#Think about why you are tempted to something

[deathbyathousandspiders]

death of a hero. ₂

mcu!peter parker x fem!stark!reader | boy in the bubble part two.

IN WHICH after getting attacked, you find out that your dad & peter have kept spider–man’s identity a secret.

author's note — highly recommend reading part one first!! this cured my writer's block !! part three coming soon!!! :)

WARNINGS (18+ MDNI) — hurt reader [physically/emotionally], swearing, mentions of blood, a flashback to homecoming, lots & lots & lots of angst.

read part one here.

gif found here.

✨masterlist.✨

3.4k.

Never in your life did you think you’d be targeted and attacked, then be smiling by the end of the night. You couldn’t fight the small grin touching your lips, couldn’t stop the butterflies that numbed each wound still scarring your body. 

Somehow, despite it all, Peter’s words gave you something to hold onto, something to keep you going—something hopeful. It gave you something to rewrite the painful narrative that your attacker had spat at you just an hour earlier. 

“What a weak, pathetic excuse for a Stark.”

“You’ve seen the unthinkable, are still going, and you think you’re weak? Impossible.”

Once you finally got to the stairs to shower, you tried to swing your leg up, immediately met with a harsh reminder of how bad your bruises would be tomorrow. 

A wince parted your lips, sparking from the ache in your right hip and the direct strike it sent to the wound on your torso. 

Perhaps you needed Peter’s help after all. 

Taking a breath, you felt less hesitant than before to ask for help. It wasn’t like you had anything else to hide—you were tattered and torn up, topless and sticky with blood. 

Besides, you were used to walking with the weight of the wounds, at this point. You cut the distance to the kitchen in a matter of slow seconds. 

“Whoever attacked her tonight planned this.” Peter’s words made you pause just outside the entryway, hidden behind the wall just beyond. You blinked a bit, immediately feeling the weight of their conversation. “It wasn’t by chance, she was targeted–” 

“You don’t know that—” Even as he cut Peter off, your dad’s response was cut short. 

“And you don’t either!” Both of the boys in the kitchen held something urgent to their words; the same sense of urgency that laced the undertones between them all evening. 

Whatever conversation you were overhearing, you knew in your bones that they didn’t want you to hear it. 

Sucks for them. 

Peter continued: “The way she’s acting.. Something’s off about what happened.” Your blood froze to ice at the sentence. “And I think she deserves to know why I wasn’t there to defend her tonight.”

Thick silence swelled in the room, and you suddenly feared that your racing heartbeat would interrupt it. You had to remind yourself to breathe, and remind yourself to be quiet. 

As tempted as you were to step in and ask questions, you knew that whatever they were keeping from you was more likely to be discovered from where you were. 

Somehow, this was something they wanted to hide from you. The secret, whatever it was, made the air around you feel slimmer and heavy all at once. It sent your thoughts into a spiral, and an urge to question the two people closest to you. 

“Look, kid. I don’t blame you for what happened tonight.” Tony took words from you that you hadn’t even known how to phrase to Peter yet. It sent a twinge to your heart, draped your panic in sympathy for him. 

“I know.” You could tell Peter needed to hear the words, even if he didn’t know how to admit it. 

“As much as I agree with your conspiracy theories on Y/N’s attacker, I don’t know if coming clean about everything will solve this.” 

Something sunk in you, deflated your spirits. It hurt that they’d hid this from you—whatever it was—and had been lying for God knows how long. 

You could hear the jab in Peter’s own optimism when he spoke up again. “Then when do you plan to tell her?” At least, he was trying to come clean. 

“I don’t know..” Your dad was honest, and sullen about it. It only added to your confusion. 

Perhaps, they weren’t going to tell you ever. Maybe if you just revealed yourself and asked your own questions, you’d actually get somewhere. 

Peeling yourself off the wall and taking a few steps into frame, both Peter and your dad were completely oblivious to you. 

Despite how you stepped into view, they remained focused on the conversation, and your dad continued. “I’ll tell you what: you tell me how you’d suggest telling Y/N you’re Spider–Man, and I’ll consider it–”

The whole world stopped moving. 

“Peter’s what?”

You could’ve thrown up at the realization, at how cold and hollow the room suddenly became. The secret was out, and the quick and wide eyes that fell to you told you just how vital this secret was. 

Peter was Spider–Man. 

Even as you stared at him, eyes as wide as his, you couldn’t shake it. Your best friend was Spider–Man, working alongside your father and found family. 

The two of you held eye contact, trying to read the other. You could read the remorse and apology and panic swelling in his wide–eyed stare, but you hoped that some of the anger building in your own was silently translated regardless. 

Your dad tried to clear his throat, tried to slice through the rousing tension between the two of you, but you didn’t break from it in the slightest. 

“Dinner’s ready.” Tony tried to make a joke. To joke at a time like this, as if he wasn’t an accomplice. As if he wasn’t keeping this from you, arguably more than Peter had been. 

It was the last straw you’d been offering, swiped from your hands and dissipating with your patience. 

You scoffed, tears finally finding your eyes. The heat of them was boiled by rage, and you didn’t have the decency to hide it. “Fuck off.” 

The room was too hard to stand in. You walked away, reminded of why you were even standing in the kitchen in the first place. 

Pain itched its way up your priority list, but you didn’t care; finding a way up the stairs was the least of your worries. You were more concerned with how quickly you could get away. 

Especially as you could hear Peter calling after you, following the path you were carving between you. 

“Y/N!” He spoke your name like a plea, like it would somehow apologize for all the dirt you’d uncovered. The sound of his voice, however, only seemed to drive you further from him. 

It split your heart into more pieces than you knew how to count. 

You already battled the insecurity of being weak. A weak, pathetic excuse for a Stark. With all the time you spent in the compound, with your friends and family, you were one of the only powerless people among them. This whole time, you thought Peter understood. 

You thought the insecurity was shared, reciprocated. 

Clearly, you were wrong and an idiot. You were the only one powerless among them. 

It made you feel so stupid; to see all the inside jokes tossed over your head, to see every stupid excuse he made thrown back in your face, and he had the audacity to be sorry?

Damn right, he should be. 

Peter’s touch felt like sandpaper to your skin as he reached for your hand. You yanked it out, not bothering to turn around. 

You tried to be strong and suck up the pain, wanted more than anything to run up the stairs and lock yourself in your room—two quick steps up the stairwell and the adrenaline wore off. You slowed your pace, fighting off the wincing, and wanting anything but to ask for help from Spider–Man. 

“Y/N, please.” His voice broke, and you felt sinister to think him deserving of it. “Please, I– I wanted to tell you, I promise–“

He must’ve been surprised when you turned around, at the speed you pivoted, at how intense your expression came across, because he startled. 

Your eyes held no response to the hot tears flooding from them, only holding space for the anger and hurt you didn’t have the energy to hide from him. 

“Promise?” The word came out whispered, threatening to break just as his words did. “You promise, just like how we promised to tell each other everything?” You saw each stab of each word and exactly where it hit on him, especially as your voice grew in volume. “Just like how you promised I wasn’t weak, when clearly, you know damn well how ironic that is!”

Twin tears slid down the length of his face, and you caught the subtle tremble in his bottom lip that he tried so hard to hide. “Please..” Now he was the one whispering, and you wish it sounded as satisfying as you wanted it to. 

“Don’t fucking sit there and act like you’re the hero here, Peter..” You couldn’t help the growl, couldn’t help the distaste inking down your body. Sure, you’d been hit with a knife just an hour prior in the evening, but you didn’t feel stabbed in the gut until now. “Don’t act like you understand shit about how I’m feeling right now!”

From just beyond, Tony started walking over, stepping quickly. “Hang on, Kid.” He cut in, stopping just a few paces behind Peter. “Don’t blame Peter for this.” His words practically turned up the heat on your burning rage. It was an effort to keep from boiling over. “I was the one who told him to keep quiet.”

The shakiest breath you’d taken all night forced its way down your throat. You finally pulled your eyes from Peter, watching your own father flinch at just how hurt you were. “No, you were the one who decided to be selfish!”

The room had never been so quiet, even the walls and the city beyond hushed to listen. 

“I don’t care who you thought you were saving here, but it wasn’t me.” Perhaps rage wasn’t the word you should use to describe the venom dripping off your words. You were seething, a mixture of betrayal and downright distraught. 

“I am not useless.” You felt the need to emphasize; to you, or the two faulty in front of you, no one could tell. “I may be the only powerless person in the fuck ass Avengers, but at least I’m fucking honest.”

When you met Peter’s eyes again, you almost couldn’t keep your composure. Maybe he was breaking apart just as quickly as you were, but you didn’t put in effort to hold room for an apology for him. You didn’t see the need to give one at all. 

“I’m sorry..” He couldn’t bring his voice above a whisper, above the tremble shaking each breath he took. And watching the way your father’s posture craned in sympathy to it finally gave you a cue to leave. You couldn’t take it anymore. 

You glanced between both of them, still ignoring the consistent stream of tears dripping off your nose and chin. “You both fucking should be.”

Holding your head high, you made your way up the stairs, pausing three steps up your trek when you heard a singular step in your direction. 

