even more.

You nod as best you can at the restraint of his fingers in your hair and mouth, pretending you actually have some say in this, salty tears sliding down your waterline with the shaky movement.

“Good girl.”

He laughs close to your ear, a low, dark — but happy — tremor. He’s enjoying himself, basking in the satisfaction of your scared, teary expression. He’s insane.

“That’s it, love, isn’t it so much easier this way?” He purrs as he loosens his grip on your mouth, the back of his index finger massaging your cheek as you practically choke on the breath that vibrates too raggedly through your newly freed lips. He towers over you, watches you in the mirror with predatory focus - sees you struggle to keep yourself together, fresh tears dripping from your lower lashes, wetting the leather of the glove on his finger. “Mmm, you look so good like this, it makes me so fucking hard to see your tears fall for me.”

“Oh my God…” you choke, absolutely terrified at the man’s sickening sincerity, your eyes wide and wet, face to face with the singular reason for your nightmares. 

“Shh,” he takes a step closer to you, pinning you even tighter against the sink counter and his body, letting you feel the undeniable truth in his earlier statement — the thick tent in his pants digging into your lower back until you whimper out a sharp sound, “calm down, baby. Don’t do anything stupid now.”

You find yourself subtly wilting at the dangerous warning, though more out of sheer horror than subservience.

“A-are you going to kill me?” Your voice cracks at the end, scared and shrill; the sound of someone truly cornered — a little mouse caught in a cruel glue trap, just awaiting its inevitable end.

“Now, that wouldn't be fun, would it?” he pretends to ponder, his gloved fingertip drumming over your jaw now, down to your cheek, and you’re shaking so hard you think you might be shaking his body along with yours. “Oh no, I could never kill you. Hurt you? Yeah, maybe. But killing my little girl? That's a big nope to me.”

If he thought that would bring you any comfort, then he was sorely mistaken.

He grabs your face before you can properly react to his frightening words, his large, strong hand barely needing to exert much effort to do so, eclipsing your delicate features with his long fingers, the endless darkness of the glove contrasting with your skin. He squeezes your cheeks together until your lips purse into a fishy pout, forces your jaw up so you meet the blank stare of his mask in the mirror - and all you can do is cringe under his dangerous aura.

“Look at that, aren’t you the cutest little thing?”

You definitely don’t like the tone he uses, the easygoing, smug way he holds himself above you; as if he knows there’s absolutely nothing you can do to free yourself from his grasp, completely at his mercy. Chest thrusting into you, muscular thighs encasing your hips, hips pressed against your ass; keeping you in place. You try to claw at his wrist again, just to confirm the horrifying fact that no, he’s not going anywhere.

The grip on your cheeks loosens as he slides his hand to your throat, gloved fingers curling to rest over the hysterically pulsing vessels on either side, completely encircling the slender column of your neck with elongated digits like spider legs. He doesn’t apply any real pressure, but he doesn’t need to. He doesn’t need to. As he holds your gaze in the reflection with those cold, dark circles of his ghostly mask, the threat of his vast capacity for violence hangs as heavily as he does over your body.

He could rip you apart, right here and now. He could sink his sharp teeth into your neck like a dog would a chew toy, shaking your stuffed body between his jaws until only foam and patches remain.

The paralyzing fear is an increasingly real sensation in your chest, the cold curtain of numbness lifting on your skin and you swallow hard, your throat working under his fingers. Your heart pounds violently, so hard you can feel it in your ears, in your skull. Your eyes flutter in the mirror and your breath is just a broken whistle between your lips. He's pushing you straight into what will be a second episode in the same night, an unprecedented feat in your life - as fucked up as it has been so far.

"W-wait, please I-" You gasp, pulling at his grip messily, already feeling the spiral of panic wrapping around your thoughts like a vise, the claustrophobic noose that is the feeling of total inability to control yourself tightening around your throat.

"Cut that shit, little girl." Your tormentor breathes close to your ear, firm and authoritative, almost sullen as he stares into your terrified eyes in the mirror, his fingers on your throat squeezing slightly - just enough to make you feel it. "You're staying here with me, understand? It was cute the first time, but I don't want to hear about that shit now. I have much more interesting things to do with you than watch that pretty little head go somewhere I can't reach it. Yeah, I'm a selfish guy like that."

He finishes with a dry laugh and you don't know what's worse; his complete disrespect in describing your very real and very traumatic panic attack as something 'cute' or his incorrect assumption that you had a choice in this - that you could simply stop it from happening.

The grip on your throat is tighter now, your breathing becoming severely labored. His hand wraps around your throat and presses hard enough to make you struggle to breathe. You buck and push, running on pure instinct even though your efforts are restrained by his strength, the blood on his black robes spreading across your body like an artist’s brushstrokes in movement.

The notion that this man killed someone before coming to you is there once more, even more prominent now, pounding in your head like blows from a hammer.

“Relax, damn it, or I’ll make you.” He continues his unreasonable demand, squeezing his grip to press you against his chest until you feel every heated inch of him against your body, especially the disturbing way the thick line of his cock inevitably pushes and presses into your lower back with each sharp breath.

You want to scream at him and tell him that what he’s doing is the complete opposite of encouraging you to relax. But anxiety courses through your veins and your eyes close, spilling salty tears. You see grotesque shadows and demons you never thought you would see behind the darkness of your eyelids. It suffocates you, terrifies you, makes you tremble. You can’t move, you can’t escape, you can’t even open your eyes; you can only feel. Your heart is about to explode. You can’t hear anything. Your head hurts and your mind starts to shut down. That’s it, you’re falling again.

And then you feel your body shaking uncontrollably, something crawling under your skin like a lazy parasite. It’s not bad and that’s the first warning sign. Your temporarily inert mind, shut down for God knows how long, restarts with a slow trickle, your breathing becoming a little less hyperventilating and more...warm? However, you can’t force yourself to open your eyes yet, you can’t hear anything around you, you can’t even deduce what’s happening beyond the dark barrier of your closed eyelids. You feel strangely calmer, but filled to the brim with confused apprehension.

You shiver as the strange sensation comes on stronger, sticky molasses coursing through your veins, warming your belly to bring your mind back to reality.

Brought back....

When your eyes open, lethargic and sleepy, tears still blur your hazy vision until you can stare once more at the killer's ghostly mask.

“Welcome back, princess…” The tall man speaks and even hidden under the mask you know he’s smiling. His upper body is hunched over, wrapping your body in a sort of unwanted intimate cocoon. One of his arms is around your torso, keeping both of your arms firmly attached to your sides as if you were a Barbie doll, his other arm stretched down, beyond the visible limits of the mirror. You try to cast your eyes down to see where his hand is, a bad feeling in your chest, but your vision is fuzzy, swimming in dizziness and inconstancy. The threat of a second episode has drained the little strength that was left in your body.

You might even feel compelled to show gratitude for having escaped the oppressive spiral of a new crisis before it reached critical levels. Except something doesn’t feel right.

“W-what?” You ask in a thin voice, your head spinning with tiredness, your body kept upright only by the sink counter and the pressure the man exerts on your back. Feels wrong. You feel like you’re going to throw up at any moment. Your body is begging you to lie down and take a nap for an entire year. It’s a different kind of hysteria, you realize, like you’ve escaped one panic attack only to fall into another completely different one.

Heavy breaths rush from your mouth and your tongue feels sticky and dry as you try to swallow, squinting back into the mirror, trying to piece together the fragmented pieces of information in front of you to make sense of what’s happening.

He’s looking at you too. Even hidden beneath that mask, you feel his gaze burning into your reflection, drinking in the drunken confusion etched on your face, the fear — the shiver of unwanted pleasure that rips through your body like an invisible knife.

What’s happening?

You want to scream.

As you gaze up at him from beneath damp lashes, the burning sensation in your body seems to creep upon itself, gradually merging with the nerves in your belly as something warm and syrupy — needy — pulses deep in your core.

“That’s it, baby. See how much relaxed you are now?” He purrs with lazy irony, savoring each syllable on his tongue like an addictive candy. “Of course you did, the baby just needed something different to focus that little head of her on.”

There’s a gentle but rhythmic swaying of the muscles along his arm, you notice with your eyes locked on the mirror, a disturbingly familiar movement — and a shiver of wet pleasure licks up your spine as you squint, a very instinctive, primal part of your brain finally breaking through the hazy fog to scream that it knows exactly where his hand is.

Your awareness of the world around you returns like a punch to the gut, painful and suffocating, as you feel the leather of his glove between your legs.

"N-no! No, please, I don't want to-" You stammer, tired and scared beyond belief, struggling to escape the man, but his grip around you is like a heavy chain, his arm still keeping yours locked tightly at your sides.

This man has somehow managed to rescue you from a traumatic encounter with your own demons, only to plunge you into a different kind of terror - one even more agonizing.

Your sobbed protests mean nothing in the face of the killer's sick desires, as he languidly slides two of his fingers in a V around your clit, up and down. A shiver runs through you, your thighs instinctively clenching around his hand, a reaction that in turn elicits an amused chuckle from the man.

You shake and beg louder as he continues to rub your pussy, his hand writhing inside the tiny shorts you wear under your costume skirt, ignoring your breathy sobs and whimpers as if you were just a cute, whiny puppy. You shiver, your inner walls clenching around nothing with each lick of his fingers around your clit, reacting against your will to his teasing touches.

A haze of fear and pleasure takes over your mind as you shake your head, struggling to breathe through your nose to keep from passing out. It all feels too much and yet not enough, your hands twitching nonstop where they’re held, your body shaking from head to toe. Your blood runs thick as you stare at him in the mirror, begging in a way. Trying to say anything, since your voice doesn’t even seem to work with the overwhelming wave of feelings coursing through you. Your lips just part, nothing but a wordless plea.

“Oh, poor girl, don’t struggle so much…just relax, I’ll take such good care of you. Don’t worry your pretty little head about anything but staying there and being soft and pretty for me. Let me think of everything else.” He sings condescendingly, the elongated tip of the ghostly mask’s chin appearing in your line of vision as he rests his jaw on your shoulder, the material of the hood brushing against the side of your flushed face.

His scent is enveloping you like a chokehold now; rich, clotted blood, running red and still warm on his clothing — which is now permanently stained on your costume as well, to your horror. But beneath all that disturbing scent of wet iron, there are also notes of crackling, mossy sandalwood and something fresh, citrusy like lemons or bergamots.

If it weren’t for the blood trying so hard to overwhelm everything else, his scent would be pleasant, your clouded mind realizes, seductive even.

The sight before you is breathtaking, to say the least - and not in a pleasant way.

A pathetic, broken little girl is crying, her cheeks red and streaked with tears, her eyes drunk and her brows furrowed in anguish. On her body she wears a foolish Sailor Mars costume that barely covers her body, a stupid thing she didn't even want to wear in the first place, the fabric of the red skirt draped in front of her thighs swaying suggestively, right where the hand of the man behind her remains hidden. The man in question, a vicious killer highly wanted by the police, covers her almost completely with his tall frame and black robes - a stark contrast to the girl's almost childish outfit. The white mask on his face rests on her shoulder, his long arm caging her small body close to his, touching every part he can reach as he squeezes and caresses her as if he would die without it. It's almost romantic, in theory, but horrifying and frightening when you know what's really happening.

You shake your head, squeezing your eyes shut, refusing to look down and confirm what your nerves and body already know all too well is happening. Fear grips your throat so tightly that you shake like a leaf, tears streaming from your eyes as you feel his first finger delve inside you.

It should hurt. The rough material of the glove in direct contact with such an entirely sensitive part of your body should be uncomfortable, at the very least. But it isn’t. There’s something aiding your endeavor, your hindbrain adds as his finger sinks in all the way to the first knuckle with just a little pressure from his wrist. There’s something sticky and thick there along with his finger, messing with your folds with humiliating sounds — spit, probably.

“Please…stop—” you cry, squeezing your eyes shut so tightly you swear constellations explode in the darkness of your eyelids.

“You know,” he begins, ignoring your foolish plea, impatient as he pushes his finger the rest of the way into your trembling, clenching walls until you squeak out a sob, body tensing like a bow beneath his. “There’s a look on people’s faces that I meet. A hysterical, helpless look when they realize that this is the end for them. No matter how much they’ve resisted and fought, they all get that look when the time comes. It’s not exactly a look of begging for mercy. No, they’re usually past that point at this moment.” His chuckle is nothing short of disturbing near your ear, the arm around your waist rising so that he can grab a thick fistful of your hair between his fingers and squeeze until you cry out loudly at the sharp pain and open your eyes, obeying his silent demand to face him once more through the mirror.

