#and I had way too much fun with narrators

[blackkatdraws2]

I have a lot of leftover drawings in my gallery. [Blank Scripts AU]

[Content Warning: Images below contain Gore, Death, and Disturbing/Uncomfortable Imagery]

I find it a bit cute knowing they start out as crazy and then slowly settle into something calmer and relatively healthier after learning to adapt to each other's lust-turned-love. [Stanley did it first but hey :3]

[aroaessidhe]

2025 reads / storygraph

This Gilded Abyss

fantasy/thriller/romance, start of a series

gilded-age fantasy world where a rare magical substance is mined deep undersea

a sergeant struggling with grief and trauma of her best friend dying in a mine collapse, is asked by a young royal (…her ex girlfriend) to help her investigate a strange murder - on the luxury submersible heading exactly where she never wants to return to

when there’s another massacre, confirming their suspicions that it’s caused by an illness inducing a violence craze, they have to find a way to survive, trapped on the ship until it arrives at the undersea city

[impossible-rat-babies]

writing character information like it’s a biography save me ;—;

[glimpsesofeuterpe]

oh no i remembered about it and now i feel petty x))

[hatethysinner]

ᴍᴀɴ ᴛᴜʀɴꜱ ᴀɴɪᴍᴀʟ

ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ x ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ!ꜰᴇᴍ!ᴀᴄᴄᴏᴍᴘʟɪᴄᴇ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: He loved you too much to share. So he took everything else. Your friends, your family, your freedom, all slowly melted away. Now it's just him, the house, and you. And he promises that's all you'll ever need.

ᴡᴄ: 15.2k

ᴀ/ɴ: title taken directly from this incredible song. i loved and hated every second of writing this but i just NEEDED to get it out of my system. while i don't think i particularly delved into anything dd:dne (PLEASE MIND THE WARNINGS AND DNI IF DARK FICS AREN'T YOUR CUP OF TEA <3), i definitely channeled my most unhinged ao3 reads for this. this'll probably be the only time i write a full fic of dark!remmick, but if this really blows up i may actually consider doing more. as always, white girls i promise you can have your fun with this too ❤️. enjoy reading divas! i don't do taglists personally, so just follow me if you want to be updated when i post c:

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: unapologetically dark fic(!!!), exposition dump, obsession, murder, body disposal, vampirism, biting, blood, bloodplay, dark!remmick on steroids, lovebombing, manipulation, isolation, toxic relationship (somewhat established), emotionally/mentally abusive behavior (!!!), threats of violence, codepency, lowkey unreliable narrator, extremely dubious consent (!!!), noncon (!!!), heavily abused power imbalance, dom!remmick, sub!reader, reader is going through it, remmick loves tormenting her, angst, praise kink, light degradation kink, breeding kink, proper use of a gold chain during sex, babytrapping (!!!), p in v, cunnilingus, fingering, overstimulation, dacryphilia, biting, sadism, monsterfucking, religious mentions, loss of virginity, no happy ending, divider usage, written on demon time

You were the kind of girl folks counted on.

Always had been.

Ran your daddy’s general store with a steady hand and a sharp head for numbers. Never late to open, never short on change. You knew what folks needed before they asked. Darning needles, cane syrup, extra tobacco for the older men who swore they were quitting but never really tried. Folks came in more for you than the goods, if they were honest. You smiled easy. Listened well. Learned their names, their kids’ names, and how they liked their goods bagged.

You had a tight circle of friends, girls you’d known since church bonnets and petticoats. Played games on the porch after Sunday school and swapped lipstick behind the store when your daddy wasn’t looking. They called you the smart one. The grounded one. The kind that could hold a whole household together with one hand while balancing the day’s receipts in the other. They said if any of them were gonna marry a good man, it’d be you.

But somehow, that wasn’t the way the road bent.

You were always the one they leaned on. The one who helped fix their hems and cooled their heartbreaks and made sure they got home safe. But when they talked about love, the soft parts, the burning ones, the kind of hunger that made your hands tremble, they never looked at you.

You weren’t the girl men chased after. Just the one who made things easier.

And still, somehow, you were the one he chose.

He came in on a Tuesday.