“Don’t fucking follow me.”

And you didn’t look back. 

The second you shut and locked your bedroom door, unshakable sobs spilled from your throat and choked you dry. You had never felt so isolated, so alone, and so pained. 

Truly, you did not know how it would get better from here, and all you wanted was to be held. 

You didn’t even know who you'd talk to about this. This betrayal stretched across every person you trusted, further than your eyesight. 

It was stupid, and you blamed yourself, but all you wanted to do was talk to Peter. 

Maybe not about it or to confront it right then, but you suddenly missed him and his support. You felt like that had been stripped away from you. 

You weren't sure how to trust him anymore, let alone anyone else who hid this from you.

It didn’t help that you replayed countless upon countless interactions—with your father, with Ned, and with Peter Parker Spider–Man himself. 

It reminded you of the last time you were mad at Peter, three years prior. 

At the Washington Monument. 

You remember him flaking on the academic decathlon, and flaking the night before. You were upset because he was obviously hiding something and he wouldn’t tell you what. 

“You promised we’d hang out tonight.” You remember calling after him, walking half the length of the hotel hallway after him, too. “I feel like I haven’t seen you all week!”

Peter was a pro at walking backwards, then and now, and as you always knew him to be. Even as you knew him as a klutz, even as it led him to keep walking away from you. “I’ll be back soon. I promise!”

It felt unfair to him to get frustrated with him, but you were. You were upset. “What? So your promises mean nothing?” 

That got him to stop. 

“What? No!” Defense, immediately. His eyes displayed more apology than his lips did, taking steps towards you. “I just.. I have to go, and I can explain it later–”

Your head shook at him. Whatever sparked you to feel upset had been growing for a while. It had been growing since he started ditching you a few months prior. “That’s what you said last time.” There was hurt in your voice, and you know he heard it. 

“But I–”

“We promised to tell each other everything.” You recalled your childhood together, your friendship before you started growing up. The two of you had known each other since elementary school, so changes like this was inevitable. It wasn't fair to hold him to the same standards you used to. “But if you want to go, don’t expect me to be buddy-buddy when you get back.”

You remember how it felt to walk away, but you remembered how it felt to hear him leave even more. That was harmful. 

He was entitled to grow up, just as you were, but the shifty way he started growing distant from you got you overthinking. 

It got you nervous that maybe he was seeing someone, and that hurt more than anything else. Especially that he was hiding it from you. 

What sucked the most was that Peter wasn’t back soon, or even that night. 

In fact, he wasn’t even at the academic decathlon. 

Part of you was relieved to get space from him, seeing how difficult all these feelings were to process; another part worried about him, but every time your anxiety would fester, something would serve a reminder of why you were upset in the first place. 

You won the decathlon without him. As you should.

After that, your team went to the Washington Monument, and Ned swore that Peter would meet you all there. 

“Look!” Ned tried to convince you, tried to break your unamused expression. “His location says he’s almost here.” And the phone screen he flashed at you proved honesty. Peter was minutes away. 

Before you could muster a response, Ned’s screen changed, and Peter was calling him. 

There was an awkward exchange of glances between the two of you before Ned answered the call and you walked through the metal detectors. 

“Peter, are you okay?” You couldn’t help but eavesdrop. You missed a phrase or two while security patted down your blazer. All you caught was Ned muttering a subtle “I covered for you,” and then Liz Allen taking the phone from his hands. 

Something hollow carved into your stomach at the sight, and you began to speculate whether Liz was the girl he was sneaking off with or not. 

You didn’t wait to find out. You walked right into the elevator, joining the rest of your decathlon group. 

You didn’t remember much about the trip up the elevator, all you remember was light emitting out of Ned’s backpack and something radioactive blasting right into the roof of the cart. 

Suddenly, with trembling limbs and a newfound panic, your squabble with Peter Parker seemed more than minuscule. Regret was quick to fill that hollowing pit in your gut. 

You’d blacked out a lot of those scarce moments in the elevator. But you remembered when it was safe enough to move, the security guard began to open the hatch at the top of the elevator cart, and one by one help your classmates out. 

It wasn’t until there were four of you left in the elevator that it finally fell down the shaft towards your demise. There, in that Monument, you would die with Ned, Liz, and your teacher, Mister Harrington, you were sure of it. 

You’d never forget the relief you’d felt at the sight of red and blue rushing toward you, plummeting quicker than you were, and webbing your way to safety. 

It felt odd to look back on, knowing now that it was Peter who pulled that elevator up to your safety. How you were only concerned then with apologizing to Peter Parker, who glanced at you there from beneath that mask, completely unbeknownst to you. 

Once he’d gotten you up to the top of the Monument, Ned was the first to leap out to safety, then Mister Harrington. The two of them helped Liz get out, and to your luck, just as you took a step forward, the webs above you snapped. 

You and Spider–Man fell with a blood curdling scream breaking through you. 

“NO!!” He called after you, and quickly shot a web up to the roof again. His other arm reached out toward you, webbing your wrist rather quickly, keeping you from falling any further. 

“It’s okay. You’re okay– I got you. You're okay..” He told you, his tone as gentle and soft as you knew it to be; yet, not a single thought crossed your mind that it was Peter Parker. 

You shakily dangled beneath him as he tugged you up from that web. You fought to look up at him, to keep yourself from looking down; you fought to keep the tears at bay as the shock flooded from your system. 

The second your hands touched, he pulled you up and into him. You wasted no time before wrapping your arms around him, hugging him for dear life. And it made sense, now, why he felt so familiar—why his warmth was so comforting, and why his arm around your waist felt like it belonged there. 

He held you securely, lulling those reassurances to you, pulling the two of you up to safety at the top of that Monument. 

Just before he set you down, you held him tighter. “Pe–Peter!” You gasped, and felt every muscle beneath your hold tense. 

Now, you knew why. 

You pulled back from his arms, “Peter Parker, my– my best friend! He was on his way over here.” Your voice shook as you explained, but watching him carefully set you on the ground helped to steady yourself a little. “Can you make sure– Could you make sure that he’s okay?”

Looking back, the reason why Spider–Man gaped at you so long must’ve been Peter contemplating whether or not to tell you who he was right then and there. He stared at you, beneath that mask, for what felt like minutes. 

He gave a singular, upside down, nod. “I can do that, ma’am.” And his thick, Bronx, accent threw you off more than you wanted to admit. 

Then he fell down the empty shaft of the elevator. 

You’d never forget the moment he found you after that. 

You had just gotten out of the Monument. With a shaky hand, you went through your phone to track Peter’s location. It said he was a matter of meters from you, but you couldn’t spot him in the crowd. 

Just as you went to ask Ned, Peter’s voice hollered out, calling your name. 

Both of you turned in his direction, the crowd of people parting for him as he ran over to you, catching you in a bone–crushing hug. One of his hands cradled your head into his chest, and the other kept itself snug around your waist, just like Spider–Man had earlier. "I'm so glad you're okay.." He whispered it into your hairline, just for you to keep.

The world washed away in the arms of Peter Parker. You couldn’t help but wrap your arms around him, too, hugging him effortlessly closer. Apologies from your argument the night before fell from your lips, and he also followed suit. 

You recalled that memory as something that defined how you and Peter operated—no matter what, you couldn’t stay mad at him. 

You would always find a way to forgive him. 

Now, remembering the incident was a bit more haunting. There was no telling how you and Peter would come back from this, nor just how long you’d go without each other.

And you didn't think Spider–Man would get you out of it, this time.

tag–list: @yourfavoritefangirl @inkedeye2345 @wxnterwidow333 @generalmoonpolice @elianamarie-blog

comment for the part three tag list;)

[smashing-teacups]

Epilogue: A Breath of Snow and Christmas

A/N: At long last, a happy ending for our favorite couple and their family in A Breath of Snow and Christmas. ❤️🎄I know we all need as much joy and distraction as we can get at the moment. Hope you've enjoyed the journey!

“We can’t get through the fire, Milord!” I cried, holding an arm up to shield my face. “What should we do?!”

Crouched behind the recliner a few feet away, Da adjusted the tied-together masks he was using as a knight’s visor. “Aye, this dragon’s a fearsome beast,” he agreed, and right on cue, Mom growled and gnashed her teeth. “But we’ve no choice. We must free the princess from its vile clutches!”

The princess was too little to be any good at playing pretend; turning around in the dragon’s lap, she stuck a hooked finger into its mouth and pried it open. “‘Gain? ‘Gain, Mama? Go raaaaaawr!”

The dragon roared again on demand, and my baby sister clapped. “Oh, goo’ job!”

“As ye can plainly see, the princess is in distress,” Da pressed on, blue eyes glittering. He was much better than me at staying in the game; I had to smash a hand over my mouth to cover a laugh. “We’ll have to devise a clever plan to get past the dragonfire. Have ye the magic wand, lad?”

Da was always throwing curveballs at me like that — he hadn’t said anything about a magic wand before we started the game. I looked around super fast, trying to find something that would work. “Umm…” Eyes landing on the bedside table, I gave a triumphant “aha!” and snatched up an empty saline flush. “Got it, Milord!”