“No, it’s not a plea for mercy, sweetie. It’s just a anguished conformity, you know? A part of them even wants to hold out longer, out of instinct I guess, but deep down they know it’s useless. They just know it’s over for them. And that’s when that look appears.”

Your breath hitches visibly as he slides a second finger alongside the first.

“It’s the same look you have now. That look of pure agony and submission on your face, all because you just know you can’t escape me...mmm,” He’s closer than ever, rubbing the mask on the side of your face, and all you can think is that he’s right. As much as your body tells you to run, you know there’s no way you can outrun him, he’s unfortunately more capable than you in every way that matters right now.

He presses himself even closer to your body, his voice slurred in your ear.

“You make me so fucking horny, baby.”

He’s not slow, much less gentle when he moves his fingers inside you. He fucks you with them seriously from the first few seconds, curling them each time he sinks back into your heat, your walls clenching around him, warring to adjust to the unexpected assault. Your cries of pain are interrupted by small involuntary moans and gasps every time he presses too deep inside you, finding a spot that makes you dizzy, held only by his painful grip on your hair. You bite your lip, struggling to keep the noises inside.

He makes a grunting sound, tongue clicking disapprovingly beneath his mask.

“None of that, princess. Let me hear those beautiful sounds. They’re there because of me, I cultivated them...they’re all mine.” Your head falls back on his shoulder as he suddenly moves his hand down your clavicle, long fingers pushing aside the fluffy purple lace of your costume to grip one of your breasts tightly. “You’re all mine.” Even over the fabric of your clothes, his grip on your breast is possessive, and you wish your arms would fight back when he starts dragging his palm across your nipple, prickling it until it becomes a sensitive little peak. But all you can do is lift your hands to rest them on the counter, your head still thrown back against his chest.

“Fuck,” he groans, his thumb now rubbing against the nub of your nipple with small flicks that send a jolt of pleasure straight between your legs. “I knew you’d be perfect. So pathetic to me, baby. You feel so good…”

You squeeze your eyes shut, a muffled sob escaping your lips as he pushes your body forward, making you arch into the counter, his larger body pressed against your back, his hands still glued to their respective places. He curls his fingers into your pussy, a small moan leaving you, and begins to pound against your back. He keeps you bent over as he thrusts his clothed cock between your ass cheeks, each rough thrust pushing another inch of your skirt up your hips.

“Spread your legs for me,” he pants next to your ear. When you tense and don’t comply immediately, the hand on your breast squeezes so hard it actually hurts. “Are you going to make me repeat myself, princess? Every second you make me wait, I get more impatient. Are you sure you want to see me impatient?”

You quickly part your legs, the action causing his fingers to dig deeper between your swollen walls with each hard thrust, wet sounds sounding too loud in the cramped bathroom. His hips move against your back in rough motions, grinding up and down, causing heat to spread throughout your body until your head is spinning, broken sounds leaving your lips. The gummy walls of your pussy contract around his fingers and he growls as he ravages your body like it belongs to him.

You feel good and horrible.

Blood on fire, nerves on fire, you breathe as a way to steady yourself in this moment of maddening agony. You are uncomfortable in every way possible in the given situation, and oh how it fills the void in your soul with something...alive.

Here, at the mercy of this killer's cruel hands, you feel alive for the first time in what feels like forever. It's horrible and unwelcome and scary as hell, but it's also absolutely electrifying.

How fucked up is your mind anyway?

The man continues to grind into your ass with every heated inch of his cock, the movement of his fingers in your pussy quickening, the heel of his gloved hand rubbing relentlessly against your clit in this position. The hand on your breast doesn't stop teasing your nipple, poking and pinching. With every noise he pulls from you, his movement becomes faster, hips matching the rhythm of his fingers in your intimacy. As if you were egging him on. You whimper, squeezing him so hard you could tell you were trying to keep him out, but the action only serves to heighten the sickening pleasure coiling in your stomach.

“Shit,” he hisses, thrusting his fingers in and out, in and out, watching in the mirror as your face contorts with pleasure. “So good. Feeling so good to me. You squeeze my fingers so hard, princess. Fuck. That’s my good fucking girl, yeah?”

Admittedly someone with a blatant emotional inability to accept any kind of compliment — especially one from a fucking serial killer who’s currently keeping you impaled on his fingers while grinding his cock into your ass and making you cry like he’s getting paid to — you slump your shoulders and pant, staring wide-eyed at the man, your rapid breathing fogging the glass of the mirror. His words sink into your bones, stoking the rising heat in your abdomen, and your pussy clenches around his fingers again. He lets out a short laugh, rubbing his masked face against your burning cheek.

“Do you like that, you filthy slut? Do you like when I tell you how good you feel? Hell, you’re fucking squeezing me. Your pretty little pussy wants me so bad.”

Your eyelashes flutter and your breathing becomes more ragged; fear, pleasure, and pain combine into one intense experience, and you realize with horror that you’re approaching orgasm. It’s humiliating, but it doesn’t stop you from tentatively moving your own hips against his palm, seeking more friction on your little clit as heated tears roll down your cheeks.

‘No, no, no, please.’ You whimper to yourself, eyes nearly rolling into the back of the head as you arch your ass into his hips in involuntary response to the inescapable, frenzied sensation coursing through your body.

“The poor baby’s gonna cum.” He chuckles, though his own voice is breathy, wild. “Yeah, gonna make a fucking mess of that pussy and get it all nice and wet for my cock, right?” He growls wickedly between his chuckles, pushing your body forward with each hard drag of his cock into your ass, grinding the leather of his glove into your clit as he repeatedly hits the same sensitive spot in your cunt.

You can’t take it anymore, your clenched jaw slackening as you begin to give in to the pleasure. The overwhelming wave of your coming orgasm is visible on the horizon and you can’t do anything but stare at it head on, waiting helplessly to be absolutely swept away by it.

"Ah ah, fuck!" You cry out between parted lips, viciously squeezing the edge of the counter between your fingers, losing control over your body, unable to stop yourself from moaning lewdly in time with the forced climax.

With one last flick of his fingers and a pinch to your nipple, you have no choice but to stare blankly into the mirror as you shatter into a thousand pathetic pieces with a strangled scream. The trembling of your inner thighs is quickly followed by your toes curling inside the red boots of the costume as you cum hard around the masked killer's fingers.

Your pussy quivers violently as he shakes with laughter against your body, with a dose of sincere joy that you would find almost childish if it weren't for the obscene way he is still thrusting his cock into your back. He continues to finger fuck you throughout your orgasm, leaving you gasping and writhing in shocks of pleasure, your eyes wide and wet in the mirror.

“Please stop, that’s enough-” You gasp, your legs locking from the overstimulation as he continues to work your clit mercilessly. “P-please, I’ll do anything, please just stop! Stop now -"

You're interrupted as a whirlwind of dizzying events ensues; one moment he's fingering your pussy to overstimulation with no intention of stopping - the next he's pulling his fingers from your quivering walls with such force that it elicits a shocked gasp from you. Your body is suddenly spun around and your back slams painfully into the mirror with an impact strong enough to crack the glass into several sharp ridges on your back, small shards getting stuck in the back of your costume. You have half a second to scream at the dangerous sensation before he's straightening you up on the counter, his body wedging between your parted legs before you can even react and close them.

You're still trying to figure out what happened; how he managed to just lift you into the air and slam you into the counter like you weighed nothing. How he was so quick to do it and, most importantly, what motivated him to do it. But all is forgotten when he grabs your neck between his fingers, roughly pulling your face closer to his until you're face to face with that ghostly mask.

But there's no fake face in the world that can hide the anger bubbling through the man's pores. A feeling so obvious, intense and abrupt that it makes you shiver and try to pull away reflexively, but his grip won't let you go anywhere. His already undeniably imposing figure straightens to its full height, intimidating and dangerous, a ominous and dark aura that encircles your body like a spool of doom.

"Stop? Who the fuck do you think you are to tell me when to stop? Do you know who decides when we stop, you bitch? Me! That fucking cunt belongs to me. It's mine as fuck and you're not going to tell me when I should or shouldn't touch it. Because your whole body, your mind, your fucking soul, is mine. Mine."

He curses and bites acidly right in front of your face and fear hits you all at once, absolutely terrifying: the way he’s panting under his mask and hissing with barely contained rage, the way your name leaves his lips in a heated growl. A direct threat from a mindless animal. It’s all clear — so, so clear.

He’s dangerous and unstable and horrible and you can’t escape him.

Your hands start to tug at his wrist, pushing him away, already sensing what’s coming - and it really comes. Ignoring your futile attempt to push him away, the hand on your throat tightens. His fingers press, cutting off the air, squeezing and hurting your flesh. Your windpipe is tightly caged between his palm and thumb and he shows no hesitation as he presses hard, suffocating you with a cruel grip.

Now, unlike his outburst of anger a few seconds ago, with your life literally being measured in his hands, he becomes the cold and indifferent embodiment of his alias, watching your fight as if it were nothing new.

It isn't.

The world around you begins to spin as you feel dizzy, your head swimming and spinning as your heart beats uselessly against the finger over your carotid artery, numb lips and throat working ever more slowly beneath his hand. Your struggle is over, as meaningless as it was to begin with.

You surrender to this ghost, dropping his hands from his wrist and letting your body go limp beneath him.

The monster senses your surrender, humming contently at your soft submission, even though you are barely conscious enough to notice. The grip on your throat loosens and you instinctively tilt your head away from his grasp, gasping for breath in desperate noises, coughing and spitting as tears spill over in response to the throbbing sting in the circumference of your throat. You feel a large hand stroke your hair as you struggle to catch your breath; and the almost patronizing touch, as horrible and unwelcome as it is, grounds you for a moment, helping you gradually transform your rapid, labored breathing into deep sighs.

"Don't forget what I'm going to say now and maybe we won't have to go through this again, princess:" He whisper at you with serious voice. "You're mine. For better or worse. You're mine."

The hand in your hair moves forward, tangling in the strands, massaging your skull, and it's probably just the hazy haze of suffocation that keeps you from noticing his next move, but it's the feel of a gentle, wet kiss on the bruised line his fingers have left on your skin that makes you conscious once more. He holds your head firmly by the hair, preventing you from moving to get a better look, but it's immediately clear that he's pushed the mask up enough to expose his lips, which continue to slide along the curve of your neck and jaw.

Your ears are throbbing with the pounding of your heart as you stare over the killer’s shoulder at the wall across the bathroom with wide eyes – the man blowing puffs of pure wet heat across your skin to leave goosebumps in his wake. His mouth is undesirably soft and delicate on your bruised skin (pleasant really, you’d say, if you weren’t, well…in the situation you’re in), his other hand coming up so he can rub his thumb across your lips, slowly parting them until he pokes your teeth with the tip of his glove.

“Open that pretty mouth and show me you know it, sweet little slut.” He whispers the degradation with a noticeably lessened dose of hatred than before – low and breathy, his mouth on your cheek, his thumb pulling away to run his index and middle fingers across your parted lips.

His breath bathes your skin in wet heat, the refreshing scent of some mint gum he chewed recently still there. (He was chewing a damn piece of gum while he murdered someone, your mind completes in full hysterics. Brutally piercing some poor student's insides with the sharp blade of that knife while he carelessly rolls the soft gum between his teeth. He's sick, sick, sick.)

"Suck them clean." He orders, cutting through the murky waters of your wandering mind as pushes two fingers onto the flat of your tongue, forcing you to accept the invasion.

It's on autopilot that you register the strong, smoky taste of leather mixed with the familiar taste of your arousal, which still glistens with the fresh wetness of your orgasm on the surface of his glove. You squeeze your eyes shut, gagging more at the sheer depravity of the act than the intrusion itself.

"That's it, princess. So beautiful like this, taking my fingers like a good girl..." he pulls his face away to look at yours, smiling at your fearful gaze; you close the lips around his fingers, sucking and licking slowly at the soft leather of the glove as you clean your own taste from the material as if you meant it - even as the tears keep falling. All you can see in the purple lighting of the bathroom is the lower half of his face and even that is partial, the white mask resting on his nose shadowing what little skin is visible. Despite that, it is evident how his smile stretches, wide and mischievous - pearly teeth slightly crooked at the front, canines sharp and shiny, like those of a cunning predator that has caught up with its prey.

His grip on your hair tightens to keep you still, his fingers coming to life as he thrusts slowly, out and in and out and in, into the cozy warmth of your mouth. You choke around him, saliva pooling between teeth and flesh as he pushes your tongue down, fucking your mouth like it’s a pussy — each slow stroke pushing deeper, until you feel the tips of both his fingers sliding down your throat.