Dead of night, just before closing. Long shadows bleeding in through the windows, sun already tucked behind the treeline, store mostly empty save for the sound of your broom brushing across the floorboards. You’d flipped the sign but hadn’t locked up yet. Wasn’t late enough to feel nervous.

Not until the bell over the door chimed, and he stepped through.

A white man.

Tall. Pale. Not from around here. And not the type of man who came this far across town, not without a reason. He didn’t belong on your side of the county line. Not unless he was lost. Not unless he meant trouble.

But if he was aware of how out of place he looked, he didn’t show it. He walked in easy. Calm. Hands in his coat pockets and a smile that curved slow and deliberate. He looked right at you, only you, and said,

“Evenin’, miss.”

Polite. Warm. Like this was a place, a side of town, he frequented.

He asked for flour. Then matches. Then something sweet. Said he had a long road ahead of him, but never said where it led. Moved like he had all the time in the world. Studied the shelves like they held more than goods. Like he was trying to learn something about you in the way you stocked your soap and stacked your salt.

His accent was Southern, but different. Smooth, syrupy, with a twist to his vowels, like every word had traveled through someplace older, foreign, before landing in his mouth. He didn’t speak like a man passing through. Spoke like a man digging roots. And when he left, he touched two fingers to the brim of a hat he didn’t wear, like tipping it to you was instinct.

You locked the door behind him. Stood for a moment, broom still in hand, wondering what to make of it.

Then he came back the next night.

And the next.

Always right before closing. Always alone.

He brought little things each time. His name, Remmick, the second time around. An odd name, you thought.

A ribbon he said reminded him of your favorite dress, even though you hadn’t told him which one it was. A book of poems with pages marked and underlined, left at the counter with a quiet “Thought ya might like this one.” A jar of thick, dark honey that looked more like molasses, wrapped in cloth and twine like a gift.

Remmick never lingered too long. Never pushed for more than you were willing to give. Just watched. Listened. Laid compliments at your feet like offerings. Not greasy or crude, but precise. Gentle. Like he meant every word and had studied you long enough to know they’d land.

Said you had a voice that sounded like morning.

Said you were the only person in town worth a real conversation.

Said you smiled like it meant something.

You rolled your eyes. Called him too much.

But you didn’t tell him to stop.

No one had ever looked at you like that before.

Like you were worth slowing down for.

And piece by piece, the walls you’d built without knowing cracked beneath the weight of his gaze.

And slowly, your world started to tilt.

Not all at once.

Just by degrees.

Like a house shifting its weight before the foundation gives.

Your friends never met him. Not once. But they could tell something had changed. The way you smiled at nothing when they were mid-sentence. The way your gaze would drift toward the door, or to the windows, or to some place in your head they couldn’t reach. You weren’t sharing like you used to. Not your stories, not your time.

Still, they were happy for you. At first. Said it must be something special, if you were keeping it close. But even then, there was a pause in their voices when they said it. A little squint in the eyes. A little too much emphasis on the word special.

They’d always said you were the one who’d settle down first. The one with the good head. The one who’d choose someone kind and steady, someone who knew what it meant to take care of a woman like you.

But you never gave them a name.

Never said what he looked like, what he did, where he came from.

And eventually, they stopped asking.

Your parents noticed the shift too.

Your mama stopped by more often. Just to check in, she'd say. But her voice always started a little high-pitched when she'd talk. Like she could see something in you she didn’t have the words for. Your daddy didn’t say much at all, but you could feel his silence stretching between you every time he stopped by the shop and found you humming without noticing, sorting flour bags with a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

You told them everything was fine.

Told yourself the same.

And it was. He said it was.

Remmick always had a way of making the world sound simpler than it was.

He made you feel beautiful. Sharp. Like the only person in the room worth speaking to.

Like his person.

And the things he said. God, the things he said.

Said you had the kind of soul people wrote songs about. That no one else had ever understood you the way he did. That all your life, people had been trying to water you down. Make you smaller, quieter, more convenient.

But he saw you.

And you believed him.

Of course you did.

He didn’t like your friends, though. Said they talked too much. Said they didn’t get you. Said you always came back from seeing them with your shoulders a little tighter, your voice a little more unsure. That they didn’t want you to grow. That they only loved you when you stayed the version of yourself they could manage.

He said it so sweetly, like it hurt him to say it.

Like it was breaking his heart.