“Well done. Now, on the count o’ three, I’ll jump out and distract the dragon. Once she’s turned away, you’ll cast the freezing spell. ‘Stad,’ ye tell it. ‘Stad!’” I repeated the Gaelic for him, and he nodded in approval. “You’ve got it. At the ready, then. One, two—”

“Fwee!” the tiny princess squealed, throwing her hands up.

“Over here, ye demon-breathed beastie!” Da taunted as he popped out from behind the recliner to jump around and make a scene. “Why don’t ye pick on someone yer own size?”

Dragon-Mom looked him up and down, thinking about it. “Hmm. Well, it’s a tempting offer. There is more flesh on you, which means more barbecue for me…” Just as she started to crawl down the hospital bed toward him, I leaped out from my hiding place behind the couch bed.

“Stad!” I bellowed, pointing my saline wand at her and wishing there was some water left in it; I would have caught her by surprise and squirted it at her and got the best shocked face. Mom made a really hilarious face anyway when I froze her, holding her mouth open in a wide snarl as her whole body went stiff. Da did chuckle out loud then, fishing his phone out of his pocket to snap a picture.  

“Get out of here with that!” Mom smacked at him, laughing too, and I took my chance — she was too distracted to notice when I snuck up behind her to grab the princess and her IV pole and run to ‘base’ at the window bench.

Keep reading...

[lsunstreakerl]

I'm not sure if this is because I have a lot of sympathy for Lewis, want him to hurt, get a hug (or all of the above) but I could absolutely see him tempted to go on a bender after he learns.

Like right after Max leaves, the silence he leaves in his wake. How does he even move on from that? Maybe I'm not a well-adjusted person but I would go on a bender from hell after that.

uhhhh I think I checked all of the above here :)

Nico clears his throat behind him.

Lewis is standing in the hallway still, feet rooted to the floor, Roscoe in his arms.

"Lew- I think you should come back inside."

Nico's voice is soft, gentle behind him. Nico hasn't been gentle with him in years. Decades, even.

Lewis wonders what it says that he's doing it now.

He swallows, a lump in his throat as he turns, letting Roscoe back down to the floor as he steps inside the flat.

Everything feels like it's underwater, through layers of muffled noise. Nothing like the actual race day, when he thought his eardrums would burst from the cheers, because he won Silverstone, his home, took the cocky brat down a few pegs-

Lewis feels like he's splintering. Not a cocky brat-

Max.

Not down a few pegs-

Slammed into his car, slammed into the walls, rattled inside his helmet at 51g, snapped so hard his eyes are damaged and his brain is damaged and he's out, out for good-

"Lewis, you're shaking."

Nico's hand rests softly onto Lewis' shoulder, and he recoils from the touch, because he has no right, none, to get soft things right now, not when he's-

When he's-

"Nico,"

His voice wavers, slightly wet, and Lewis hasn't felt like this in a long time, where everything is quiet and still, where he feels like he's teetering on the edge of... something.

He feels like a balloon, like everything inside him is expanding and won't stop, and the pressure is almost too much-

"What if I'd killed him."

His voice cracks, and it's- it's fucking eating away at him, started splintering inside as Max had walked away.

His sweater is still damp where Max had cried into his shoulder.

Seeking comfort, comfort from Lewis, even though it was Lewis who hit him, Lewis who lost himself in adoring hands-

He feels his nails digging into his palms.

Every pat on the shoulder, every adoring fan, and Max had probably received the same amount of hands on him, but it wasn't love, it was medical gloves and equipment, it was monitors and medicine, because-

Because of Lewis.

Max could have died, and Lewis wouldn't have known, and still he'd wanted Lewis to forgive him, like there was anything there Max needed to be forgiven for.

He blinks rapidly, and suddenly Nico is in front of him, arms wrapping around his waist.

"It's okay, Lew. Let it out."

Lewis doesn't want to let it out, Lewis wants to shove it in a box and let it fester, wants to never touch it again.

When he breathes out it's a sob, and he's gripping Nico as he squeezes his eyes shut, because for the second time tonight someone is going to cry about this accident.

"Fuck, Nico."

He takes another rattling inhale, and then he's stepping away, slams his closed fist onto the marble countertop.

"Fuck!"

He turns back, and he's sure his eyes are wild based on the way Nico is watching him warily, but he doesn't care.

"What is with this damn sport, huh? What is it about these fucking cars and these teams, why does it just- just eliminate the humanity in any of us?"

"Lewis-"

"I never once checked on him, and it's not because it was water under the bridge, it's because I didn't fucking want to know, because I'm not stupid, none of us are, we all should've known there would be serious consequences from that kind of crash-"

He hits the countertop again, feels it all cracking and crumbling to pieces inside of him.

"This sport, man. It turns kids into enemies- he was never- I shouldn't have-"

Nico steps closer, still wary, but his hand is gentle on Lewis' shoulder.

"You're not above it, Lewis. It does that to all of us."

Lewis sinks into the barstool, head in his hands.

"I'm supposed to be better than that, Nico."

"You can't be everything at once."

He laughs, but it's cracked and brittle.

"And whose expense is that at, huh? Certainly not mine."

[cuffmeinblack]

Sated

Emmrich Volkarin x f!reader

Tags: explicit | sex | fingering | hand kink | teasing

2.48k words (ao3 link)

A/n: Sorry HogLeg followers, this had to be done.

The dim corridor stretched before you, a sliver of light dancing across the stone floor, beckoning. All was quiet, not even Taash’s snores to mask your footfalls as you approached the door you knew all too well. Often had you found yourself drawn to this very spot, unable to articulate why you sought his comforting presence. You would watch him read or weave his magic, and he would allow it without complaint, only a wry smile upon his beautifully distinguished face.

And tonight, you were so very tired, body drawn so tight that the very mention of Gods or Venatori might send you spiralling into a pit of despair; a day spent slaughtering would do that to a person. So you lingered by that door, placed a palm upon the wood and sighed.

“Rook?”

The voice came from within and you jolted back, contemplating running back the way you came. Instead, the voice lured you further with promises of softly spoken words and the ghost of a touch upon your skin. This little game you played, this dance of desires, was as agonising as it was enticing. There was thrill in the chase, the longing. Your skin tingled before you even laid eyes upon him, and pushed open the door.

“I thought it was you,” Emmrich said. “I could sense your presence, dear.”

He stood by the fire, his back turned to you whilst absorbed in something you couldn't see. Even after hours of battle he remained pristine; freshly bathed, hair combed and clothes neat. You took tentative steps towards him, pulse already racing and stomach clenching with anticipation. His jewellery glinted by the light of the flame, and you saw that he was holding a book. Of course.

“What are you reading?” you asked, wishing that he would turn to you.

“A tedious tome, I'm afraid. Though it might very well prove useful, so unfortunately I must persevere.”

His fingers skimmed the page, dancing over the words as if conducting a symphony. Dexterous fingers that had occupied your thoughts for weeks. The scent of ink and old parchment filled your nostrils and you shivered, watching him splay the pages with erotic curiosity.

Emmrich finally turned to you with a friendly smile that quivered upon meeting your gaze. 

“Are you quite alright?” he asked with a hint of concern.

No, you weren't. But there was little to be done about the hunger that clawed at your chest, night and day. “I'm fine,” you said instead.

His head tilted to one side to regard you, his hand stilled upon the page as you watched in rapt fascination. Those hands might have been able to unravel the tension knitting every muscle in your body, with little more than a curl of his fingers. Molten desire flooded your veins, burning your skin, and an ache settled low in your abdomen. No soft words and pleasant company would be enough for you tonight.

“I don't think you are…” 

Emmrich snapped the book shut and placed it upon his chair, stalking towards you. He stopped only inches away and frowned, as if examining a specimen for its ailments. Your eyelids drooped to be so close, caught in the maelstrom of his presence. His lips, so tempting, parted.

“Oh.”

You blinked. “Hm?”

Emmrich smiled and brought a hand to your cheek, catching you unawares. Knuckles skimmed across your skin, a ring-clad finger resting below your chin.

“I can practically feel the warmth radiating from your skin, darling. Your pupils dilated, that nervous energy.” He chuckled. “If I didn't know better I would say you came here seeking…relief.”

“Would that be so unbelievable?” you asked, fingers daring to reach out, to pick at the buttons of his waistcoat.

“Perhaps. I thought you enjoyed our flirtations, but I admit I had no idea that you were serious—”

“I'm serious.” 

Don't make me beg.

He took that half step forward to close the distance between you, his breath ghosting the skin of your cheek. Instinctively, your head lolled to expose your neck, exposing your vulnerability, a soft and shuddering sigh escaping your lips. The pulsing between your legs intensified as he took the cue without hesitation, tucking stray strands of hair behind your ear before his lips found skin. 

Emmrich kissed up the column of your neck almost languorously. A gentle flick of tongue at your pulse point had you whimpering for more. Your hands worked of their own accord, picking open the buttons you'd been idly toying with only moments before. Turning your face, his lips found yours instantly, a low hum of satisfaction working its way up his throat.

Yes, finally. 