“God, I want to feel so bad that pretty little mouth wrapped around my cock,” he sighs, his gaze locked on yours, fascinated by your gasps and sobs, his smile slowly dying so he can bite his lip as he hums dreamily, “you’re going to be so good to me, I just know it.”

Your wet gaze is half-lidded, mouth slack and full, only giving in to the forced intrusion when you feel him gather the strands of your hair into a messy ponytail in his other hand to pull and push your head along his now-still fingers - the explicit and purposeful parallel of the depraved act with another very unique one does not go unnoticed.

He's guiding the rhythm of your head as if he is dictating how you suck his cock.

It is humiliating; a byproduct of male dominance that is offensive and filthy in its most brutal form. You hate every damn second of this silent abuse. But your pussy seems to have a mind of its own, because with each forced thrust against the saliva-soaked leather of the glove, it clenches a little tighter around nothing, demanding attention.

You whimper at the betrayal of your own body, mouth stuffed and saliva beginning to drip down your lips and chin.

When he withdraws his fingers from between your lips, it is with calculated slowness, prolonging the elasticity of a thick thread of saliva that remains joining the digits in the glove to your loose tongue. He grunts a satisfied sound at the debauched sight, lowering his face to stretch out his own tongue and break the sticky bond after a few seconds of contemplation, licking the saliva accumulated on your chin upwards with a greedy drag of the wet and hot muscle, lighting flames of embarrassment on your cheeks.

You shudder at the grip on your hair as he pulls your head back at the same time as roughly sinks his teeth into the soft plush of your lower lip. Your little hands immediately spread themselves on his chest to try to push him away, but this and your cry of pain only serve to draw an amused laugh from him. It is obviously of his own free will that he mercifully gives in to your plea after a few seconds of torture. He sucks the sensitive flesh into his lips, licking and soothing the bite with a gentle, wet suction.

Mistakenly, your body decides to relax against his hands, welcoming the gentle but cunning care that is his tongue caressing the small, bloody cut he left on your lip. He eases your pain, even if it is because of him that you feel it in the first place.

It is natural for the contact to evolve, after all, his tongue is right there; sliding across your lower lip, his lips brushing yours provocatively. It is really predictable what would happen next, but it still pulls a dazed gasp from your throat.

His fingers hold your head firmly by the ponytail and his mouth covers yours completely, like a wet, warm cocoon that you cannot escape. The groan that sounds from his throat at the feel of your lips on his is one of deep satisfaction, a breathy appreciation that rumbled as he curls his body over yours, locks your legs around his waist, and moves his mouth over yours.

It’s nothing like any kiss you’ve ever experienced in the past. You’re not even sure if it could even be called a kiss.

There are perhaps no words for it other than hunger and need as he barely touches his mouth to yours before his lips are forcing yours apart so the wet muscle of his tongue can slide between your teeth. He’s rough and intense, kissing you like he’s kicking your soul out of your body. It’s all a clash of teeth and tongue that leaves you with your hands trembling in the collar of his robe, your eyes half-lidded and your cheeks flushed as you struggle not to choke on the wild rhythm of the pseudo-kiss. Every inch of the contact feels equally forced and premeditated, an unaltered conclusion that has you subtly pushing your hips forward against him as the sheer surprise and discomfort of the act subsides into something deeper. Darker. You can barely breathe in the tiny, moist inches that open between your lips, making small choking sounds in his mouth - stunned, outraged, humiliated, bursting into flames-

The pointed chin of the mask is digging painfully into your skin at this angle and all you can do is try to tilt your head to the side to avoid hurting yourself, since the man doesn't seem to have the slightest interest in your comfort. But not even this is enough to contain the chilling flame that grows between your legs with each hot breath that leaves the killer's nostrils on your cheek, his greedy tongue licking your teeth and his lips drinking your saliva as if it were the most delicious wine.

When he breaks the kiss it's like breathing after a long time underwater, your other senses dulled and directed only at him like a funnel.

"What in the bloody hell was that? Getting a guy all heated and bothered with a kiss," He grins between a breathy laugh, barely separating his lips from yours, rubbing the tips of your noses together in a comical imitation of affection as you both breathe heavily, "you really are something special, aren't you little girl?"

As you gasp for air, feeling your cheeks darken several shades at the unwanted compliment, the man caresses your face in a disturbingly affectionate manner, as if he's rewarding you for letting him kiss your mouth like that, even though it's clear he's not done yet. Pulling away from you just a few inches, you twitch and yelp as he roughly grabs you by the hips to pull you to the edge of the counter, making you subconsciously lean your back. A second later, he rips the tiny shorts you're wearing down, skimming over the curve of your ass and thighs, grabbing the flesh there greedily as he simply rips the thing off your body.

It takes a few seconds for the realization that there are no more barriers in place to keep the killer at bay to sink in — not that it ever did stop him before anyway. But knowing that beneath your red pleated skirt there’s no covering to offer even a modicum of safety (even if misguided) is nerve-racking in a way that makes your blood roar through your veins, and, illogically, not in a bad way.

“Do you feel that?” he murmurs, wet, breathless lips brushing the hollow of your throat as he bends down slightly to unbuckle his belt. The clink of metal is nearly drowned out by the pounding of your heart and the loud music downstairs. “That’s what you do to me. Every time I see you, every time you look up with those big, shy eyes — I want you to look at me, I need that look to be mine. And you don’t understand, do you? You drive me so fucking crazy, girl.” You barely put up a fight when he takes a thigh in each hand and wraps them around his waist before taking his cock in his palm and stroking it a little. It takes everything in you not to look down, teeth sinking into the soft, swollen surface of your lower lip as you hear the wet squelch that the contact between his gloved fingers and his cock makes with each lewd tug.

There should be more resistance in you, but all that’s left at this point is exhaustion and the painful slap of reality that comes with accepting the fact that you’re not rejecting this as much as you used to. There’s a war going on between your body and your mind. Where, of course, you know how sick this man is and how dangerous it would be to give in, there’s also the certainty that he brings out something undesirable in you — that intoxicating, dark sensation of feeling good about being so violently desired by someone. It’s not something you’re proud of, of course. But there’s no denying the way your body wants to succumb to it, to give itself completely to this cruel man you don’t even know but who is obviously obsessed with you. It’s something you can’t begin to comprehend, much less accept, but it comes rushing back to you anyway.

Your poor therapist might have a thing or two to say about such urges.

He rubs the bulbous crown of his cock against your sensitive, shamefully touch-starved clit and you shiver as the heat and dew of his pre-cum spreads through you at the contact. A warm, newborn droplet trickles over your bud of nerves, bathing it in tingling as he steadily nudges the tip along your wet folds. His thumb joins in the teasing, swirling with a few hard rubs followed by a softer touch, too deliberate to be anything but expert, pushing against the hood and pulling it back, exposing your nub to him even more. From his expose lips he makes a deep sound as he feels you getting wetter, more slippery. He circles your clit relentlessly and it’s him who moans louder between the two of you, even though it’s you who’s eyes are rolling back in pleasure.

He recovers quickly, though. Hearing and seeing how loud the sounds of your wetness ring out in the small bathroom, he breathes a laugh so mocking and icy that you feel yourself immediately wither against the mirror behind you, your face burning with the blush of a new wave of humiliation. The killer ignores you, of course, using one hand to lift your thigh up and to the side, doing the same with the other, adjusting both of your legs so that your feet rest almost flat along the edge of the counter - exposing you as if your modesty and dignity mattered nothing at all.

And it doesn't. Not to him.

"So wet." He teases, annoyingly making a point of giving voice to what you've both already realized. His hand slides over the curve of your thigh possessively, pushing the draped fabric of your red skirt with it so that it bunches at your hips. He groans as watches his length freely slide through the slickness between your legs, giving a shallow pump forward. The gloved thumb presses with just the right amount of force, rubbing in a circular motion that makes your toes curl inside the boots and your throat tighten at the noise you suppress. That is, until the soft, wet tip catches against your opening and he pushes inside without further ado.

You gasp loudly at the sharp pressure, reflexively slapping the hands against his chest to push him away, but soon both his arms are around your body, preventing you from going any further, pinning you against him with his strong hands and his cock.

“Aaaah!” You cry out, and he immediately brushes his lips against your ear, leaving a sharp bite on the sensitive flesh, enjoying the struggle evident on your face. Your pussy hasn’t been used properly in a long time, and this man certainly doesn’t lack in the size department.

“Shhhh,” he hums, sounding too pleased for it to even remotely be interpreted as an attempt at comfort. “You can handle it, baby,” he whispers in your ear, one hand relaxing its iron grip on your body to cup your cheek, “I know you can.”

It’s not like he’s giving you any options other than to handle it. And yet, over the sting of the stretch and the ache of being taken without denying it, your insides burn with dark desire. It’s like being fully satisfied with something you didn’t even know you needed.

“That’s it?” he asks as you throw your head back in the mirror, eyes closed and teeth digging into your bottom lip. “Does it feel good to you like this? Baby likes a little pain, yeah?”

You blush, unable to think about it too much without feeling like you could go straight to the hospice.

Thankfully, he doesn’t press you for an answer. Instead, firmly breaching your tremble hole, he thrusts and thrusts and gasps heated and wetly into your ear, pressing deeper until he’s halfway in. And then he stops. The fingers of one hand close loosely on the bruised skin of your throat and you freeze, fearing for a moment that he’s going to choke you once more — this time while impaling you on his thick cock. But as the seconds stretch by without such a thing happening, you begin to notice something else. Those fingers; cruel, bloody fingers, responsible for the deaths of many people, are unsteady on your flesh.

He’s trembling.

The elongated digits are gripping your flesh with no real pressure, just a nice, soft collar around your throat, but the way they’re trembling is noticeable even through the barrier of the glove.

You open your eyes to a slit, knowing you can’t see him properly with the way his mouth remains pressed against your ear, breathing heavily and heatedly. And there’s no logical explanation as to why such an action catches you so off guard. But feeling this killer, this horrible, terrifying man who is obviously incapable of a basic level of respect for human life, gasp and tremble at being inside you, makes you gasp in response. Your insides clench involuntarily and more moisture coats the heavy shaft in your pussy, making it easier for him to pass through.

Then, slowly, he moves his other palm up to squeeze your breast over the fabric of your costume before he begins to pump the rest of his length inside you.

“Mmm…that’s it,” he murmurs, “f-fuck, you feel so good, so good.”

Again, you say nothing, burying your embarrassing moans and your tears as best you can — both from pleasure and humiliation. The man is so disturbingly warm curled up against you, his body broad and tall and so firm, dark clothing heavy but soft over his defined stomach that flexes against you with each thrust - the mask poking your flesh every now and then as his breath hitches in your ear. You want to cry out in fear as much as you want to scream in pleasure.

It’s a bitter kind of betrayal the way your body seems to want to decide the game for you; your quivering pussy giving in, against all logic and reason, to accept the forced intrusion, allowing the rest of his cock to pass inside your silky walls. You lose the battle almost immediately after that, gasping at the feel of every inch of his thick member firmly seated inside you, breathless at what he’s daring to do to you. Worse than if he had broken into the bathroom to murder you, you’d say. Because here, he’s not just violently attacking you and taking your right to life, without you being able to fight back. Here he’s making you submit to him; making you want to surrender to the overwhelming sensations that he brutally rips from your body - like a priest exorcising a poor possessed soul. He humiliated you in the worst possible way and he knows it.

And you find yourself less and less concerned about it.

You tilt your head to the side - and now there is no more internal restraint to prevent your moans.

“Please…aaah…”

“That’s it, princess,” he chuckles, as if he senses you’re giving in.

The time he stays still inside you doesn’t last long, just the few seconds long enough for you to feel the heat and enlargement of his cock, the thick veins pulsing as he bounces between your walls. It’s as if the pain has pierced you beyond anything else, pierced you like a sharp bolt of lightning that has fried your nerves until it’s left behind nothing but a sense of…overwhelming fullness. You’re completely boneless, trapped between his strong body and the mirror, your hands clenched loosely in the dark fabric of his robe. It’s a sensory experience that quickly becomes too much, but not enough.

When he pulls his hips back you experience a confused moment of panic, frustrated as you feel him pull away from you to leave your pussy achingly empty. There’s no time to question the insanity of your thoughts though.

His fingers are still shaking as he pulls away from you, releasing your throat to tangle them deep into the roots of your hair as a scream is forced like a punch from your lungs when, in a single strong thrust, he is fully sheathed within your quivering insides once more.