And when he asked, gently, softly, with his fingers stroking the inside of your wrist, if you could spend a little less time with them, it didn’t feel like control.

It felt like care.

He missed you, after all.

He needed you.

And you wanted to be needed.

God help you, you did.

So you let them drift.

One by one.

Until their names felt strange on your tongue.

He said your parents were too involved. Too nosy. Said you were grown now. Said their worries weren’t yours to carry. And when you stopped accepting your mama's visits, when you quit your job at your daddy's general store despite the heartbroken look on his face, it didn’t feel like abandonment. Not then.

It felt like love.

Like a cocoon being spun around something precious.

When he asked you to come stay with him, it didn’t feel like a decision.

Just the next step in the story he was writing for you both.

The manor was beautiful. Isolated. A pristine, white-columned thing hidden deep in the Delta, so far from town it didn’t even register on some maps. Every plank of wood polished. Every curtain soft and silent in the breeze. The kind of place where your voice echoed even when you whispered. Where the sky stretched endless above you, dark and wide and brimming with stars you hadn’t seen in years.

He said it would be safer this way. Quieter. Easier to breathe.

You believed him.

You believed everything he said.

And he rewarded that belief.

The room he gave you was sun-soaked and clean, decorated with strange antiques and velvet-upholstered chairs that looked too expensive to sit in but felt right under you. He stocked the closet with dresses in your size before you ever mentioned needing new clothes. Or giving him your measurements. Set your favorite tea on the windowsill beside a stack of your favorite books.

“Just figured ya’d need some comfort, darlin’,” he said, planting featherlight kisses on your hands. “A woman like you deserves softness.”

You told yourself it was kind. Thoughtful.

You didn’t think to ask how he knew what you liked.

Not until later.

By then, it had already begun.

The soft steps outside your door at night.

The feeling of being watched. Not cruelly. Not even threateningly. But deliberately. Like the world outside had narrowed down to two hearts and one house, and all of it was his.

He made sure you loved him. Or at least that you needed him too badly to leave.

And if someone asked you when the line was crossed,

You couldn’t say.

You never even saw it pass beneath your feet.

Until the night he came home with blood on his shirt.

Not a smear. Not a spot.

Soaked.

Dark and wet and clinging, like the cotton had drunk its fill and was still greedy. His cuffs were stiff with it. His collar painted red. There were flecks on his throat, droplets drying like freckles, and his hands dripped steadily onto the hardwood, drawing crimson lines in a path that led straight to you.

He didn’t speak right away.

Just stood there in the doorway of the sitting room, chest rising slow. Watching you.

There was no panic in his eyes. No guilt. Just a feverish gleam, like he’d returned from something holy and wasn’t quite ready to step down from the altar.

You froze where you were. Half-curled on the sofa, book in hand, mouth parting without sound.

He stepped inside and told you the man's name. Simply. As if announcing the weather.

You blinked.

He smiled. Small. Serene.

“Didn’t suffer long.”

You screamed.

Loud. Unfiltered. Scrambled back until your spine hit the armrest, and the book hit the floor with a thud that didn’t register beneath the roar of your pulse.

He didn’t flinch.

Didn’t apologize.

Just watched you with that same slow-burning affection he always wore, like this was something you would come to understand in time. Like it was natural. Expected. A truth you’d learn to live inside.

When your voice cracked from shouting no, when your sobs doubled over into heaves, he knelt.

Right there. Blood and all.

He didn’t bother to wash his hands first. Didn’t even take off his coat. He just knelt at your feet like a knight returning from battle, like something ancient and humbled and sure of its place.

“Don’t cry, sugar,” he hummed, reaching for you.

You pulled back.

Didn’t matter.

He closed the gap gently, slowly, as if calming a startled animal.

“Wasn’t for no reason,” he said, voice low and honey-thick. “Ya believe that, don’t ya?”

You shook your head. Weak.

And still, when his bloodied hand cupped your face, you didn’t pull away fast enough.

“There’s things ya don’t know,” he whispered. “Things I can’t tell ya yet. But ya don’t need to know them to be mine.”

You tried to twist free. Failed. His grip was firm, but not cruel.

He pressed his forehead to yours.