This was exactly what you needed. You felt frenzied, but Emmrich tempered your enthusiasm with a grip around your wrist, a well-placed thigh between your legs. He had you pinned against his desk—or had you dragged him here?—still intent on slowing your burning need to rid him of his clothes. No matter—he looked ravishing in them.

“We have hours, dear. Slow down, hm?” he whispered in your ear, sending yet another wave of desire rippling through your torso, dislodging every internal organ.

You whimpered in response and felt the twitch of his lips, apparently amused by the reaction. His kisses traced your jawline, then captured your mouth in one swift and breathless motion. Tongues entwined, intent on exploring every angle, swallowing every breath.

His waistcoat fell open by your insistent fiddling, hands finding his firm stomach as you splayed your fingers wide. Tracing down to his hips, all sharp angles. He did not waver in his pace, looping a gloved hand around your neck to cup the base of your skull as his kiss deepened. The friction against his thigh did little to relieve the intense ache in your core as you felt your underwear slicken with need.

“Emmrich,” you sighed into his open mouth, his teeth nipping lightly at your lower lip.

What a tease he was, enjoying prolonging this game far too much. But you felt the hardened length in his trousers press against your hip, an undeniable reminder of his own desires. You arched your back, grinding into him with renewed vigour, and he gasped with a flex of his hand. Another slow roll of your hips drew a low, rumbling groan from his throat. The satisfaction of his unravelling could not be matched, and you smirked against his lips.

“The things you do to me…,” he muttered, bringing his bejewelled fingers to rest upon your thigh.

You drew back to look into the hazel depths of his eyes, melting as the golden flecks wavered in firelight. Every line, every mark upon his skin only made him more beautiful, each telling a tale of a life well lived. Your thumb traced the crow's feet in an entirely too intimate gesture, and you witnessed Emmrich's self control wane. 

His grip upon your thigh tightened, body pressing closer as he kissed you again, and the hunger that roared in your chest was matched only by his own. He murmured your name in reverent praise with every press of his hips. And his hand moved higher, unfastening the buckle of your trousers.

Yes, yes, yes.

You helped him slip the pesky clothes down your legs until you were bare from the waist down, the cold wood of his desk pressing against your behind. He resumed his previous kneading of your flesh, the cold metal of his rings trailing your burning skin. When he reached the apex of your thighs, your breathing was ragged, chest heaving.

A single finger slid between your lips, coated in your desire, effortlessly honing in on the swollen bud that demanded attention lest you cry out in frustration for the entire Lighthouse to hear. You might have begged, but were too enraptured with Emmrich's lips, his meandering hands, the silken silver strands of his mussed hair. The first press of his finger made you shudder, and you squirmed and moaned as he began the slow, firm circles, winding you tighter and tighter.

You’d succeeded in ridding him of his waistcoat, then unbuttoning his shirt to press kisses against his collarbone, but became too distracted to unclothe him any further due to his unwavering attention. He watched you intently, seemingly fascinated by your desperate whimpering. He'd brought you to the edge in mere minutes, a mess between your thighs that doubtless pooled onto the desk beneath. You were perched atop it now, legs pressed wide. Emmrich took no shame in watching as his fingers slipped around your aching centre—then again, neither did you. He slipped a single finger inside you, then another, to the knuckles.

You moaned and clawed at his hair, writhing in an attempt to push him deeper. He acquiesced, burying his ringed digits inside you. Fingers pulsed, the drag of metal making you shudder with pleasure. Then he curled those fingers with dextrous precision and you cried out as an orgasm ripped through your body. You fell limp, arms barely able to keep you propped upright. The waves kept coming, Emmrich returning his attention to the swollen bud that became increasingly sensitive with every swipe of his thumb.

He kissed you through it all, until only gasps and brushes of lips remained.

Dazed though you were, you could not ignore the hard cock that twitched in his trousers. You didn't want to ignore it—as wonderful as his fingers were, you'd not be sated until he was buried deep inside you.

When he pulled his hand from between your legs, you watched with hooded eyes as he surveyed the mess, a slow smile creeping onto his handsome face.

“Feel better, darling?”

“I want you, Emmrich,” you sighed. “All of you.”

Fuck being mysterious and coy.

“Here?”

He looked genuinely shocked by the prospect of fucking you over his desk. Your chest tightened, and you pulled him closer by his shirt. He didn't resist as you undid his trousers, cock springing free as you pushed them past his hips. A groan laced with pure lust left your lips, and you wrapped your hand around him, swiping a thumb over the glistening precum that stained the fabric pooled below. Emmrich gasped, looking to the ceiling as if in silent prayer.

“I need you,” you reiterated with a gentle tug of foreskin.

“Then you may have me, dear. Every—” he kissed your lips, gloved hand stroking your cheek “—inch.”

He pulled off your top with unexpected strength, baring your breasts to the chill. Nipples already peaked, he took one between his fingers, the soft leather adding extra friction to the already sensitive skin. You moaned and stroked his cock with a steady rhythm to match the flicks of his tongue that found your breast. A light nip of teeth, a firm handful of flesh. 

“Beautiful,” he murmured, then looked up at you. “Shall I remove my glove?”

“No, leave it. I like it,” you replied with a lopsided smile.

“I thought you might.” 

Emmrich peered down at where your hand continued to stroke his length, letting his eyes close for a moment. You ached to have him inside you; that thick cock nestled between a patch of silver hair. What might he taste like? The thought of running your tongue up the underside of his shaft, enveloping his head in your mouth…it made you salivate. There would be time for that later, perhaps. His eyes snapped open when your finger pressed the ridge of his cock.

“Please…,” you whined, not caring how pathetic it sounded.

Neither did he, apparently, as he spread your legs further with ease, pressing the tip of his cock to your entrance that pulsed in excitement. The stretch as he slid in made your eyes roll back in pleasure, and Emmrich groaned as he took you inch by inch. Firm hands pushed your knees further back, driving deeper until your sweat-slicked skin was flush.

“Oh fuck you feel good,” you said.

He pulled out about halfway, then thrusted back with a snap of his hips. You whimpered, feeling his head kiss your cervix, walls fluttering around his cock as another orgasm started to build.

“Language, darling. Or I might send you back to your room.”

“You wouldn't dare,” you chuckled shakily.

Another thrust silenced you, and your arms finally gave out, sending you crumpling backwards onto his desk. You growled in frustration, pulling papers from underneath your back and throwing them on the floor. 

Emmrich looked positively scandalised.

“Do I need to teach you a lesson about respecting others’ property?” he asked, silken voice growing more hoarse with every slow thrust.

You laughed, quickly devolving into another moan. “Yes, professor.”

Emmrich hummed and gripped your waist, hard. Fingers dug in, creating dents with his nails on one side, the burn of leather on the other. Then he began to fuck you in earnest.

Emmrich was capable of such gentleness, but he knew what you needed now. He pulled you onto his cock with each snap of his hips, hitting every sweet spot you possessed in tandem. It was overwhelming, a swirling vortex of pleasure. You were dizzy, so hazy with ecstasy that you couldn't form coherent words, only moans and screams. Fuck anyone overhearing, you didn't care, there was only him.

His steady rhythm gradually sped up, becoming more erratic as his breath laboured. Silver strands crossed his brow, the last of his composure now deserted him. You liked him like this—dishevelled, sweaty and eyes glittering with passion. As the wet slap of skin filled the room, echoing off the bookcases and scant furnishings, you felt your legs begin to shake as your climax approached.

“Emmrich…Emmrich I'm going to, fuck.”

He pounded into you at the same pace, bringing a thumb to circle your overstimulated clit. 

“Let go, darling. I have you,” he replied.

You cried out, searching for something to cling to. Fingers curled over the lip of the desk. Your back arched, and you fell apart. Your vision faded to black amongst the pounding in your ears, but Emmrich didn't relent. The whimpers and whines only fuelled him; his grip on your waist became bruising, but there was pleasure in the pain.

“Rook…,” he panted. “Where can I—?”

“Inside me, please.”

Emmrich gave another hard thrust and a great shuddering sigh, and his cock pulsed inside you. He filled you until his spend coated your thighs, your bodies simultaneously exhausted as he slumped on top of you. He nuzzled against your neck, breathless; a vulnerability that you cherished. Hearts beat together, touches turning gentle once again.

“Thank you,” you said eventually, now sated and tired.

Emmrich kissed your neck, your chin, your lips, standing unsteadily and pulling his trousers back up to his waist. He held out a hand as one might ask for a dance, returning to the gentlemanly scholar once again.

“Any time, my dear.”

[artuurle]

do you think drainfolk could have sexual dimorphism? theyre described to be Pupas as children so theyre probably a type of Bug.. maybe theyre like trilobite beetles, we never see a singular female drainfolk in the entire game (aside from Patty shes gonna figure it out soon) so it can be assumed theyre giant and monstrous.

.

so that makes Inspekta quite gender nonconforming in that regard.

I seem to have missed something???? since I don't recall ever seeing them get referred to as pupas myself? Please send context if possible- i love learning things. I also assumed in game the "all bizzyboys are boys" was more of a silly inspekta fascism thing similar to the names being leveraged and them all dressing the same- stripping identity to promote conformity.