Between the iron grip on your hair and his hand gripping your breast like a vise, all you can do is grip his robe tighter as he ravages you. His teeth are where your neck meets your shoulder with a sharp bite, pulling away to thrust inside you in another violent thrust, your hole stretched and more vulnerable than ever. Your frantic brain is making you all too aware of every little sensation racking your body. The way his thick cock opens you, how each thrust makes your smaller body tremble, leaving you breathless as you dig your nails into the soft fabric of his robe to try and hold on through the punishing rhythm of his hips. When this night is over, and assuming you’re still alive, you know you’ll be bruised and sore everywhere, from your hips and ass to your breasts and throat. In your mind and in your soul. Right now, you don’t know if you’ll ever recover from this. If you’d ever want to.

"S-stop..." You don't know why the words are coming out of your mouth; not only would they be useless to the man, but they also carry no real force behind them. You don't even know if you really want him to stop. It feels more like an instinctive reaction than what your brain deems to be the right thing to do. "I - I'm going to scream."

He laughs, recognizing your empty threat for what it is, but your stomach still twists when he grips your hair to pull your face towards his.

"Oh, you promise? Please do it, little girl."

Out of spite, you close your mouth, but that only seems to incite him. With an amused chuckle and one last pinch to your nipple, he releases your breast to grab both of your thighs. His hands are large on your flesh while his fingers bruise the soft skin even more.

"Such a stubborn little thing. We can't have any of that, can we, sweetie?"

His hands curl under your ass and, after a greedy squeeze, he’s lifting you up, not letting his cock slip out of your pussy for even half a moment before he slams you against the wall. Your spine arches and your bones rattle from the nothing short of violent impact, but he doesn’t care, writhing and pulsing inside you, undeniably stimulated by your pain - and oh god, this definitely shouldn’t feel as fucking good as it does.

It barely takes a second before he’s holding you steady and still by your thighs before he starts ramming his wet cock in and out of you again, like a machine, so hard that each thrust of his hips makes your back hit the wall.

In this position you’re forced to wrap your arms behind his neck for safety, feeling his hands close on the inner curve below your knee to spread your legs even wider, his body so intimately pressed against yours that it’s almost unsettling. Especially after so long without any human contact like this. You feel, to say the least, overwhelmed by such a sudden onslaught of intimacy.

You tense when he thrusts in a particularly dirty way, grinning like hell when you hiccup with a moan. He repeats the movement out of pure tease, his mask askew but turned toward you, the mocking line of his lips right next to yours.

“Mine,” he whispers, “My princess, my little pet, my cute little toy.”

His thrusts become not only hard but fast as well, and you can hear each time his body hits yours with a wet slap, each withdrawal slick and sticky.

“Please, w-why are you doing this? Why me?” It’s all you can manage to ask, your head growing increasingly confused, your pussy growing wetter.

He slows his movements to a blessedly slower grind, humming dramatically as he pretends to ponder your question.

“Why you?”

In an abrupt movement that you wouldn't have expected in a million years, he lets go of one of your thighs and abruptly rips the mask off his face, with such ease that you initially don't understand what it means. But then, with finality and violence, the weight of reality falls upon you.

He took off the mask.

He let you see his face.

The face of a murderer wanted by the police.

You were already dead. Yes, if such a fate was uncertain before, it certainly isn't anymore.

The shock of the revelation is so absolute that it takes a few seconds for you to actually focus on his face. But slowly, each individual feature seems to stick to your mush brain.

First you are greeted with that shock of long platinum blonde hair, tied in a loose bun, a few strands stuck to the sweaty skin of his forehead and the sides of his face.

The hair alone would be enough for you to easily recognize him.

But then your gaze falls to those eyes.

Eye, actually. A single, functional one, a stormy blue — enigmatic and dark as the turbulent waters of the farthest reaches of the ocean. The other, or where the other should be, is occupied by some kind of ocular prosthesis of a blue hue that could not be less like his good eye — a vivid, electric blue, like a rare, brilliant sapphire stone.

It is the first time you have seen him like this, so exposed. Always hidden by a pair of sunglasses or, failing that, a surgical eye patch. The pale skin of the man’s face would be flawless, were it not for the long, jagged scar that cuts across his cheekbone to above the line of his damaged eye.

The purple hues of the bathroom highlight all his sharp angles and an elegant appearance that is characteristic of the aristocratic genes of someone so well born.

Yes, you know this man.

Aemond Targaryen.

A college guy. Normal, as far as you can tell. Or as normal as someone privileged and born with a silver spoon in their mouth could be. Yes, he was introverted, arrogant even with his silent and mysterious attitude, as if everyone was beneath him. The few times he was pushed to enter a conversation or any other social interaction (most often by his own brother) his comments were imbued with a polite acidity that is totally unique to someone with class, or with discreet but effective jabs that carried a humor considered, at least, questionable.

Aemond constantly balanced on the fine line between cool elegance and petulant irreverence, which generated controversial opinions about him among the students. To you, he was intriguing. Someone you quietly admired, offering polite greetings and a sincere smile when your paths crossed.

Yes, you knew him - as did the entire student body knows him. The Targaryens were obscenely wealthy, widely recognized for carrying an exorbitant legacy not only of family polemics, but also of successful generations, all in the field of technology and communication.

And yes, Aemond Targaryen was someone seriously conflicted, with his taciturn and enigmatic aura.

But a serial killer? That would be impossible.

And yet he was here, smelling of leather and sandalwood - as well as blood and death, wet crimson stains on his dark robes, forcing you to the most terrifying and controversial act of your entire life.

The dawning horror of the notion that the killer on the loose could be someone you know, someone who was present in your daily life, who attended the same classes as you and yet, who you never even dreamed of suspecting, seems to want to suffocate you momentarily.

“I see you around campus. You know, some wise ones tend to avoid me whenever possible, and then there are those pathetic rats who try to get close out of some specific interest in what my clown family can offer. But you? You’re always kind. Even with your mysterious and solitary attitude, you’re still so stupidly kind to me. It’s ridiculous, princess, but also so cute.” He’s pleased by the utter shock on your face, grinning evilly as he shoots his hand out and wraps both forearms around the inside of your knees, his cock thrusting deeper into your pussy, leaning in menacingly until his teeth are grazing your ear.

“You’re all I can think about, baby. You’ve invaded my mind, my body, my life. You’ve fucking ruined me.” He speaks directly into your ear, a harsh whisper that makes you gasp and shiver despite the crushing weight of the discovery still fresh in your mind.

“It’s only fair that I ruin you too, right?”

You glow at the intimacy of his words, incandescent with the blush spreading across your cheeks, your throat, your collarbone.

“You...oh, fuck...” Your accusatory words to him die on your tongue as one particular thrust hits a spot inside you that has you curling the toes in response. Little gasps escape your lips as he hits the same spot over and over, your eyes filled with revulsion and desire beginning to soften with an inevitable flutter of the lashes. 

 “That’s right, just take it, baby.” He sighs with a smile, kissing your jaw as you tilt your head back. His voice is like molasses; soft but rough around the edges — sweet but dark with the huskiness of his lust. It’s getting harder for you to control this feeling now. You feel your legs tighten, instinctively trying to wrap yourself around his waist tighter. A hand rising from his broad shoulder to tangle in the platinum strands of hair at the nape of his neck, eliciting an approving grunt from the man. He watches you with awe and a hooded gaze as you give in to that feeling of helplessness once again.

“You feel so warm and wet, dripping all over that pretty pussy, drooling on my cock like that…you’ve been just as desperate as I have, umm? So lonely…you’ll never be lonely again, princess,” he promises hotly, groping his way up your thighs until he grabs your ass, thrusting slowly, deeply, brushing against your cervix each time.

“I’m going to fuck your ass like that someday.” He says casually with a sly smile as his fingertips slide along the crack of your ass, thrusting his cock into your pussy harder to show you what he means, making your breath shallow and your eyes widen. “I think I’ll do that next time indeed. Fill every tight little hole in your body. Mark every inch of your skin as mine.” 

“Oh, God -” You feel tears forming in your eyes and streaming down your cheeks as you squeeze them shut, shaking as he teases you with wicked words, his hands coming up to grip either side of your waist. “Stop, please.”

“Oh no, baby, I’m not stopping. Not now and not ever. I’m going to claim that body in every damn way I can. With my cock, my fingers, my tongue.” You moan and pull away from him, your cheeks red and wet, shaking your head in a mumbled protest that’s too weak to be taken seriously. There’s more pleasure on your face than fear. He chuckles. “Do you like that? Do you like the idea of ​​my tongue in that sweet pussy?”

Before you can think to deny it, his mouth crashes down on yours, rough and brutal, hungry. There’s blood on your tongue, you notice, the cut reopened in his greed, the taste ferrous and acrid in your mouth as his tongue slides inside — his, maybe, or yours, or both, you don’t know.

As quickly as it begins, it ends. Aemond pulls back enough to brush his lips against yours, sharing quick, wet breaths.

“Oh yes, you do. You love knowing that I want to lick that pussy until you come, once, twice, three times — until you squeal and beg me to stop. But I won’t. I’ll make you come as many times as I want, as many times as your body can take. And even then, even if you pass out from exhaustion, I’ll fuck you. Like a beautiful little sex doll.”

Amidst the sensual humiliation of his wanton words, you feel your back scraping against the wall; up and down, over and over. The grip of your fingers in his hair tightens and he growls in his throat, palming your ass to move it with more fervor. He holds his own body still, using only the strength of his arms hooked in the crook of your knees and his hands on your waist to move you up and down his cock.

His face, though it still manages to hold that cold, wicked smirk, is smudged with a soft blush across his cheeks and the bridge of the nose, the rest of his pale skin glistens slightly with sweat, and his good eye is dark with desire — the pupil so wide it almost completely overpowers the blue of his iris. And he’s beautiful like that; even with the prosthetic eye and the frightening scar. Beautiful and ethereal, completely belying his sick personality and unforgivable sins.

Through parted lips he gasps with effort and it takes a moment, but when he pushes you up again, your face completely implodes into flames as you realize he’s using you to masturbate. He’s doing exactly what he said he would, using you like a sex doll, a flashlight clenched around his cock.

His thrusting becomes faster and rougher as he grips your waist tighter between his broad palms, dragging your pussy down his cock with short strokes. Your own breaths shorten, becoming ragged sobs each time the fabric of his robe rubs against your sensitive clit. When he’s basically grinding your pussy against him, undulating your hips in a hurried back and forth, he leans down to press the forehead to yours. His heavy, cold gaze stays locked on yours through each drag. 

“That’s it. That’s it. Look at me. You’re so tight, so good. Keep looking at me. Good girl.” He punctuates each word with breathless slowness. Each guided movement of your hips is intentionally placed — rubbing your walls against his thick cock while simultaneously stimulating your clit against the mound of fabric of his tunic in a way he knows will send you over the edge.

Despite the order, your eyes grow heavy and fluttery, beginning to roll back as the muscles in your thighs and abdomen tense in preparation for the inevitable climax. That scary and wonderful cliff that taunts you in a messy way, approaching faster than you can understand.

A hard slap on your cheek brings you back.

“What did I just say, princess?” he growls, his voice rough with the effort of holding back his own desires. And your cheek stings where he’s hit you, glowing an even deeper shade of red, but you barely give it half a second’s attention — not when he’s looking at you like this; all breathless, sweaty lines and smoldering gaze.

“Keep your fucking eyes on me.” He releases your jaw with a warning jerk, sliding his hand down through your wet mess to find your swollen clit and circle the bud with his thumb, his other hand still tight around your waist. His body grinds into yours, flattening you against his lean muscles and the wall, slamming his hips into yours without pause.

You take a deep, shaky breath.

Your boots cross behind his back, skirt swinging at his waist with each thrust. And yet you do your best to hold Aemond’s obsessive gaze – unable to even name the intensity of the emotion swirling within you. The muscles in your thighs now tremble visibly, clenching tightly around his body in your impending release.

“Aemond – I need, oh, I can't…” You whisper, barely realizing what comes out of your mouth, a broken moan escaping along with the jumbled words, your entire body twitching under the expert assault of his thumb on your clit and his quick, relentless thrusts. You were close. So close. Balancing precariously right on the edge. And he knew it too. 

“That’s it, say my fucking name as you cum for me. Come on, do it now little girl.”

It happens quickly after that, relentlessly, your eyes trying to close without your permission, but you are obedient and keep them half-lidded as you stare at Aemond, a choked cry finally escaping your throat. 

“Aemond!”