The wet heat of him radiated through your clothes as he leaned in close, shoulders still trembling with leftover adrenaline. You could smell it. Copper and something else. Something rich. Like old rust and soil and bone. Like the breath of something deep in the earth that hadn’t surfaced in a long, long time.

He exhaled slow.

“I ain’t want to scare ya,” he said. “But I had to show ya.”

You didn’t speak.

You couldn’t.

“Because this is me,” he continued. “This is what I am. And if ya love me, if ya mean what y’said, then ya have to see all of me.”

“I never said I loved you,” you almost answered.

But the words didn’t come.

Because his hand moved then.

Not to your neck. Not to hurt.

But to your collar.

He brushed the fabric aside, dragging the edge of his sleeve across your skin.

And the blood marked you.

He wiped it deliberately. Across your jaw. The hollow of your throat. The slope of your collarbone.

You gasped, jerking instinctively, but he only shushed you like he was soothing a frightened child.

“Shh,” he cooed. “Just want ya to wear a little of me. That’s all.”

His voice was trembling now. With restraint. With something else.

“I’m not angry,” he added, and it was true. “I’d never hurt ya. Not ever. You’re the only thing in this world I couldn’t break if I tried.”

And you believed him.

That was the worst part.

He leaned back finally, just enough to look you full in the face.

You were streaked in red.

Your cheeks damp with tears.

And he smiled.

Not wide.

Not cruel.

Just soft.

Like it was all going to be okay.

“Y’don’t have to help,” he said. “Not tonight.”

You didn’t answer.

He rose, slow and deliberate, and walked to the kitchen to wash. You sat frozen. Couldn’t bring yourself to look down at your hands.

When the water ran, you heard him humming again. That same lullaby cadence he always used when he thought you were asleep. And when he called your name, voice gentle, it wasn’t a summons.

It was a question.

And you answered.

You stepped into the kitchen on legs that didn’t feel like yours, and you helped him mop the floor. Scrub the blood from the baseboards. You didn’t ask what he did with the body.

You didn’t want to know.

But you watched the way he scrubbed his nails clean, the way his eyes softened whenever he looked at you.

And you didn’t leave.

Not that night.

Not the next.

Now, months later, the blood doesn’t shock you like it used to. You don’t ask who. You don’t ask why. You just wait by the door with towels and vinegar and steady hands.

You still don’t watch him do it. Never have.

But he always leaves the door cracked open.

Just a little.

Just in case.

The house is quiet now. Filled with the sound of dripping water, your own heartbeat, and the hushed, weary creak of the manor’s bones.

He doesn’t pretend to be human anymore.

Not around you.

He lets the teeth stay long, the nails a little sharper. Lets you see the red light behind his eyes when the moonlight hits right.

And still, he kisses you goodnight.

Brushes your curls back from your face.

Tells you you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

And when he says it, you believe him.

You are the best thing he’s ever had.

And he’s made damn sure you’ll never leave.

You woke to the feeling of being watched.

Not the vague kind. Not a creeping hunch. No. This was the real kind. Deep and certain, rooted in the marrow of your bones like an old warning. It had shape now, weight. You knew it as easily as breath.

And sure enough, when your lashes parted and the room slowly unblurred, there he was.

Remmick stood over you like some towering monument carved out of shadow, tall and still and all but glowing in the thin streak of dawnlight filtering in through the curtain seam. His shirt hung half-open, pale chest streaked faintly with water. He must’ve bathed again before slipping in. His hair, dark and heavy, was still damp at the ends, dripping in slow intervals down the edge of his throat.

His jaw was slightly parted. And at the corner of his mouth, just barely catching the light, sat a thick bead of drool.

Not blood.

Just spit.

But too much of it. An unnatural amount.

Like he’d been watching you sleep for a long, long while and hadn’t once closed his mouth.

Sizing you up.

You didn’t flinch.

Not anymore.

Instead, you shifted slowly beneath the blankets, tucking your arms beneath your cheek. Your voice was low, rough with sleep. “You been there long?”

His eyes lit like someone had sparked a fuse. And then that crooked grin curled across his face, proud and toothy. Too many teeth for such a soft expression.

“Couldn’t help it,” he drawled, voice slow and lazy at the edges. “Ya look so pretty when you sleep.”

You huffed quietly. It wasn’t really a laugh, but it wasn’t a complaint either. You didn’t pull the blankets higher. Didn’t hide. Just turned your face into the pillow to block the light.