....A little obsessed with the implications you have spun for me that hector is possibly transmasc or intersex and that's why he's so damn big.

Also to answer the first question; Drainfolk could theoretically have sexual dimorphism, i just haven't gone into spec bio about them for the sanity of everyone and myself and thus haven't thought about it at all. do not tempt me to do so it will only cause pain and suffering /SILLY

[mischievouslittlecreature]

Part 26: Do You Love Me

Summary: Things escalate to the point of complete and utter disaster.

Word Count: 5,593

Warnings: MAJOR angst, a suicide attempt, insecurity, depression, suicidal thoughts, self harm, and blood.

Notes: Please prepare yourselves before reading this one, guys. I'm not joking around with the warnings here (not that I ever am, but you know what I mean). Also I apologize profusely in advance for what's about to happen.

Previous Chapter • Series • Fic • Next Chapter

Chapter 16: Battered & Mangled

Lucy twisted her hands together, feeling vaguely sick with nerves. Silence stretched on between her and Tommy, each of them waiting for the other to speak first.

“I called you,” he said, finally. “Earlier.”

“You did?” Fingers ran through her red hair, tugging on the locks anxiously. “Sorry. I was out with Asher. Did something happen?”

He stood from the chair he was collapsed in, grabbing more kindling to feed into the fire. “Polly resigned.”

That startled her a bit. “Oh?”

“Mhm.” He looked so…lost. Blue eyes staring pointedly out into the dark of the night.

“Was it because of Michael?” she pressed.

“I’m not here to talk about Polly,” Tommy said, voice suddenly stern. She looked down at her feet.

“Right.”

No more avoiding things. They both needed to have their heads clear for the events that were about to unfold. And it had become clear that just attempting to ignore their current situation to deal with later wasn’t going to achieve that.

And…she had promised him that they would talk about things. 

She’d have suggested they go inside, into the living quarters that Charlie had been letting her stay in. But she didn’t really want anyone eavesdropping in on their conversation. 

More silence stretched out between them, long and dark and endless. She jumped when Tommy’s hand touched her cheek, tilting her head up to look at him where he was now standing in front of her. She hadn’t even heard him move. 

“I miss you.”

“I miss you too,” she said softly, eyes staring up into his. 

“So come home.”

Her face crumpled. “I can’t.” It was barely more than a whisper.

“Why?”

“You know why, Tom.”

“No; no I don’t think that I do.” His voice was low and soft like honey. Tempting. “So tell me. Please. Help me understand. We can figure something out. If we just sit down and talk about it–”

“Talk about what, Tommy? About what days you and I are allowed to spend the night together? I don’t want to live like that. To be…the dirty little secret that you keep around to fuck you when your wife isn’t available.”

His brow furrowed, almost in confusion. Like the thought had never even occurred to him. “You would never be that. You’re not some whore I keep around for when I get bored, Lucy. And besides, I told you, I fixed that. She’s fine with us being together whenever–”

“You expect me to believe that’ll last? With her pattern of behavior? This is how it’s always worked with her, Tommy. She’s all nice and smiles and sweetness until something sets her off, and then I’m suddenly the big bad monster who’s stealing her husband. What happens the next time she has one of her fits? Hm? When she comes back asking for even more? Now that you’ve given her this, what’s going to stop her from asking for even more restrictions on what you can and can’t do with me? How long before you can’t even touch me at all without it breaking some rule that she’s come up with?”

“I won’t let that happen–”

“Yeah, well you already let this fucking happen,” she snapped back. Tommy’s eyes widened. She drew in a trembling breath, turning away, fighting back every urge to just shout at him. A lump formed in her throat. She forced herself to swallow it down.

“You chose to leave,” Tommy said sternly. “That wasn’t part of Lizzie’s rules. That wasn’t something that I wanted. You decided to do that, Lucy.”

“And I’ve told you over and over again why I had to do that. Lizzie and I can’t live in such close quarters with each other all the time. She can barely even stand to see you touch me, Tommy.”

“That’s her fucking problem.”

“No, it’s not! Not when her reaction to it affects all of us! This,” she gestured widely, “was the only solution.”

“A solution where everyone ends up miserable?”

“Oh, please,” she snapped, voice beginning to rise. “Don’t act like Lizzie isn’t fucking thrilled now that I’m gone and she gets to finally play out the happy fucking family fantasy that she’s always wanted. I’m not blind, I’ve seen how much happier you’ve been lately. Don’t act like it isn’t better now that I’m gone.”

“It’s not. It’s fucking awful there, Lucy. I’m not happier. I don’t know what I did to make you think that I am, but I’m not. I’m so…I’m so fucking lonely without you.” His voice started to rise as well, but he drew in a deep breath when she looked away, eyes focusing on the dark waters of the cut. When he spoke again his voice was softer. “And what about you, eh? Are you happier, now that you’ve moved out?” He took a cautious step towards her. “Michael said that you’re miserable.”

“You shouldn’t listen to anything that Michael says.”

“He’s right, though. Isn’t he?” 

She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it matters. I don’t want you to be unhappy, love.” Another step, so that he was close enough for her to smell the scent of cigarette smoke and his cologne. Tommy rubbed a hand over his face, looking at her with scrutinizing eyes. “Why did you really leave, Lucy? Because I don’t believe it was just about Lizzie’s rules. There’s something else going on. I can see it in your eyes.” There was a desperation in his gaze that she wasn’t used to seeing. “Just tell me.” She looked away again, hands wringing together frantically. Tommy’s face twitched with frustration. “If I have to live the rest of my life without you then I think that I at least deserve to know why.” She pressed her lips together, squeezing her eyes shut tight. It was unclear whether she wanted to cry or shout at him. Tommy seemed to soften a little, reigning in his frustration to gently touch her hand, stilling her relentless fidgeting.

“Please. I know I fucked up. Just…help me understand. If I understand why you left, then I can find some way to fix this…”

“Maybe there is no fixing this,” she said defeatedly with a shrug. The frustration in Tommy’s face returned, face twisting as he struggled to reign in his temper.  

“So…what? You’re just going to give up, is that what’s happening here? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like I’m the only one who’s actually still fighting for us.”

“What?” Her anger was cold in her veins, rushing and bubbling just beneath her skin. Huh. It seemed that Polly had been right. She was angry at him.

“I’m the one who’s been renegotiating with Lizzie. I’m the one trying to find an actual fucking solution to this mess. You keep saying that everything is fine, promising that we will work things out. And yet I’ve been practically begging you to talk to me about this since it happened, and all you’ve done is avoid and ignore me. I’ve been trying, Lucy. Trying to talk to you, to still be with you, and you’ve done nothing but push me away.”

“Don’t you talk about fighting for us when you all but rolled over for Lizzie when she asked you to throw a grenade in the middle of our relationship to make her happy. And I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Tommy, but we are in the middle of a dangerous conspiracy to assassinate an MP, not to mention plugging up leaks, and dodging all of our other enemies that have been coming at us from every possible angle. So excuse me for trying to put the good of the company and the family over our personal issues.”

“No, don’t you fucking do that! Don’t act like you couldn’t have spared one lunch, one goddamn hour, to talk about this with me!”

She scoffed, shaking her head. “Why? So I get to hear again about how you chose her over me?”

Never before had she really considered herself to be a jealous person. But perhaps it was because she hadn’t ever felt like her place in Tommy’s heart was being threatened. He had shared all of his other lovers with her. And she had always known, without a single bit of doubt in her mind, that she was and always would be Tommy’s favorite. That he loved her. Because she was the only one that he let into his head. That he told his darkest, most closely kept secrets to. The only one allowed to actually touch his heart.  

Grace had been different. Because the three of them had all loved each other. Grace had simply become an addition to their pairing. And she had always ensured that Lucy had felt included. Not once did she try to usurp Lucy or steal Tommy away from her. Like Lizzie had. 

Difficult as things had been with Lizzie, Lucy had managed to make peace with the arrangement. At least outside of the relentless guilt she felt every time she so much as looked into Lizzie’s heartbroken eyes. And maybe there was a particularly awful part of her that almost enjoyed the knowledge that while Tommy may spend his nights with Lizzie out of duty, he spent the ones he did with her out of love.

But now that she knew Tommy did not love her anymore, everything had been thrown into disarray. She had begun to wonder if perhaps that was why, despite his previous words about fighting for them, he had not really fought for her at all when he’d struck that new deal with Lizzie. Even if he didn’t love Lizzie, did it really matter? He had still chosen her. To throw Lucy and their relationship into uncertainty all in the name of making Lizzie happy.

She didn’t want to be angry with him, but now that she had cracked open that little box she had stuffed all of her fury towards him in, it seemed incapable of anything other than spilling out. 

“What? No, no, no, that’s not what happened. You know I don’t love her. You know that.” Tommy’s voice was shocked, near panicked in response to her words.

“Then why did you do this to us, Tommy!?”

“I was drunk! Alright!? I was drunk off my ass. I wasn’t thinking. I was trying to get the information out of her of where Linda was for Arthur. And…Lizzie’s useful. I saw an opportunity to keep her around and I took it.” 