With a determined growl, sweat dripping down his temples, he thrusts into you harder and harder until the tight coil snaps. Shockwaves of electric pleasure overwhelm you, forcing all the air from your lungs in a messy gasp. You shake as you come, clenching the fist against your attacker’s chest, nails digging into the roots of his silver hair, trying to ignore the stinging taste of shame as you find purchase in his body. 

“Look at me. Look at me, baby.” He pushes his forehead against yours, sending you a sly, proud smile as your eyes flutter and water with the effort of keeping them open through the climax. His pace quickens with the excitement of seeing your drunken gaze and flushed face.

His own release washes over him like the purest rush of insanity; brows furrowed as if he’s in pain, lips parted in a hoarse groan that raises every little hair on your body. His warm cum fills you, bubbling at the tight rims of the ring of muscle where his cock stretches you. He stays buried inside as his balls empty, his head finally tilting back and breaking intense eye contact as his lips release another long, satisfied groan.

When it’s all over, he slowly leans down to touch your foreheads once more, and you feel an overwhelming, incoherent wave of satisfaction when notice the muscles in his arms and fingers trembling where they touch your skin. 

“You’re mine,” he murmurs between labored breaths. “All mine.”

He babbles possessively, rolling his hips into you to prolong the intimacy, even as you feel him softening discreetly within your walls.

“I’ll burn the world for you, I’ll do anything to keep your eyes on me like this. I’ll kill as many as it takes to have you by my side.” His voice, husky and haunting, makes you shiver with horror — with heat.

You don’t think he needs your involvement in the story to fulfill the last part of his dark promise. Not with the previous list of confirmed murders or the blood that stains his clothes tonight. That stains your costume now too. But his words still send a swarm of butterflies dancing in your stomach and, not for the first time, you find yourself questioning the integrity of your mental health.

He’s smiling at your flushed, uncomfortable features, swollen lips brushing against yours playfully as he catches the breath to say something else that will surely upset you deeply. Before he can, however, his broad body freezes against yours, whatever he was about to say abruptly dying on his tongue.

Like a tense and intriguing suspense, the two of you are slowly bathed in the garish red and blue lights that filter through the small bathroom window, overshadowing the soft purple lighting from before.

The police.

Just as the realization sets in, the sound of sirens is heard; loud and distinctive. And it is then, and only then, that you notice that there are no more sounds of music coming from downstairs.

When had it stopped?

Relief is the first thing you feel. Hope and security flicker in your chest until a new wave of tears blurs your vision. But the feeling quickly withers before another realization. The police, along with your college friends, were minutes away from finding out where and who you had been all this time. They would find Aemond, it was true. They would finally arrest the killer known as Ghostface. But they would also find you. You, abused, raped and humiliated.

God, could they deduce just by looking at you that, at some point during this violation, you had started to want this?

Your jaw is gripped by his firm fingers, making your wide, wet eyes focus on the man in front of you. He looks at you with such intensity, serious and analytical, and in that moment you are sure that he knows exactly what you are thinking.

“I know where every single one of your friends lives, what every single one of them does during the day — every damn minute of their activities is recorded for me,” he whispers slowly, sinking each word into your overworked brain to make sure you understand. “The same goes for your family members. I know where they live, who they are, and what they do. Dare to open your pretty little mouth to anyone about me and you’ll get one of their heads every time you open your dorm room door in the morning. I’ll even do the favor of gift wrapping it for you, baby.”

Your stomach lurches with sudden nausea, all the color draining from your face at the threat you know he wouldn’t hesitate to carry out if need be.

“I truly hope you won’t betray my trust, love. Like I said before, I don’t want to kill you.” He smooths his knuckles down your tear-stained cheek, softening his tone to something softer and gentler — yet equally terrifying. “But I’ll do it to someone you care about without a second thought. So don’t test me.”

He doesn’t wait for a response before he seals his lips on yours. Just a light, wet touch, more an intimate exchange of heated breaths than a kiss. With an approving grunt when you sigh and surrender to his touch, he pulls away.

Your shaky, weak legs give way as he leaves your body, and you slide down the wall in a confused, weeping heap until you’re sitting on the tiled bathroom floor.

Hovering above you, Aemond tucks his penis into the pants and fastens his belt, straightening the robes with a perfectly neutral expression and calm manner, as if at this very moment the cops aren’t searching the frat house for him. Long fingers casually grip the mask lying on the counter, giving you one last intense, appraising look, licking his lips slyly before covering his face.

That ghost mask is back then, cold and frightening, pulling the hood up over his head before bending down and holding the bloody kitchen knife in the palm of his hand. Black boots click on the tile floor as he turns back to you and heads for the door, casting a glance over his shoulder as he places hand on the doorknob.

“This won’t be the last time, princess. I’ll come back for you.” His voice is dark and muffled by the mask, sounding more like a threat to your life than a lover’s promise, especially now that he’s back in his ghostly, cruel persona. “Until then, try not to miss me too much, and of course, be on your best behavior.”

He leaves as disturbingly as he came, with a dark swish of his cloak and an amused chuckle, closing the door with a teasing gentleness — as if he’s trying not to scare you. You might even buy his act, if it weren't for all the psychological terror he's inflicted on you so far.

And then you find yourself alone in the bathroom once again, with nothing but your own shame and accusatory thoughts.

And that's exactly how the cops find you a few minutes later. Sitting on the tile floor, pale as death, your Sailor Mars costume stained with blood and throat marked from the cruel grip of your attacker's fingers. Your cheek still stings from the slap he gave you.

You think you can hide the finger marks on your thighs by deliberately tucking the legs in, taking the opportunity to keep the messy puddle of cum out of sight of the lawmen. But one of them still wraps his jacket around you in a gesture of solidarity as he leads you out, reciting kind words that, despite their intention, do nothing to actually calm you.

“Oh, thank God!”

You stagger back at the sudden hug Mako gives you as you exit the house, crossing the area marked off by yellow police tape. The officer next to you clucks his tongue in disapproval, but steps aside to offer the two of you some privacy.

“Someone called the police when they found the bodies on the next street. It all happened so fast. The party was going on and then everything turned into absolute chaos and I couldn’t find you anywhere!” She babbles quickly as pulls away from the hug, looking you up and down with her puffy, red eyes, her hands shaking where they are — clenched tightly on the arms of the police jacket you’re wearing, as if she’s afraid you’ll disappear if she lets go. “W-when they said that you could be upstairs with him…I-I thought…fuck…I really thought—”

“I know. But I’m here now. And I’m fine.” You cut her off, wiping away your own tears as you try to give her a very unconvincing smile. Predictably, she doesn’t buy your lie, but doesn’t press it either.

“They couldn’t catch him, pumpkin…” she says slowly after a moment of silence, her face contorted in pain for you. “By the time they got upstairs, he’d already escaped. I'm sorry."

You want to tell her that you know that, you were there when he fled before could be caught. Before you can, however, the officer from before is back - this time accompanied by another, a tall, tired-looking man with a gray beard. The sheriff, you assume.

"If you don't mind, we'd like to ask you a few questions, miss." The older man grunts, looking like he wants to be literally anywhere else but here.

"She does, actually. Can't you see how she looks?!" Mako is quick to respond, leaning forward to position herself in front of you like a protective barrier. The officers look at her like she's a little girl throwing a tantrum, nothing but tired indifference on their faces.

"It's okay, Mako. I got it." You try to calm the situation, placing a hand on her shoulder to gently guide her to the side. "I'd rather do it now, actually. I just want to put this all behind me as soon as possible."

It's impossible to put this behind, but you don't say that part.

Mako holds your gaze for a few seconds, keeping such a watchful, worried glint in every expression on your face that, for a minute, you fear she might know exactly everything that happened just by that look. When she sighs and steps aside in reluctant surrender, you almost sigh along with her.

"Okay. But I won't go far, I'll be waiting for you right there."

You mumble an 'mkay' and she reluctantly walks away, not before casting a sharp glance at the two officers standing in the same position near you - who promptly ignore her silent attempt at a threat. When she finally walks away, you sigh, staring at the badge on the older man's chest for a few seconds as you prepare to craft a narrative of the facts that doesn't reveal anything about the killer's identity.

"Alright. What would you like to know, Sheriff Myers?"

Fortunately, the police in your town have never been the most diligent or perceptive, and while they may ask a few important questions here and there, they generally remain naturally ignorant to some confusing gaps in your version of events. You are careful to avoid saying anything about the sexual assault you suffered, opting to tell them only about the physical violence that they have inevitably noticed by now; the marks on your neck, wrists and the red slap on your cheek.

They accept your half-truths so easily that you would be offended if that wasn't exactly the goal. In the end, all that matters to them is the answer to one question:

"Did you get a look at his face? Skin color, hair, eyes... anything that might help us identify this fucker once and for all?"

And in that moment you think of Mako, her cheerful smile and irreverent attitude. You think of your parents, so safe and oblivious in your hometown. You think of the faces of every your family member, friend and colleague who could suffer an agonizing death at the hands of the killer if you dared to answer the wrong way.

"N-no, sir. I'm sorry, but no, I didn't see anything. He was completely covered the whole time, with gloves and a mask." You huddle deeper into the thick jacket over your shoulders, your arms wrapped around yourself.

The sheriff takes a deep breath, clearly disappointed at once again running in circles, but he doesn't press you on it. And after a few other less important questions, they both say goodbye with a standard guarantee of protection that you don't trust for a second.

They've barely moved away from you when your phone vibrates in the pocket with the warning of a new notification. After glancing over your shoulder in alarm to see if anyone was watching, you feel the heart race before you even reach for it, fingers already shaking with nervous anticipation, knowing exactly who the notification is from. With a shaky click of your thumb on the now mostly cracked and destroyed screen, the thing lights up for you:

--

Notification Center

2:23am - Unknown number

"Well done, little girl. You made me proud (and a little horny, I must admit) with all those pathetic little lies to the authorities. Keep being a good girl and everyone you care about will be safe. Scout's word.

We'll meet again sooner than you think.

A.T."

--

[lily-jaxk]

MC Twin AU - CALEB'S Spitfire [2]

Caleb was weird.

Not weird as in 'I wanna lock you away from the world.' you actually found that very normal and very, very hot. What the said about you meant nothing, there was a reason you picked him out of all the other options.

No, Caleb was acting weird because he was focusing on you. He had apparently asked for your number from MC, which she had gladly given him, and you had woken up to the sight of an unknown number sending you a good morning text.

"Rise and shine spitfire! You gotta get to work soon 🫵"

You had blinked, then pinched your cheek just to make sure you weren't hallucinating. Seeing that it hurt a lot, you were clearly awake.

"Um, Caleb?"

"😉 One and only"

"Well technically there are many other Caleb's in the world ya know"

" :( well the only Caleb who's food you enjoy a lot"

". . . . damm"

"lol why did you do the ...?"

"dramatic effect. anywho how did you get my number?"

"MC gave me. Now! I'll talk to you later 🫵Get ready for work!"

Caleb was weird because on a sunny Friday afternoon, right after your dentist appointment, you found him leaning against your car scrolling on his phone. You had paused, stared at him, then let out a long sigh. It was best to not dwell on how he knew where you were. Normally you would have said MC told him, but you hadn't told her that your appointment was today.

So yeah. Caleb was weird.

As you approached him, he finally looked up and gave you a wide smile that made your heart flutter. "Hey there spitfire!" He greeted, placing his phone in his pocket and straightening up.

You raise a brow and cross your arms over your chest. "Are you here to steal my car?"

"Precisely." He bobbed your nose making you let out a squawk of bafflement. "MC needs to be picked up and I unfortunately have my car in the shop, soo I was wondering if I could use yours?"

You tap your foot on the pavement. "And how did you know where I was?"

Caleb blinks and brings out his phone, turning it around to show you the screen. "You posted it on your Moments."

. . . . Ah. You did. A long sigh leaves your lips and you turn to walk to the driver's seat. "Get in. And in return, you're getting me mochi."

"Roger that!"

Caleb was weird, because he invited you out once to play Kitty Cards together. No MC, no other friends, just you and him.

You narrow your eyes at him over the rim of your cards, and he smiles innocently at you. "You knowww, I can give you some of my cards-"

"I'll bite you!"

"Ohhh kink-"

"Caleb!"

He laughs, purple eyes sparkling with mirth, and your heart flutters, making you duck your head to hide your blush. No, no you couldn't feel anything for him. This was wrong!

You weren't MC. You weren't the girl that helped him in the labs, and you weren't the girl he dedicated his entire existence for.

You were simply. . . . You.

Caleb was weird, because even when you started to try and distance yourself from him, he kept bothering you. Even when you ignored his calls, ran away with an excuse whenever he was with MC, pretended he didn't exist and hid when you saw him in the wild, he still didn't let you go.