Behind you, the mattress dipped under his weight.

He climbed in slow, but sure. As he always did, never asking if you needed the space. You felt the heat of him even before he touched you. Always too cold when he wasn’t holding you, always too much when he was.

One arm slipped under your waist. The other folded over your middle. And then he was there, wrapped around you like a vise, breath ghosting against your neck, chest rising and falling in sync with your own. You could feel the edge of his belt buckle press into your lower back, the weight of his thigh hooked over yours, the solidness of his body where it pressed along every inch of you.

You should’ve felt caged.

Sometimes you did.

But this morning, you just felt still. Heavy. Grounded.

He kissed the back of your shoulder. Once. Then again, slower.

You closed your eyes and listened.

“Made breakfast,” he murmured against your skin. “Berries. Biscuits. Got that jam ya like. And tea. Not the bitter one. The kind with the hibiscus.”

You didn’t answer right away.

Didn’t move either.

Just lay there with the weight of him curled around your body, his words threading through the fog in your mind. Your limbs felt like wet cotton, and your heart… well, it didn’t race anymore when he held you like this. It just kept time. Careful. Steady.

Some mornings were like this.

Gentle. Sweet. The world in perfect balance, even if it was only for a breath.

Others weren’t.

There were days where something in him just… shifted.

No warning. No clear offense. Just a quiet closing of the door between you. A change in the air.

He wouldn’t look at you.

Wouldn’t speak.

You’d move through the house like a ghost in your own skin, tiptoeing around the silence. You'd replay every moment from the days before in your head like a broken record, trying to pinpoint the crack. The wrong word. The wrong breath. You whispered his name sometimes, just to see if he’d flinch.

He never did.

And the longer it lasted, the more desperate you got.

You’d sit at the edge of the bed, fingers clenched in your lap, watching the door anxiously. Or trail behind him through the house, trying to make yourself useful. Fixing his tea, folding the blankets, laying out the towels just the way he liked them. Hoping he’d notice. Hoping it’d be enough.

It never was.

Sometimes you cried.

Most of the time, you did.

Not loud. Just soft and constant, curled into a corner of the couch, the fabric beneath you growing damp from the weight of it all. You didn’t ask him to come back. You just wanted him to see.

And eventually, once the sun had vanished and the stars were out, once you were past the tears and into the shaking, silent part of grief, he would return.

Not from outside.

Just from wherever he’d gone inside himself.

He’d find you there, face raw, eyes swollen, mouth trembling with all the things you couldn’t say.

And he’d kneel.

Press his hands to your knees. Pull your face up to his.

He used to wipe your tears, once. With the pads of his thumbs. Gentle. Sweet.

But not anymore.

Now he licked them.

Dragged his tongue across your cheeks, pleased sounds always escaping his mouth as if he was tasting a delicacy.

“Ain’t mean it,” he’d whisper. “Ain’t mean to go so cold, darlin’.”

You never asked why he did it.

You just nodded.

And let the licks turn into kisses.

You tried not to think too hard on those days.

Because when he was good to you?

He was perfect.

Like now.

You felt his fingers shift under your nightdress, splaying wide over your stomach like he was anchoring himself with the shape of you.

“Ya smell like sunlight,” he whispered, almost in awe. “Like warmth. Like somethin’ I wanna keep forever.”

He didn’t say it to get a rise out of you.

He meant it.

He always meant it.

You could feel the edge of a smile pull at your mouth, but it didn’t quite reach the surface. It never did on mornings like this. You couldn’t tell if it was dread or hope that kept it from blooming fully.

He kissed your hair.

“Ya awake?”

You gave the smallest nod.

He chuckled, breath warm and steady against your ear.

“Come eat, baby. Gotta keep ya strong.”

You nodded again.

And let him pull you out of bed.

Because that’s what you did on good days.

You let yourself be loved.

He led you down to the kitchen like you were the only woman in the world who’d ever deserved to be walked anywhere.

His palm rested against the small of your back, guiding, not pushing, and he moved with slow, deliberate steps like each one was part of some silent ceremony only he knew the meaning of. You didn’t rush. You never did, not with him. It didn’t feel right to.