She shook her head, pulling away from him, still too angry and hurt. “Oh, yes. That makes me feel so much better! Good to know that my place in your life is worth trading for a morsel of information.”

He flinched. “That’s not what I meant.” He reached out to touch her face, but she pulled away.

“Isn’t it?” she spat out bitterly.

He reached out, grasping her cheeks in his hands. “Love, no. I made a mistake. I fucked up, but I was not choosing her over you.”  

“Stop it.” She pulled her face back, leaving his hands grasping at air.

“Stop what?” The genuine confusion in his voice just made her angrier. 

“Stop acting like you care so damn much! You want so badly to know why I left? I left because I couldn’t stand to live in a house where I was clearly so unwanted!” 

Tommy reared back like she had slapped him. “Unwan–Lucy, what are you talking about?”  

“God, Tommy!” she pushed away from him, pacing back and forth across the small space protected from the rain. “You made that deal with Lizzie. Either you knew what it would mean for you and me, or you didn’t even think of me at all.” She wasn’t sure which was worse. “Neither of you even thought to talk to me about it. Do you realize how…how…that feels!? To have your lover strike an arrangement that directly affects you without even including you in the discussion about it at all!? And–on top of all that–with someone who has done nothing but bully you and do everything in her power to make you miserable for years!?” 

“That’s-that’s not fair–” Tommy protested.

“Not fair? Not fair!? I’ll tell you what isn’t fucking fair, Thomas. What’s not fair is that I’m the one person who’s always been there for you and yet I’m the one that gets thrown out like garbage while she gets you for the rest of your lives!” She had to ball her hands up into fists to keep them from shaking. “I am so…fucking angry with you! You make this deal with Lizzie without even thinking of me, then you blindside me about it when we’re about to go into a fucking work meeting. You try to make it better by treating me more like your mistress or your personal whore than your lover–” 

“Now, hang on just a fucking minute–”

“Shut up!” she practically screamed at him. Tommy gaped at her. In all their years together, she had never spoken to him like that.

“You leave me to greet guests at your own fucking dinner party and to deal with Mosley alone while you’re too busy off fucking your wife, and then to top it all off, you replace me at my job with a man who hasn’t even held a rifle in years!” 

“We talked about that! I told you, it’s just for this one job, and that’s it!” Now Tommy was shouting too.

“That isn’t the point, Tommy! I’m replaceable! You’ve proven that with Lizzie, and again with Barney!” Her voice cracked a bit, the tears beginning to well in her eyes faster than she could force them down. The feelings of worthlessness and rejection nearly choked her. Tommy stared at her for a moment, mouth open slightly, brow furrowed, eyes blazing with a combination of hurt and fury.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” he said finally. His voice was level, no longer shouting, but she knew him well enough to recognize the wrath and frustration beneath his tone. “Love, I don’t know how else to tell you this, you are not being replaced.” Head shaking, he stalked back and forth before turning to her, finger raised. “You keep talking like you think that this is what I wanted. You think I ever wanted to hurt you? Do you really think that I wanted,” he gestured vaguely, “any of this!?” He must have seen something in her face, because he took a step forward, face twisting with conviction. “You think that I wanted Lizzie to get pregnant!? You think that I wanted to have to marry her? You think that I would have done any of it, if I had known that it would cost me you!?” His voice was loud enough to echo a little in the space around them. Lucy forced herself to not break eye contact with him, even as her body trembled with the sobs she was fighting hard to stifle. “You said…you said that you were okay with it,” he added weakly. “I asked you, before I proposed to Lizzie.”

“I know. I know, I did, Tom. And I was. But that was before…” she trailed off, tears running down her face. Tommy reached out a hand to try to touch her cheek, to wipe them away, but she pulled back, away from him.

“Before what?”

“It doesn’t matter.” She looked away, still unable to bring herself to actually say it.  

“Yes, it does.” He waited for her to say more, sighing defeatedly when she didn’t. He was searching her eyes for something. Whatever he was looking for, he didn’t seem to find it, sighing and dropping to sit down in the chair by the fire, head in his hands.

“You promised,” he croaked, after finally raising his face, “when you left that we would still be together. That we weren’t splitting up. But that hasn’t seemed to be true at all, Lucy.”

She shivered, wrapping her arms around herself, tears still leaking from her eyes. 

“Tell me what you’re thinking. Please. Did you mean it, when you said that? Or were you just telling me what you thought I wanted to hear?” Something frighteningly resigned filtered into those ice blue eyes. He sighed very deeply, gazing out into the rain. “If you really want to leave, I won’t stop you. You know that.”

“You think that I really wanted to leave? I love you, Tommy.” He looked up at her words, eyes suddenly full of hope. “I meant it. When I said that we could still be together. But…”

“But what?” He stood. “But what, Lucy?”

She shook her head, unable to get the words out, her chest spasming with hiccups. Those sobs that she had been keeping at bay finally making themselves known, taking such violent hold over her body that she almost feared that she would collapse with them. Tommy stood, going to her and laying a hand on her arm that she weakly pushed away. 

“Love…love, please. Please,” he tried to reason. “Come home. Don’t worry about anything else. I want you back. I want you with me. Lucy,” he was trying to get in closer to her, to force her to meet his eyes. “Lucy, I love you–”     

“I don’t believe you!” It came out as an agonizing wail, shrill and with enough conviction to shake the entire earth. The words seemed to rip apart her vocal cords on their way out. Her heart shredded in her chest like paper. What little will for life she had remaining blew out like a candle. 

There it was. Bared and out for all to see. The truth. What she had known deep down for a while. Longer than she probably even realized. Because she’d been in denial about all of it. Because she wanted to hold onto him. Because she was a selfish, disgusting, horrid monster who hadn’t wanted to let him go even though she had to. Their relationship was dead. Had started to die slowly and painfully the second Lizzie got pregnant. Whatever love he’d ever had for her was long gone. Buried deep under the ground, never to be felt again. All that was left was residual guilt and a sense of duty towards her. That was all this was. 

And he still knew her well enough to know that the admittance of the death of his love for her would destroy her, so he would not say it. He’d carry on pretending, or at least trying to, for her sake. But she needed to stop being so selfish with him; stop trying to hold onto him for a little longer. She had to set him free.    

Tommy’s entire face changed. All anger and earnestness fell right off of it, eyes widening, jerking back as if she’d slapped him. The color drained out of his face, freckles standing out starkly against his paper-white skin, a look of horror quickly overtaking the frustration that had been there but a moment prior. 

Unable to face the mounting pain in his eyes, she buried her face in her hands. Great, she’d gone and hurt his feelings. But why? Because she’d called him on his bluff? Because he didn’t want to hurt her? At this point, she wished that he would just stop pretending and be honest. He didn’t love her anymore. They couldn’t keep dancing around it forever. 

“Lucy…” he made a sound of physical pain and rushed towards her, saying her name in agony, reaching out to her, trying to hold her. 

“Get away from me!” She braced both hands on his chest and shoved, hard enough to send him staggering back a few steps, eyes wide.

“Love…”

She shook her head furiously, still sobbing, taking a step away from him. “We’re done here.” There was more that they needed to discuss. What was going to happen to her position as his assistant, for one, but she couldn’t. Not now. “We’re done for tonight.” Another step back. “I’m sorry. We can talk more later…”

“No, Lucy, wait–!”

But she stepped back into the downpour surrounding them, and the rush of the rain pelting upon her drowned out his voice. With one final hitching sob, she rounded on her heel and ran, nearly slipping and tripping in the mud, to the door of the living quarters. She burst through it into the kitchen, slamming the door shut behind her. A hand clapped over her mouth to try to contain her heartbroken cries. 

Tommy did not follow her. That only made her sob more. 

Asher, laying by the door, raised his head, whining and going to nudge at her legs with his nose. 

Absentmindedly, she stroked his nose before staggering to the stairs, trembling fingers closing around the rail to balance herself. She was shivering, both from the chill that the rain had left her with, and the emotions still pumping through her veins. Asher’s nails clicked against the floorboards as he followed behind her. 

Her room was the furthest door down on the left, but that was not where she went. Instead, she made a beeline for the red door at the end of the hall. The one that led into the washroom. 

“No, Ash. Stay out here,” she commanded gently to the dog when he tried to squeeze past her legs to follow her inside. He whined again, watching her with concerned brown eyes, his head tilting to try to keep her in his line of sight as she closed the door. 

Peeling off her drenched coat, she let it fall into a heap of soggy material on the tiled floor. Her skin had erupted into gooseflesh, shaking so badly her teeth rattled in her skull. 

It’s over. It’s done.

I’m all alone again.

Both hands landed on the rim of the sink, barely managing to catch herself as she fell forward with an agonized sob. Her lungs and throat ached from crying, her eyes burning from shedding so many tears.  

There was so much pain inside her, it felt like she was about to burst unless she found some way to release it. 

She needed to get cleaned up. Yes; that’s what she needed to do. Maybe she would feel better after…

Oh, who was she kidding? She would never feel better again. Not after this. 