Everywhere you went, he knew.

At MC? He knew.

At work? He knew.

Watching movies at home? He sent you reminders to go to bed early.

At work? Somehow food delivery is being sent to your office.

Caleb was weird.

"I'm not her you know." You tell him after months of ignoring him, months of him chasing you, lurking behind you like a shadow. "We might look identical, but I'm not, and will never be her."

Why couldn't he get it through his thick skull! You weren't MC, you were You!

Caleb was weird, because he simply smiled and dragged you into a hug, placing his chin on the top of your head. "Of course you're not MC." He said with ease. "You're my little spitfire, and I couldn't have it any other way."

Your face grew beet red, and your heart pounded loudly in your ears. Caleb was so fucking weird, because he called you his.

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5

[iconbyunghun]

Mistress

Pairing: Lee Byung Hun x Fem!Reader

Summary: No matter how many times you tried to distance yourself from him, you always ended up succumbing to the intensity of his touches and words.

Warnings: Smut 18+, MDNI, age gap (late-20s/50s), unsafe sex, infidelity

Word count: 1.9 k

a/n: It's my first time posting here, and English isn't my first language, so sorry if there are any mistakes.

The thumping music pulsed through the air, blending with laughter and lively conversation. The Squid Game 2 wrap party was at its peak—a well-earned celebration after months of hard work. You glanced around, awed by how far you had come. Being part of such a massive project had been an incredible opportunity, filled with unforgettable experiences and people… and one of them, one you should never have allowed, was the reason you had hesitated to come tonight.

Across the room, among the sea of familiar faces, you spotted Wi Ha-Joon approaching with his signature ear-to-ear grin. His contagious energy made you smile instinctively.

“Hey, beautiful. Glad to see you’re having fun,” he said before taking a sip of his drink.

“I wasn’t planning on coming, actually,” you admitted, holding your glass. You weren’t a big fan of these kinds of events, but alcohol certainly helped loosen you up.

“What changed your mind?” he asked, raising an amused eyebrow.

“I guess I needed a distraction,” you shrugged.

Ha-Joon chuckled, raising his glass in a toast before continuing the conversation. A few drinks later, his proximity became more evident. You couldn’t deny how attractive he was—tall, strong, and completely shameless in his flirting. His hand rested subtly on your waist as you danced, his dark eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that sent a shiver down your spine.

“I need to use the restroom,” you said with a smile after a few minutes.

“I’ll be here,” he nodded, watching as you walked away.

You made your way toward the hallway leading to the restrooms, but just before turning the corner, a strong hand wrapped around your forearm, pulling you back with firm determination.

“What the f—?” The air caught in your throat when you recognized him. Lee Byung Hun. Damn it. You hadn’t even noticed he was at the party.

He dragged you into a dimly lit storage room, shutting the door behind him. Your heart pounded against your chest as you met his gaze—tense, irritated, and brimming with jealousy.

“I see you’ve been having fun,” he sneered, crossing his arms over his chest. His dark eyes burned with resentment. “Is that idiot the reason you left me?”

Anger bubbled within you instantly. What right did he have to question you?

“It’s none of your business,” you snapped, yanking your arm free from his grip.

“So, you’re not denying it,” he continued, his jaw clenching.

“You know exactly why we couldn’t keep doing… this,” you shot back, your voice laced with bitterness.

“You can’t do this to me… I need you,” he blurted suddenly, desperation creeping into his tone.

Something in his expression cracked. He had spent the entire night watching you, seeing you laugh with another man, move so freely, so happily—something that had never been allowed when you were together in public.

“You can’t say that…” you whispered, lowering your gaze to his hand, where the ring on his finger gleamed under the dim light. “At the end of the night, you’ll go back to her.”

Your eyes burned, tears threatening to spill.

“You knew what this was from the start,” he tried to justify, in the worst way possible.

“I don’t need you to remind me,” your voice trembled, the ache in your chest deepening. It was true. You had known. From the very beginning. But that didn’t make it hurt any less.

Byung Hun exhaled sharply and stepped closer, lifting a hand to gently cup your cheek—his tenderness a stark contrast to the storm in his gaze.

“I know you don’t want this to end like this…” he murmured, wiping away a stray tear with his thumb.

Your breath hitched as he moved even closer, his warmth enveloping you entirely. His scent, his presence—everything about him disarmed you with terrifying ease.

“Don’t make this harder…” you pleaded in a whisper, but even you didn’t believe your own words.

Time seemed to slow as his lips brushed against yours—soft, hesitant, offering one last warning, one last chance to stop him. But just like the first time, you didn’t.

His gentle, slow kisses quickly turned urgent, pressing you against the wall as his hands roamed your body with desperate need. His tongue parted your lips, stealing your breath and any coherent thought.

“Fuck…” he groaned against your skin, trailing kisses down your jaw, lower, marking you as his. His fingers found the zipper of your dress, and without hesitation, he slid it down, letting the fabric pool at your feet.

“Byung Hun…” you sighed as his lips traced the curve of your collarbone, his tongue leaving a blazing path toward your chest. Your fingers gripped his shirt, desperate to feel his skin against yours.

He caught your silent plea, discarding his shirt and allowing you to admire the sculpted lines of his body. His large hands explored every inch of your body hungrily, skilled fingers slipping between your thighs, drawing a ragged moan from your lips.

“Look at what you do to me…” he whispered, his breath hot against your ear as he pressed himself against you through his clothes. The hardness of his arousal was undeniable, and the heat of his body ignited every fiber of your being.

His firm hands guided you toward what seemed like a wooden table. You braced yourself against it, feeling his body settle between your legs.

“You have no idea how much I’ve suffered without you…” he murmured against your neck, leaving a trail of fervent kisses. His voice, thick with longing, made you tremble.

A gasp escaped your lips as two of his fingers slid inside you—wet, expert, touching that spot he knew so well. His movements were slow, torturously precise. In and out, twisting, exploring. Then, with his thumb, he rubbed delicate circles over your most sensitive spot, making you whimper.

“He’ll never have you like this,” he said with pride, enthralled by your sweet moans and the wetness dripping down his fingers.

You could barely process his words, your mind clouded by pleasure. You just wanted more. When you felt yourself reaching the edge, your body moved instinctively, desperately seeking release.

Finally, it hit you—your climax crashing over you as his name spilled from your lips, your body trembling against him.

“I’m not done with you yet,” he murmured with a dark smile, lowering his zipper. With both hands, he pushed down his pants and boxers, freeing his cock—thick, flushed, glistening with need.

“You’re mine,” he whispered, wrapping a hand around your throat with gentle firmness.

But you’re not mine, you wanted to say, but desire drowned out your thoughts. You only nodded, biting your lip.

Without another word, he thrust into you in one swift motion, a shared moan filling the room. His strokes were deep, precise, sending waves of pleasure through your body. Your nails dug into his shoulders, anchoring yourself to him. The music from the party felt distant, drowned out by the sound of your mingled moans and the rhythmic slap of skin against skin.

“Shit…” he groaned, feeling you tighten around him. “That’s it, princess… come for me.”

His raspy moans were your undoing. His mouth found yours, swallowing your cry as ecstasy overtook you. Seconds later, with a few erratic thrusts, he spilled into you, holding you close as your ragged breaths intertwined.

He rested his forehead against yours, still buried inside you.

“I love you,” he whispered, breathless.

It wasn’t the first time he had said it in these moments. You had tried to convince yourself not to take it seriously, but you couldn’t stop yourself from wishing it was true.

He noticed the shift in your expression. You looked hurt. He had spent weeks thinking about you, regretting all the times he had made you cry. And yet, here you were again.

"Listen to me..." He cupped your face in his hands, forcing you to look at him. "I’ve fucked up. With you, with my wife, with myself. You have every right to hate me."

He paused, studying your face. When you didn’t respond, he continued.

"I'm afraid of what will happen if this gets out. Of what they'll say about you, about me, about us. I'm afraid of hurting the mother of my children… but I'm also afraid of losing you."

You parted your lips to argue, but he stopped you.

"Please, let me finish." He knew you too well. He knew you were about to interrupt him.

"I know I'm selfish, irresponsible… but I want to make things right this time. I can’t lose you."

"What makes you think I even want to give you another chance?" you cut in, frowning.

He let out a wry smile.

"If you didn’t, we wouldn’t be here like this, beautiful." You couldn't fool him. Not him, and not yourself.

"What exactly are you proposing?" You tried to sound cold. You tried. And you failed.

He ran a hand through his hair before resting it on your thigh.

"Give me a month. One month to talk to her, to start the process. I'm getting a divorce."

You looked at him in disbelief.

"I could give you a week, a month, or a year, and I still wouldn’t believe that," you admitted. You knew this was the usual lie a married man told to keep his mistress around. Mistress. The word made your stomach turn.

He sighed before finally pulling out of you, knowing you wouldn’t be easy to convince. A quiet gasp escaped your lips. He fixed his pants while you tried to steady your breathing and your thoughts. From his pocket, he pulled out a handkerchief and returned to you, wiping you gently.

You both dressed in complete silence. He zipped up your dress, and you helped him wipe away the lipstick you had left on his lips and part of his face.

"I know you don’t believe me," he said, holding your waist before you could step away. "But tonight, I’m talking to her."

You were about to tell him it was best to end this, but he shocked you by dropping to his knees and taking your hands in his.

"Please, trust me. I won’t fail you this time." His gaze locked onto yours, his eyes shining, on the verge of tears. You had never seen him like this.

Your emotions betrayed you. You found yourself nodding, even as every rational part of your mind screamed at you to walk away. But he was there, kneeling before you, looking at you with a mixture of vulnerability and determination that made you tremble.

As you stepped out, you prayed you wouldn’t run into anyone familiar, but as if fate itself found the situation amusing, you crossed paths with Ha-Joon. The young man’s gaze flickered between the two of you before settling on you, his eyes filled with disappointment. He didn’t need to ask what had just happened—he already knew. His jaw clenched, but he didn’t say a word. He only held your gaze for an agonizing few seconds before turning on his heel and walking away.

Byung Hun, standing beside you, straightened with an air of victory. His lips curled into the faintest smirk as he watched the younger man’s retreating figure. His hand slid down the curve of your hip before gripping your waist possessively, as if staking his claim.

[springgirlshowers]

Desktop Struggles

Summary: You think the worker at this internet cafe is cute, a little weird too, you’ve made multiple attempts to get his attention.

CW: kissing, oral (f receiving), fingering, p in v, biting kink?, overstim, multiple orgasms, smut galore!

WC: 3797

def inspired by this post ! tell me if u can spot my little hints at joosty being a vamp (•ᵥ_ᵥ•)

You didn’t really need to go to this place all this much. You had your own computer at home, and it definitely wasn’t as old as the ones in the cafe.

It wasn’t much of a cafe, you could get coffee. But it was bitter and disgusting. It was either that or water from the dispenser. Which you didn’t trust most of the time either.

You came across it when you had to complete an essay, but your laptop was getting fixed. So you had to stop by the Internet Cafe. Open 24/7. It was nearby and affordable.

But what kept drawing you back to that building was the cute receptionist. Actually. You weren't sure if he was a receptionist. More of a mix of receptionist/janitor/computer engineer. He was a worker. Probably the only one, it was always just him and sometimes the manager there.

Soft and slightly messy blond hair, faint black eyeshadow smudged on his eyes, numbers tattooed on his fingers, other tattoos littered his arms and peeked out from underneath his sleeves.

You knew his name. Joost. You saw it on his jacket. He had his own desk at the back, it was on the elevated part on the floor and next to the office door.

He spent most on the time typing on the keys, a cigarette hanging loose from his lips as he puffed even though there was a no smoking sign right next to him. Sometimes coming down from his desk to pick up trash people left behind.

Or he’d occasionally flip through the magazines he’d get from the metal display rack in the corner, next to the poorly taken care of chinese evergreen plant. He always picked up the medical ones, any that included anything about blood on them.

You figured out different ways to talk to him or get him over to where you were sitting.

You’d purposely mess up things on the computer, disconnecting it from the internet, unplugging the wires in the back of it, claiming that you had no idea how it happened, they must’ve been loose!

Or you’d pretend you didn’t know how to use certain features, hoping he’d teach you. Telling him that working with technology wasn’t your strong suit and other things like:

“Sorry, I can’t figure out how to insert a photo onto this document. Do you know how to?”

“Can you help me with the copier? I think it might be jammed just need to copy a few papers for one of my classes.”

“Could you show me how to print out documents? I need to print out an essay.”

Or asking him how much time you had left to keep using the computer.