The kitchen was already warm with sunlight slanting through the curtains, soft and hazy, painting the wooden floorboards gold. The stove clicked gently as the kettle cooled. Something citrusy hung in the air alongside the hibiscus. Orange peel or lemon zest, maybe. It was always hard to tell with him. He had a way of combining scents until they no longer smelled like anything but home.

He pulled your chair out for you.

Waited for you to sit.

Then served your plate himself.

He’d made the biscuits from scratch. Just the way you liked them, topped with honey and butter. A few berries had burst open on the side of the pan, their juices bleeding into the crust like bruises, and he placed those pieces carefully at the edge of your plate, like he knew you’d want them last.

There were eggs, too. Soft-scrambled, barely set. And jam. The good kind, dark and smooth and homemade.

He didn’t eat, of course. He never did.

But he sat across from you, arms folded on the table, chin resting on one hand as he watched.

Not like a man waiting for praise.

Like a man watching a miracle.

You didn’t feel self-conscious anymore. Not the way you used to. Not even when he studied the curve of your fingers or the way your mouth parted slightly with each bite. Not when his eyes lingered on the bridge of your nose, the full shape of your lips, the high frame of your cheekbones. Features that other men overlooked, or worse, tried to make smaller. Not when he traced your every movement like he was trying to memorize it.

Just warm.

Maybe a little shy.

But warm.

“You’re gonna spoil me,” you said after a few moments, tone light and quiet.

His mouth curved. “Good.”

You raised a brow, chewing. “That all you gonna say?”

He leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table. “What else is there? A woman like ya’s worth spoilin’. Worth feedin’. Worth watchin’. I get more outta sittin’ across from ya than most men get in a lifetime.”

Your breath caught.

You didn’t mean for it to. You knew he liked that kind of reaction. Thrived off it. But still, it happened. He had a way of saying things that left you undone. Like he meant them. Like there wasn’t a doubt in his mind that it was true.

You swallowed and looked down at your plate.

Let yourself smile.

Just a little.

That was the danger of mornings like this. The sweetness. The calm.

You’d forget, just for a moment, what he was.

Let your guard slip.

And he’d let you. That was the worst part.

He never forced it.

Never had to.

“I’ll be headin’ out later,” he said, finally breaking the stillness. “Just before sundown.”

You glanced up. “Errands?”

He nodded. “Might be a while.”

You waited, hoping he’d elaborate.

He didn’t.

You didn’t press.

Not because you trusted him, not completely, but because you wanted to. Needed to. Trust was a gift, and he treated it like one. Collected it. Stroked it. Cradled it in his arms like something he’d stolen.

He reached across the table and brushed his knuckles down the side of your face.

You leaned into it.

Didn’t mean to.

But you didn’t pull away either.

He tilted his head. Studied you.

“I’ll bring ya back somethin’ nice,” he said. “New necklace, maybe. Somethin’ that'll bring out that pretty mouth of yours.”

You blinked. “You don’t have to-”

“I want to.” His hand slid down your arm, resting over your wrist. “Ya always act like ya ain’t allowed to be treated soft. But I told ya already, anybody that didn’t see your worth before me was blind.”

You didn’t respond.

You didn’t have to.

He leaned in and kissed your forehead. Soft. Gentle. Reverent.

And for a second, everything felt so normal.

So painfully, heartbreakingly normal.

Like this was just a house.

Like he was just a man.

Like you were just a girl in love, waiting for the evening to fall.

You let yourself stay in the moment a little longer.

Finished your tea in slow sips.

Let him watch you.

And prayed that the quiet wouldn’t turn. That tomorrow wouldn’t shift. That tonight, God willing, tonight would still be kind.

You knew better than to believe in quiet mornings.

Not here. Not with him.

Still, the stillness of the day had tricked you. It had crept in through the floorboards and settled into your chest, soft as fog, convincing you that peace might last. That today would stay gentle. Safe.

He’d been kind all morning. Sweet, even. Kissed your shoulder while you dressed. Detangled your hair with slow, worshipful hands. Called you baby in that voice like melted sugar as he danced with you to a jazz record. It had been so easy to believe in the calm, to believe he meant it.

But peace, in this house, was never given.

Only loaned.

You’d spent the day in the parlor, patching a hem that didn’t really need fixing, listening to the wind scratch against the shutters. He passed through every hour or so, always with something to say.