But she went to the tub on the far end of the washroom anyway, turning the faucet on it and fitting the plug in place.

As the tub filled, she ridded herself of her upper layers until she was only in her undershirt and trousers. Opening up the cabinet, she riffled through it in search of the soap she’d stored there earlier, fingers freezing when they passed over not the soap, but something silver and gleaming. 

“Pick it up,” a low, Irish accented voice said, arms suddenly wrapping around Lucy’s waist, chin resting on her shoulder. “Pick it up, get in the tub, and come away with me.”

Lucy remained frozen, trembling fingers hovering in place. 

No one wants me here anyway. 

It would be what’s best for everyone. 

I won’t be a burden anymore.

They’ll be free of me. 

Each thought came one right after the other rapidly, knocking her down and then striking her with the next before she had a chance to recover. Grace’s eyes gleamed at her from over her shoulder in the mirror. 

No one loves me.

Her fingers closed around the razor. 

∗ ∗ ∗ 

I don’t believe you.

He stared at the place where Lucy had been standing just seconds prior, mouth half open, his cries of her name lost in the roar of the wind and the splattering of rain. 

I don’t believe you.

He moved to race after her, to grab her tight in his arms and never, ever let her go again. To tell her over and over that he loved her, until she finally believed him again. 

I don’t believe you.

“Is everything alright, Tommy?” Curly asked, and Tommy paused, head snapping around to find the man standing just at the edge of the covering, barely out of the rain, his hands wringing together. “I heard shouting…”

No. Nothing is alright at all.

“Everything is fine, Curly,” he lied, managing a weak smile. “Everything is fine. Go on back to bed, eh? I’m sorry if we woke you up.”

“I was in the stables.”

Tommy nodded. As was often the case. Curly preferred to sleep with the horses than in a bed. “Well, best get back before they miss you in there, then, eh?”

Curly brightened, smiling and nodding. “Good night, then, Tom.”

“Good night, Curly.” He waited until he’d hurried back to the stables before he doused the fire, making sure there weren’t any lingering sparks or flames, then stepped away, picking his way carefully through the slippery mud towards the building Lucy had disappeared into. 

Swiping off his cap, he shook it out a few times to try to dispel some of the water that had soaked into it. The door into the living quarters opened up into a kitchen, a small sitting room just off to the right, and the stairs that led to the bedrooms in the back. The kitchen was vacant, but there were muddy footprints leading from the door to the stairs.

Tommy glanced around the kitchen, taking a second to gather himself. He would need to be the calm one. The rational one. Lucy was clearly even more upset than he had originally thought. If he wanted to help pull her out of the dark pit of despair she’d fallen into, he would have to keep his head about him. Not let himself get frustrated. 

After all, it wasn’t her fault. He was the jackass who had so thoroughly fucked up that the love of his life didn’t even believe he loved her anymore. 

It had been a while since he’d been in there. The kitchen was minimalistic and tidy as ever, but he noticed little symptoms of Lucy’s presence scattered throughout: the angle at which the kettle was settled on the stove, the tin of cinnamon vanilla tea on the counter, the way that the towels were folded. He smiled a little to himself fondly at the reminders of her presence. 

How could she ever think that he didn’t love her? The very idea of it was absolutely absurd to him.  

He hadn’t much of an actual plan for what he was going to do or say outside of going upstairs. Finding Lucy in her room. Taking her into his arms. Telling her over and over that he loved her. That he was so sorry. That he’d do anything, anything to fix what he had done. 

And then he’d take her to bed, and make love to her until the sun came up, and any doubts that he loved her with every ounce of his being were banished from her mind.

A bark shattered through the air and Tommy jumped, head turning to find Asher standing at the top of the stairs, practically bouncing from foot to foot anxiously.  

“Asher, no,” he frowned. Usually Asher was very good about not barking. Not unless he was alerting them to approaching dangers. Asher barked again, darting away from the stairs to further down the hallway that they led up to, then back to the top of the stairs, staring down at him imploringly. “Asher–oi!” Tommy jumped back in surprise when Asher suddenly darted down the stairs, took a mouthful of his trouser leg in his jaws, and tried to tug him up the stairs with him. “What the hell?” 

Asher yanked, and it was either he took a step forward or let the dog rip his trousers. 

“Asher, mate, I can’t play with you right now…”

Dropping the mouthful of fabric, Asher barked, then whined, darting up the stairs. 

“For fuck’s sake…” Tommy muttered. Now was not the time. Still, he huffed, following the dog up the stairs and down the hall. “What? What is so important?”

Asher came to a stop at the red door at the very far end of the hallway, whining and lifting a paw to scratch at the door. He was panting, tail dropped low. His ears kept twitching, as if trying to listen for something. Tommy’s blood chilled. 

“Asher?” he asked, making his way down the hallway. The dog whined loudly, scratching more insistently at the door. When Tommy got closer, he could see marks already left on the base of the wall and door frame where the dog had been pawing at it. “Move, boy,” he gently nudged the dog out of the way, leaning his head against the door, trying to hear what was on the other side of it as he raised his fist to knock. 

“Lucy?” he called softly. “Love, are you in there?”

No answer. He tried again.

“Lucy? Are you okay?”

Still nothing. Asher whined again, distraught. Tommy swallowed hard, his heart rate spiking in his ears. Fear locked pale hands around his throat. 

“Sweetheart? I’m coming in.” 

When he tried the knob it was to find the door surprisingly unlocked, but that was where his relief ended. 

Later, they would tell him that he screamed. And he supposed that he must have, though he had no recollection of it. 

The pieces of the scene before him were processed only in fragments. As if his mind knew that anything more would cause him to become incapacitated by hysterics. 

The bloody bathwater. The body with her head lolled back against the rim. The soaked clothes sticking to her like a second skin. The hand draped over the edge of the tub, blood dripping from it onto the white tiles. The bloody razor on the floor. The deep cuts slashed into her wrists. 

He was hurling himself towards the bathtub before his mind had fully finished processing what he was seeing, plunging his hands into the lukewarm water. Not caring that it was stained red–red, with her blood–as he scooped her up out of the tub. And she was a dead weight in his arms, and the thought of that word in association with Lucy had his knees buckling, sinking to the floor with her cradled to his chest. 

She was still dressed in her white undershirt and dark trousers. Her head fell back limply against his shoulder, those big brown eyes he’d fallen so deeply in love with closed. Damp hair clung to her forehead, a shade darker red than usual from the moisture. 

“No,” he choked out, hands hovering over her, frantic. “No, no, no, no, no, no…” he found her arms, gripping them tight, examining the blood flowing heavily from her wrists to pool around them. 

Have to stop the bleeding.

Shifting Lucy to lay across his lap, he yanked his tie free from around his neck with shaking hands, wrapping it around one of her arms and pulling it taunt in an improvised tourniquet. 

“Please, please,” he begged. He needed something else for the other arm…

“Tommy, what’s–oh my God,” Charlie gasped, coming to a stop in the doorway. 

Tommy looked up at him, and when he spoke, his voice was shockingly childlike. 

“Help me.”

“I’ll call an ambulance!” Charlie shouted, already racing down the hall. Tommy turned his attention back to Lucy, grabbing onto her shirt sleeves and ripping them apart to set to work fashioning a second tourniquet around the other arm. 

Right. What next? What more could he do to help her? It was taking everything he had to fight back the cycle of memories his brain was attempting to bombard him with: Greta’s hand in his, her final breaths rattling in her lungs while he lingered at her side, unable to do anything. Grace, in his arms, bleeding out while he was helpless to save her.. 

Here’s another one, Tommy. Another woman you loved, dead in your arms. Another one that’s all your fault. 

He shook his head. He needed to find something to make bandages out of for her wrists. Reaching into his pocket, he yanked out his handkerchief, ripping it in two and folding it, using one hand each to press the two pieces of fabric to the deep wounds on her wrists. The fabric was soaked crimson within seconds, and he was suddenly massively aware of the size of the scarlet puddle growing around him. 

He did not really even know if she was still alive. There was no time to check. He was pretty sure he saw her chest rising and falling shallowly, but that could always have been his mind seeing what it wanted to see. 

Despite the makeshift bandages steadily soaking through, he continued to maintain pressure, even as hope slipped away with every passing second. He could taste salt from his tears against his lips, aware that he was sobbing distraughtly, but not caring to do anything about it. 

“Please,” he curled around her, face bent in close to hers. “Please, Lucy, don’t leave me alone. Hang on. Just hang on. I’m sorry.” He started crying even harder. “I’m so, so sorry. I love you. I love you more than anything. Just please, please hang on. Stay with me. Please, please, please, please…”

He was still there, holding her on the floor of the washroom in a pool of her blood, crying and speaking to her softly, when the paramedics came charging through the door.

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Thank you for reading! Please consider leaving a comment, reblog, or like. I always appreciate feedback and love getting the opportunity to interact with you and hear your thoughts!

[seospicybin]

TASTE PREVIEW.

CHAPTER IV: DECADENT.