Honestly, all these attempts sound quite pathetic. But what could you do? You had a silly crush on a worker at this cafe.

Though there was one incident. After you heard a little bit of arguing coming from behind that office door. You saw Joost come walking out angrily, black trash bag in one gloved hand and a cd in the other.

You watched him bend down and begin to look under the empty desks, scraping the old hardened gum off them. It was a bit funny watching him try to fit under and into the tiny space with how tall he was.

He stopped to look underneath the desk next to yours. You watched as he looked around underneath.

His hair looked so soft, you wanted to run your hands through it, you almost did actually, but you stopped yourself, putting your hand back onto the mouse instead.

You heard him scraping the CD against the wood, but then, you felt his fingers graze the skin of your leg. It was more than a graze honestly, more of him dragging his hand smoothly and slowly down your leg.

Your breath hitched as you felt his touch, his abnormally cold touch. You thanked the heavens you decided to wear shorts that day.

“Sorry, lost balance for a moment.” He said once he stood up.

Which was a complete and oblivious lie, especially with that small smile you saw on his lips.

Now it was particularly late tonight. You and a random old guy were the only ones left using the computers. You originally came here to study, but you ended up looking at clothes online and random intriguing articles.

You sighed quietly to yourself, it was late, nearly midnight. You could go back to your apartment, but you knew you’d be doing the same thing on your laptop there.

Eventually the man collected his things and left. Now it was only you and Joost in the building.

You opened up another tab and went into your documents, trying to figure out what you could mess up or play dumb about this time.

You decided to make a mock resume, you didn’t have the effort nor the energy to go through the process of making one tonight.

Then your next step was disconnecting the printer from that computer and disconnecting the internet, again.

You eyed Joost throughout your process, he was flipping through another magazine with a cigarette that was nearly a stub in between his lips.

You let out a dramatic scoff of disappointment as you slumped back in your chair to get his attention. It worked. Joost looked over with furrowed brows.

“Oh, sorry. I’m trying to print out a resume and the wifi disconnected so now I can’t connect to the printer either.” You shrugged and let your hands fall back onto the desk, a little frown on your lips.

Joost let out a small breath before crushing his cigarette into the overfilled ashtray before getting up and coming over. You had to hold back your smile.

He leant over behind you, he’d never done this before. Usually when he was helping someone, he’d just stand to the side and tell them what to click and what to type.

This time, he had his left hand splayed out on one side of the desk, his right doing the same. He had you caged in with his long arms, his face next to yours.

You tried to not let your breath stagger. But failed due to his next move.

He moved his hand onto the mouse, you’d hadn’t moved your house off the mouse yet. You couldn’t move it now. He moved the cursor around and clicked. Acting as if your hand wasn’t even under his at all.

“Even the old ladies here don’t have as many as issues as you do with the computers here.” Joost scoffed out a laugh, his other hand moving to type.

“I guess I just keep choosing the bad computers.” You joked, trying to mask your nervousness.

“Yeah. I guess you just keep thinking you can get away with disconnecting the internet on them too.” He said blankly, your eyes widened. He stopped typing and stopped moving around the mouse.

“You do realize I’m not that oblivious right? I know you’ve been doing this on purpose.” You saw him turn his face to you in your peripheral vision. You kept staring straight, too scared to meet his eyes.

“Come on, liefje. If you wanted my attention to me you could’ve just came up to my desk. You can’t keep messing up the computers, we worked hard to get these, you know?” He was scolding you, yet his tone of voice was soft. It almost sounded like he was trying to reassure you, comfort you.

“I can help you with other things instead of computers. You should’ve just told me what you wanted. A conversation, a smoke, a kiss?” There was no way he said that. He had to be joking.

You tried not to give any physical reaction to his last suggestion, but yet your body betrayed you with the smallest movement. Your eyes flickered down to his lips. Joost grinned.

“All you had to do was ask.” He teased, he brought his face closer, seeing if you’d take the leap of faith and move first. You did.

Your lips eloped around each other, you opened your mouth slightly, allowing his tongue to slip in. Continuing to kiss, you carefully stood up, shoving the chair away with your foot as you tangled your hands into his hair.

His hands moved to your waist, causing your shirt to rise slightly as he moved you back a bit to where the top of your thighs were pressing against the desk. You took one hand out of his hair to push the keyboard behind you, taking a seat on the edge of the desk.

It was embarrassing how quickly he was able to wipe away your bravery and get you flustered instead.

Joost pulled away, eyeing your body up and down. Without warning, he went for your neck. His lips kissing it all over, leaving trails of red spots all over the skin.

Then he pulled away. Stepping back. There was a long moment of confusion and embarrassment as he walked away, then relief as you watched him turn the light up sign that said ‘Open’ off, flip the sign on the door to the side that said ‘Closed! Be back soon!’ and drop the cheap white plastic blinds to cover the glass windows and locked door.

In seconds, his lips were back on you, his hands roaming madly all over your body. They cupped then squeezed your tits roughly, he smiled against your skin when he heard your breath hitch.

At one point he must’ve of taken his fingerless gloves off. You felt the skin of his palms once his hands slipped under the hem of your shirt, rubbing up and down on the smooth skin of your stomach. Waisting no time, he pulled your shirt up and off your body.

“Eager, are we?” You giggled at his rushed movements to unclip your bra next.

“You’ve been giving me those eyes for months.” He said through a breathy chuckle, he was right. You had been giving him fuck-me-eyes since you first saw him, he was pent up, and couldn’t wait any longer.

His large hands grasped your breasts again, he kissed all along your chest, soon taking one nipple in his mouth. Teasing it with his tongue and sucking on it as his hand squeezed the other.

His hand and mouth swapped places, giving your other boob the same treatment. His kisses trailed down and stopped just above the waistband of your sweatpants. You kicked off your shoes, knowing what was next to come. He quickly pulled down your pants, the urgency making you giggle.

You spread your legs farther apart, he pressed a kiss to your clothed cunt. It was oddly….romantic.

He peppered kisses along your thighs as his fingers hooked around your panties, removing them as well. He hooked his arms around your thighs, pulling you down but giving you enough space where you lay back on your elbows on the desk.

He trailed kisses along your thighs, occasionally nipping and biting them before finally bringing his attention to your pussy.

“Cute.” He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t even give you any time to think of what he meant before he dove in and worked his tongue like a madman. His tongue sloppily lapping at your opening as his nose brushed against your clit.

One hand tangled into his hair in response, your nails scratching his scalp. He moaned into your cunt at the feeling, the vibration of his noise adding more to the pleasure.

Your other hand had a white knuckle grasp on the edge of the desk. His mouth was bullying your bud, then his hands pressed against your thighs to prevent you trying to close them.

Worse, he gripped onto the back of your knees, pushing them up to where you could sit the heels on your feet onto the desk edge.

This new position felt lethal, the feeling making you let out a silent scream as your face contort as you mumbled out ‘Oh God’ multiple times.

He only dove deeper, mouth moving to suck on your cunt. You rolled your hips against his face and your hand gripped tighter at his hair as you came. Your head lolled back as you rode through your orgasm. You expected him to stop, to break away from you. But he continued.

He kept lapping at your cunt, his dick painfully hard against his pants due to the pathetic noises you were making. Your legs were already sore from tensing your muscles so much, already a sheen of sweat forming on your skin.

You whined and whimpered and squirmed, trying to close your thighs and push his head away. But nothing could stop him, he was on a fucking roll, drunk off your juices.

In an attempt to get your hand a more stable spot on the desk, you moved it back, accidentally your hand went onto the keyboard behind. The old plastic board slipping and hitting into the neck of the blocky computer. No damage was done, just a bit of a shock to both of you.

“Shit! Sorry!” You giggled nervously, embarrassed at your accident. Joost pulled back and let out a breathy laugh, shaking his head.

Honestly, he was already running out of air, but he had to get that second orgasm out of you. So, he got off his knees, moved his mouth to your tits, and his hand to your cunt.

He rubbed two fingers against your slick before easily slipping them inside you, immediately curling and moving at a quick pace. Your body trembled.

You were already so sensitive, already so close. You wrapped your arm around his neck. He chuckled at you hanging onto him, your nails dug into his shoulder while you tilted and laid on your own upper arm as you mewled and whined.

His eyes never left yours as your jaw hung open and you cried out. Your other hand grabbed onto his wrist as you came undone for the second time.

“Ohhh I know, I know.” He cooed, resting his forehead against your temple, slowing down the movements of his fingers, and whispering praises to you and peppering soft kisses to your cheek and the side of your lips, soon moving your head to kiss you properly.

His movements came to a stop and he pulled his tattooed fingers from you, kissing you firmly but slowly.

“Was that too much? You okay?” He said after breaking away, pressing his forehead to yours.

“No. I’m okay.” You gave him a breathy weak laugh, your eyelids droopy as you stared at him. “We can keep going.”

“You sure?”

“Please, I wanna keep going.” You begged. Joost only smiled before giving you another long passionate kiss before stepping back, taking off his tan jacket, and grabbing you by the hips to turn you around.

You giggled as he pressed a hand to your back, pushing your front to lay on top of the table. The noise of his belt unclipping and hitting the floor along with his pants added 10x more excitement flowing through your veins.

He teased the tip of his cock inside you, then he pulled out. Then he did it a few more times before showing you mercy, rubbing his cock in between your folds before finally sinking into your cunt.

You whined at the stretching sensation. Joost smoothed his hand over the side of your stomach, whispering little encouragements and praises.

“You’re doing perfect, schatje. I know you can take me.” He leaned down to press small pecks to your back.

He gave you a moment to get used to the stretch of him inside you, you nodded as your signal for him to go ahead.

His thrusts started off slow and pulling out slightly, gentle. Then he would pull out all the way and go all the way back in, giving slow deep strokes.

He stopped, then immediately began to thrust into you at a high pace. It caught you off guard and made you arch your back as you cried out.

The room was filled with the sound of skin slapping against skin, your moans and whimpers, and Joosts breathy groans.

Your hips were hitting into the wooden sides of the desk. You let out a small noise of discomfort at one point and Joost noticed.

“You okay?” He asked, his brows furrowing in concern, his pace slowed a bit.

“Mhm. Please don’t stop, don’t- please!” You cried out, your moans were getting much louder now. Your voice nearly echoing throughout the room, embarrassingly. This caused Joost to clamp his cold hand over your mouth and shushed you.

He pulled you up, your back against his chest as he continued to thrust into you, you let out a loud whine against his hand.

“Shhh, you can’t be too loud, liefje. We don’t want anyone outside hearing and knowing what’s going on in here, right?” He turned your head back slightly so you could see him.

You whined into his hand and nodded. Your moans were muffled by his hand, but still loud enough to drive him fucking crazy.

This angle of his cock hitting inside you was overpowering, you lifted your hand up to grab onto his forearm.

“Aw schatje, you gonna cum?” He cooed, not even bothering to try and fight back the toothy grin on his face.

You scrunched your eyes shut, nodding frantically and whining.

As you clenched around him and cried out against his hand, he dug his teeth into your neck, not hard enough to pierce the skin, but a perfect amount of pressure where it was pleasing.

His thrusts slowed and came to a stop once you began to jerk and twitch. He took his hand off your mouth, moving to the center of your chest as his other was wrapped around your waist. Pressing small kisses to the side of your face and neck, occasionally nipping at it.

Surely you would’ve fallen over if it wasn’t for his large hands keeping you pressed against him. Your breath hitched repeatedly and your thighs were shaking against him as he kept himself buried inside you.

Carefully, he helped you lean back down, you kept yourself up using your tired arms.

Without warning, he began to pound into you again, and you began to moan and sob out loudly in pleasure.

His hand was quick to cover your mouth again, you could hear him chuckle behind you.

“Fuck, just a bit longer, liefje. You can hold on for a bit longer, yeah?”

“Mmph, mhm!” You nodded, his hand still covering your mouth. He chose to be evil as his other hand moved to your clit, two fingers rubbing quick circles. You let out an embarrassing squeal.

“Think you can give me one more while you wait?” You didn’t even have to try and give him your answer, you cried out into his hand as you hit your fourth and final orgasm of the night,

At this point, his hand was the only thing keeping your head up. Your lips were smushed against his palm and your eyes were rolling into the back of your head. Your arms were barely enough to keep yourself up.

You were putty in his hands, moaning mindlessly. It was beautiful.

He kept his hand on your mouth while he moved his other from your clit to hold onto your waist, holding onto so tight there’d be marks by morning. He was pulling you back as he thrusted into you.

His movements soon became sloppier and he removed his hand from your mouth so he could grasp onto your waist with both hands.