Lee Know x reader. (s,a)

Synopsis: When Minho is hired as the head chef of Farfalle, a prestigious Italian restaurant, expectations are high for him to elevate its reputation and bring it to new heights. However, no one anticipates the drastic changes he implements in the kitchen—including his strict rule that that there'll be no women and no romance in his kitchen.

This is a preview for chapter III of Taste series. Full fic will be posted this Friday, January 24.

...

This is how Minho makes a grilled cheese, and it’s nothing short of an art form.

He starts with sourdough, its tangy undertone the perfect match for the richness of the cheese. The slices are perfectly even—not too thin to fall apart, not too thick to overwhelm the balance. He spreads a generous layer of salted butter on each side of the bread, ensuring every bite will have that golden, crispy finish.

The pan is preheated just right, warm enough to coax a gentle sizzle from the bread but not so hot as to scorch it. Minho places the first slice into the pan, the buttered side down, and the kitchen fills with the warm, inviting aroma of toasted bread. After a careful sear, he flips it over—this is where the magic begins.

He layers the cheeses with precision. First, thin slices of vintage cheddar, their sharpness a bold foundation. Then, a snowfall of freshly grated gruyère, its nutty, salty richness promising the ultimate melt. The combination is decadent, balanced, and undeniably tempting.

He places the second slice of bread on top, creating a perfect sandwich, and gives it a gentle press before covering the pan with a lid to trap the heat. The cheese begins to soften and melt, binding the layers together. When the bottom is golden brown, Minho removes the pan from the heat, letting it rest for just a moment before flipping the sandwich with a practiced ease. He returns it to the stove to crisp up the other side, ensuring both sides are evenly golden, the crust crackling just right.

When he’s satisfied—because perfection is the only standard—he transfers the grilled cheese to a plate. The crust glistens with buttery golden-brown specks, and the edges of the melted cheese ooze slightly, teasing with its gooey promise.

As Minho places the plate in front of you, the aroma hits you like a warm embrace: toasted bread, melted cheese, and a hint of nuttiness. Your mouth waters at the sight, and your stomach growls in anticipation. One bite and you know—it’s not just a grilled cheese. It’s a masterpiece.

Minutes later, you set the empty plate down on the coffee table, leaning back with a contented sigh. Then reality hits, and you groan. “Ugh, I still have to finish the ravioli tomorrow morning.”

Minho, lounging beside you, raises an eyebrow. “So?”

You turn to him, giving him your best pleading look. “Help me with it?”

His response is instant and firm. “No.”

You pout, but he doesn’t budge. “Why would I waste my energy making ravioli for Sara?” he adds, sounding almost offended.

Your shoulders slump in disappointment. “Mean,” you mutter under your breath.

Minho leans back further, running a hand through his hair as he lets out a low sigh. “And why should I waste my energy on people who want to leave me anyway?”

The words hang in the air, and your ears perk up. Something in his tone—calm but heavy—gives you pause. It hits you then: he indeed knows about Souschef Seojun.

You turn to him sharply. “So, you knew about it?”

His gaze shifts to yours, and his eyes are piercing. “And you didn't tell me about it.”

You hesitate, feeling cornered. “I like Souschef,” you admit. “I want to keep working with him, but… I also think he should take this opportunity for himself.”

Minho clicks his tongue, his expression darkening. “You’re a professional two-timer,” he says with a scoff.

The jab stings, but before you can respond, he stares at the ceiling, his voice quieter now. “It’s the hardest thing... moving up to chef from sous chef. Most don’t make it.”

You study his face, the frustration he tries so hard to mask. He’s bothered, even though he won’t outright say it. The fact that Minho thinks about it means he actually cares more than he let on.

A question forms in your head and in a softer tone, you dare yourself to ask but keeping your tone soft, “Why do you push away the people who like you and push even harder the ones who don’t? Who’s going to stay by your side if you keep doing that?”

Minho turns his head, his eyes locking with yours. A smirk tugs at his lips as he answers, “I have you.”

The words hit you harder than you expect, your heart skipping a beat. Without thinking, you slip your arm around his, holding it close to your chest.

“That’s true,” you whisper, smiling softly. “I’ll always stick by your side.”

Deep down, you hope he believes you and that it's not some words you said to please him. You hope he knows you’ll stay by his side, no matter what.

...

Check Taste Masterlist for more!

[friendofthecrows]

I miss that brief golden era from like 2012 to 2016 when the online witchcraft community was actually good and full of open minded people looking to learn more and share what they know plus maybe the occasional vampire middle schooler instead of the situation now where it's been taken over by capitalist tiktok transphobes who like to come up with ways to shift to hogwarts via their inherent magical vagina powers and then sell coated quartz to cure cancer instead of seeing doctors.

[the-way-astray]

alright everybody can we please stop tagging me/talking about me in the notes of pro keefe/sokeefe posts. i know strieefe has made it so that it's really funny to talk about how much i love him and how much i'm in denial when i say negative things about him under those posts (and that's all in good fun and not the problem), but we have to think about the fact that the ops are just trying to make a positive post and probably don't want a keefe hater in their notes /srs

[whysamwhy123]

Hmmm. What if I attempted to write a piece of Trash and posted it anonymously?

[nyaacatboy]

hey aros/aces of tumblr has anyone else figured out to express the sentiment "I hate it when people complain about being single to me" to allos without them launching into the perfectly valid ways in which they are unhappy with their singleness or conflating "complain about being single" with "talking about dating or being attracted to anyone."

[phoenixkaptain]

One could argue that my obsession with specifically the bloodier sections of Hannibal, the scenes that show humans in excruciating pain, as well as my obsession with Red Dragon’s depiction of Will’s imagination, painful and attractive in the most disgusting way, both paved the way for my becoming obsessed with such properties as Claustrophilia (a novel that honestly reads like Hannibal got his hands on season 1 Will, I’m dead serious, they even mention Silence of the Lambs, like, author knows) and Saw (a property thay pretty much deals exclusively in human suffering)

It could also explain my fascination with the idea inherent within all these properties, that being the idea that a human who is put through immense suffering might then decide to put other humans through the same or worse. Hannibal put a lot of emphasis on Hannibal himself specifically wanting Will to kill with him, to reveal his inner self, so to speak. Red Dragon Will fears killing people immensely for fear that he would be seduced by the bloodlust curdling inside of him. Claustrophilia, I don’t want to spoil if anyone wants to read it, but it shares that same idea. The only character in Saw who survives a Jigsaw trap without either joining a depressing group therapy session or becoming one of Jigsaw’s many (many) protegés is the lady who cut off her arm in, like, movie 6.

It could also explain why I like the idea of obsessive characters. Characters who are obsessed to the point of murder, characters with the internal motivation that if they cannot have something, no one can. The so-called “yandere” character who would rather kill their love than not have them locked in a box in the basement.

(Does Saw fit this frame? I don’t know, man, that one guy’s “trap” was just talking. All he had to do was sit calmly and have a semi-nice chat with another dude. Who sets that trap up without at least a little hint of obsession? And the glass coffin scene, man, I do not even have to go there, we all know. And carrying around the only remaining body part? Even for planting evidence, like, dude. Dude.)

(Does Red Dragon fit this? Yes. Hannibal literally stabbed Will so Will would be permanently physically changed by him. He gives the Dragon of the title Will’s address in hopes that something will happen that will once again change Will’s entire life so he can never forget about Hannibal. The first time Hannibal talks to Clarice in Silence of the Lambs, he asks about Will and, more specifically, Will’s looks. Red Dragon fits this, I cannot emphasize enough how many murderers want to break Will’s back in any way they can, like, it’s practically an epidemic (it’s two people))

What is it that fascinates me so? The blood? The fuel of all life? The changing a person so fundamentally that they can’t move without thinking of the one who changed them? The holding on too tight? The tragedy? The absolutely hilarious AUs that can be written? Yes.

[honorary-fool]

anyone else feeling the friday the 13th luck?

i accidentally sewed a sleeve on upside-down

upside fucking down

[syncrovoid-presents]

I have been researching Animatronics and it is oh so very very fascinating. The arduino boards vs something complex enough to use a raspberry pi, the types of servos, how you can build a servo without using an actual servo if the servo would be too big, etc etc etc.

The downside is now I look at fnaf animatronics and figure how they may mechanically work and you know what? The Daycare Attendant, if they were real, would be such a highly advanced machine. Not only is the programming and machine learning and large language models of all the animatronics of FNAF security breach super advanced, just the physical build is so technically advanced. Mostly because of how thin the Daycare Attendant is, but also with how fluid their movement is. One of the most top 10 advanced animatronics in the series. (I want to study them)

[rambunctioustoons]

dca/virus au but it's just them tempting you to click on spam links to infect your phone.

[xtodohdohdoyd]

I think the biggest thing that makes gwiles so weird to me is that peter IS RIGHT THERE i get it this is an alternate universe completely different Gwen from the original Gwen but it’s still so weird to me that they’re being romantic while peter is right there like i get it that’s a different Gwen but he loved his Gwen and failed to save her to me it just feels a like they’re just rubbing in, if Peter WASN’T RIGHT THERE I wouldn’t care i still wouldn’t ship it (because i don’t ship anything In spiderverse) but I wouldn’t be as weirded out by it as i am