You clumsily let yourself lay onto the desk, hands tightening into fists, your nails digging into your palms.

Your loud mindless moans and walls squeezing around him pushed him over the edge.

He spilt inside you with an exasperated groan and a few harsh deep thrusts. Giving you one last hard thrust after he finished. Just to get a small yelp out of you. Bastard.

He pressed kisses to your back as you rested the side of your face against the table, laying himself against you but not putting all his weight on top of you. Your body was trembling against him as you both caught your breath.

“Fuck. Still okay?” He checked again after bringing his head up, looking at you sweetly as he smoothed back damp strands of hair away from your face.

“Absolutely. Are you okay?”

“Of course. A bit sweaty, but I feel amazing.” He scoffed playfully.

“I don’t understand how you’re still so cold though. I feel like I’ve been in a sauna.” You laughed, picking your head up.

“I don’t understand either. I’m always cold for some reason.” He lied. He knew the reason.

“You might have an iron deficiency, you should get that checked out.” You joked, a lazy grin on your face.

“Probably should.” He grinned back before leaning back up, pulling out slowly and apologizing quietly when he heard you wince.

You pushed yourself up using your hands, stabilizing yourself for a second then grabbing your shirt and bra that both had landed onto the privacy wall next to the computer.

By the time you turned around, Joost already had one glove back on (the hand that didn’t finger you), put back on his pants and tan jacket. He was holding your sweatpants and underwear.

Jesus Christ, he moved fast.

“Sit down, you’re too shaky. Let me help.” He suggested, you leaned back against the desk again.

He bent down, holding your ankle softly to help you step into your panties, sliding them up and doing the same with your sweatpants. And he put your shoes back on for you.

It was silly watching him be so gentle despite that a moment ago he was just pounding into you so hard that the entire row of computers were shaking.

He stood up and tucked away a few stray hairs that had fallen in front of your face. You wrapped your arms around his shoulders lazily, his hands moved to your waist, thumbs rubbing over the fabric. The gears were turning in his head, he was hesitant to speak.

“So…you’ll be back tomorrow? Cause- I mean- I don’t mind that you stay longer than most customers. I really don’t mind at all.” He nervously shrugged, looking away from your eyes and fidgeting with the hem of your shirt.

He was flustered. Cute.

“Maybe, will I get a discount?” You teased, tilting your head at him. Giving him a dramatic pout for extra measure.

“I’ll think about it.” He narrowed his eyes playfully and bit back a smile. It was definitely a yes.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

I saw your one post about Yuu getting super powers. I don't think it's very likely as well. I think it's largely thanks to western storytelling expectations and tropes for the western audience.

In a lot of western YA or Middle Grade books, the protagonist in a fantasy series will start off as ordinary, standing out and never fitting in. It turns out that they are indeed special and powerful in their own right. Think Harry Potter, Percy Jackson, Clary Fray, and the list goes on and on.

There are also times when the protagonist is forced to change forms literally to become more powerful. For example, Feyre from ACOTAR starts out as a simple human. But then, she is killed off, and then is brought back to life as a High Fae. Same goes for Bella from Twilight where she dies during childbirth to a demon spawn, and then she is transformed into a vampire.

Western audiences are expecting something similar to happen. But, it's not very likely due to "main character" and individualism not being as much of a thing in East Asia. I've never seen as many stories like that from Japan as I have from the west out of all of my years of being a manga/anime fan.

Although, having said that, Yuu is still something to be desired writing wise. I still wish that Yuu had more of an impact on the plot and had more personality than a tuna can. I don't expect them to be a fully fledged character on par with the rest of the cast. Even other otome and JRPG self inserts like Persona 5 I feel are better written than them, because they matter more and the dialogue choices impact the game more. They are the main character. Act like it!

[Referencing this post!]

There's certain genres of animanga that have those power fantasy/wish fulfillment tropes that we see in western media. A big one that comes to mind are fantasy isekais where the main character tends to be a weirdo or a loner that's actually super powerful/smart and quickly amasses a group of doting anime girls to fawn over him (although now isekai is much more diversified as a genre). It's definitely not just something exclusive to western media, although I will say maybe it's more prevalent in the west (again, due to differences in cultural values).

I feel like we need to remember that Twst is ultimately Japanese media, so it will most likely default to Japanese storytelling conventions and trends, not western ones. While it's fine to wish for a different version of events or to dislike the current version, we should be careful to not let personal frustrations turn into demands to cater to those wishes.

I will say that I've noticed the localization attempts to give Yuu more... character? Many of Yuu's dialogue options are written to be more sarcastic than they originally were. The JP dialogue options are much more neutral. Here are some examples from book 1 alone:

After fighting some mob students in the cafeteria, Yuu has "Even though we were just told to not get into fights" and "I thought we were done for..." as options. In EN, Yuu's options are, "What happened to 'no more incidents'?" and "I guess this is my life now. *Sigh*". You can see how Yuu reads as sassier or more fed up in the latter, even if the same overall message is conveyed.

When seeing Jack for the first time, Yuu's Japanese options are "He has dog ears!?" and "A muscular guy with dog ears is a new sight". In EN, the top option is basically the same, but the second option becomes "Muscly dog man, sure why not."

Other dialogue options change entirely. For example, when Leona threatens to claim a tooth as retribution for Yuu stepping on his tail, our options are, "EEEEEH!!" and "H-He's going to hit us!" EN's options become much more humorous, with Yuu either claiming "Please! I don't have dental insurance!" or "I can't afford to pay anything!"

These are just a few examples, and not even all of the dialogue options in book 1 that exemplify what I’m talking about. I hope that this helps illustrate what I mean!

I think it can be argued that Yuu does have an impact on the plot, but the way the story is written doesn’t grant them much agency. There are points where Yuu makes decisions of their own volition but then the story never commits to letting them be entirely independent. For example, a lot of players like book 3 because they feel it is when Yuu is the most involved in the story. They make the decision to make a deal with Azul, and then they contribute to figuring out a way to outwit him—but then in later books, Yuu basically stands there doing nothing (lookin’ at you specifically, book 5). Yuu also doesn’t get to spend a lot of alone time with the characters to actually… I don’t know, influence their change and growth? Their activity and involvement is just wildly inconsistent. I have my own gripes with how Yuu is written and proposed my own ideas for how I would change them. If you’re interested in reading that, the post is here.

It might not be the best to compare Yuu to otome and JRPG self inserts 💦 In otomes (or general dating sims; I’d like to be inclusive of my non-women audience), romance is the primary objective. Of course the self-insert player character will be the center of the story and the one that the other characters will revolve around. JRPGs are typically console games; they have more bandwidth to go bigger and be more ambitious with their stories + gameplay than your average visual novel style mobile gacha game. (I specify “average” because I know there are now open world and 3D style gacha games.) The story of every game is also different and might call for different kinds of main characters to most effectively tell us its tale. Having an active main character isn’t needed for every story, and nor does having an active character automatically make a story better.

I’ve noticed that we commonly conflate the terms “main character” and “protagonist”, especially when it comes to Yuu. To clarify, the “main character” is the one whose perspective the story is primarily told (ie our POV character). A “protagonist” is who the story is actually about, the person who drives the story forward. “Protagonists” are the ones facing challenges and undergoing significant change in the story. A “main character” and a “protagonist” may be the same person, but they could also be separate people.

Yuu may be the “main character” in the sense that we see the story mainly through them (as someone who is brand new to Twisted Wonderland, much like the player is). This makes Yuu an excellent sponge and prompter for lore and explanations to be dropped on us. However, I don’t think that Yuu is also a “protagonist” for most of the game. I would say that the protagonists are the main cast of NRC students, especially the OB boys. These are the characters the story truly centers on, and this is reflected across events and vignettes as well. Yuu appears in very few vignettes and is often a footnote conveniently dragged along on events. So much of Twst’s content revolves around the boys, their relationships to one another, and how they develop and better themselves. Does Yuu play a part in that, no matter how minor? Yes. Does Yuu also form friendships with these boys? Also yes. But this is not the bulk of game content, nor what most of the conflicts or solutions focus on. So 💦 Yuu definitely “acts like a main character” (ie being the lens we view the story through), but doesn’t “act like a protagonist” (ie is active in the story and pushes it forward, is the one that significantly changes, etc).

[cheriladycl01]

Better than me - Charles Leclerc x Reader P11

Plot: You are a rookie in your first f1 season, adding to the ever-growing amount of Brits performing in the grid

A/N: I feel like i haven't posted in so long because ive been stuck on this one chapter, and where the season isn't on right now i've distanced myself from F1 a little. I know this chapter is short but i fear its what i needed to get myself writing for F1 again.

You sat politely in the media pen, with a bottle of water before being directed next to Lando for a seat.

All of the media came in ready to start asking questions and interviewing you guys for the media panel.

It was the first race back for you where you’d actively talked to the media so it was a little nerve wracking knowing that you’d be asked if you were truly ready to come back or if it would be more beneficial for you to take some more time off and wait.

Having people like Lando was helpful as he was one of the people who checked up on you while you were out of races, he’d never spent prolonged periods of times away from the races when everyone else was racing so he didn’t actually know what it felt like.

But he of course wasn't Charles.

After your last conversation with the Ferrari driver he had become someone you thought about far too often for your own liking. He was constantly in the back of your mind and it was becoming very annoying.

And now that you were here, at a race and going to be back in the first time since your crash you saw him everywhere. And not just as a physical person, he was on the merch in the fan zone, and his face was plastered all over banners and every Ferrari you saw drive through the streets had you holding your breath wondering whether it could be him.

It never was, strangely since arriving on the Tuesday you never saw him. You couldnt really tell what would be better though. A large part of you wanted to see him, yell at him, hug him and be comforted by him. Another part of you just really wanted to ignore him and forget he even existed.

But at the end of the day, yours and Charles relationship in the short time you knew one another had been chaotic to say the least with everything that had gone on in your first season in F1.

Drive to survive could most likely do a whole series just on you this one season and all the scandals that had arose.

"Y/N? It's great to see you here" the interviewer smiles kindly at you, you give a polite nod back raising the mic up to your face.

"And it feels great to finally be back after all this time" you grin, putting on the face people wanted to see.

"Yeah? Do you feel like you've given yourself enough time away to heal. Do you feel confident getting back in the car?" he asks and you nod, head tilted to the side in a thoughtful way.

"I do. I think all drivers will agree that when something sets you back you pretty much everything to get back to where you were at. A lot set me back this year and i feel better than ever and get back to what I know which is the racing" you answer with a small smile.

"It's crazy how quickly the body can recover and mentally how you can come back from something like that" he praises and you nod, not sure if it was a question or not.

"It's obviously different because the stakes are higher, but if you had an accident in your workplace im sure once you've healed you'd go right back to the job in a muscle memory way with a little more caution at the back of your mind" you explain.

He moves on asking questions to the other drivers meaning you were free to zone out and look around calming your mind for the weekend ahead.

After what felt like hours too you, the panel ended and you were dismissed back to the garage. You had a snack before wondering around looking at the car and getting a feel for it. Every weekend you had been here and not driving, just looking at the data had you itching to get back in the car.

Now that you were here you wanted to sit back in the car. You hopped in to the cockpit your hand running round the halo as you slip your feet down. It felt weird being sat in the car in your team gear and not in the racesuit, but just holding the wheel and checking all the buttons were still in the same place as when you'd left, which looking back on after you'd checked you felt silly.

"Feeling ready for the actual test tomorrow?" Alex asks coming over from his side of the garage, having been watching you for the last 5 minutes wondering if too bother you or not.

"Mmmm? Oh yeah i think so, just a lot on my mind" you say looking up at the boy who'd become like an older brother too you.

"You're gonna be just fine. You'll prove them all wrong" Alex grins and you cock your head to the side in confusion.

"I don't even know who i have to prove myself too anymore. I- just wanna drive with no expectation but i cant really do that here can i" you laugh a little bit.

"I mean, you could. Not sure how long you'd have this job for though" he jokes and you nod.

"Mmmm yeah i guess i should try. Maybe we can even gets some points tomorrow. I do feel like i've let you all down"

"You haven't, you've been healing and having a difficult time from ... what Lily's told me" he admits slowly your head shooting out to look at him.

"Sh-she told you?" You ask.

"Yeah, I know that you didn't want her to, don't take this oiut on her but she was worried about you going into this weekend and seeing him after what happened and i just wanted to let you know i am here for you and always will be. Whatever you need, an escape, a hug, a tow. I am more than just your teammate okay?" he explains rubbing your shoulder, tears filling up your waterline as you look up at him, before you head flops againt his arm.

"Thank you Alex" you sniff.

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