“Ya look so soft in this light.”

“That color’s real pretty on ya.”

Always with a kiss to your hairline. A graze of his fingers at your elbow. And you let him.

You let him.

Because it was a good day.

Until it wasn’t.

Remmick lit the lamps earlier than usual. Shadows hadn’t even grown long across the floor yet, but he moved like he couldn’t stand the dim. A low, strange hum sat under his breath. His movements were slow but measured, pressing the collar of his shirt, combing his hair with surgical care. He changed into a dark button-up, freshly pressed, the fabric stiff and lined with faint charcoal pinstripes. He didn’t fasten the top button. Let his collarbone show. The buttons themselves were a pale ivory, too round and too polished to be anything but bone.

He didn’t speak while he dressed.

Didn’t look at you, either.

But when he passed you near the kitchen door, he paused. Tilted your chin up. Kissed your forehead like a benediction. His lips were too warm, too careful.

“Be good while I’m gone,” he said.

And that was all.

The door opened hours later, at a time when you had long retired to your bedroom.

Not with a knock. Not with warning.

Just the quiet creak of the front door swinging open.

You didn’t recognize the man who entered. Not at first.

Older. White. Expensive. That was the word that came to mind first. Expensive. The coat, the cane, the posture. He moved like he owned everything he looked at, and when his eyes slid over the staircase where you watched from just out of view, he barely registered you at all.

He smelled of clean money and fragrant cologne. His voice, when he spoke, had a practiced warmth. Used to making deals, used to being obeyed.

Remmick welcomed him like an old friend. No introductions. Just a nod, and a hand at the man’s back as he ushered him toward the parlor, the two of them murmuring low between each other. You didn’t catch what was said. Didn’t want to.

You slowly closed your door.

But that didn’t stop your heart from picking up.

Didn’t stop the feeling crawling into your bones. The kind that knew this was punishment, even if you didn’t know what for.

You hadn’t said anything wrong today. Hadn’t wandered too far. Hadn’t said no.

He’d kissed your forehead. Cooked for you. Danced with you.

So why?

Why this?

You sat on the edge of your bed, hands pressed to your thighs, jaw clenched until it ached. You wanted to pace, but you knew better. He hated when you fidgeted.

Time bled slowly by. A drip of unease with every second.

Then the parlor door clicked shut.

You couldn’t hear much. Just muffled voices beneath the hum of the hallway light. At first, it was civil. Calm. Two men talking. Glasses clinking. Something poured.

You stared out your window.

And then, a sound.

It didn’t come as a cry at first. Just a thump, low and heavy.

Then another.

And then it began in earnest.

The screaming didn’t start with words. It started with breath. Ragged, sharp, begging. Then the voice rose. Screamed so hard it cracked, pleaded, cursed. The sound of it ricocheted through the walls like thunder. One drawn-out, blood-curdled no, followed by a scream that didn’t end, just collapsed.

You covered your ears.

Pressed your palms so tight it made your head ring.

But nothing could drown it out.

Your whole body trembled.

Not from shock.

From knowing this was intentional.

Because he didn’t need for you to hear it.

He wanted you to.

This was never about the man in the parlor. Not really.

It was about you.

What you’d said. Or done. Or failed to do.

You didn’t know what you were being punished for.

But you felt it, in your gut.

Your punishment had a heartbeat, a voice, a body now. And it was breaking somewhere below your feet.

The screaming stopped eventually.

But the silence that followed was worse.

Because silence didn’t end anything in this house.

It only marked the beginning of the next thing.

You waited.

Not just for the screaming to stop. Not just for the silence to settle. But long after.

You waited until the walls stopped humming with sound. Until the floorboards cooled beneath your feet. Until even the wind outside held its breath.

And then,

You heard it.

The soft groan of the parlor door unlatching. A low creak. A shift in weight across the boards.

His footsteps were quiet.

Measured.

Too soft for a man who’d just done what he’d done. Like he was walking through a church. Or a dream.

You didn’t move. Stayed curled in on yourself at the edge of your bed, arms locked around your knees, eyes fixed on the door like it might rattle open any second. It didn’t.

Not yet.

You heard the stairs instead.

One. By one.

Each step slow and steady, deliberate. Like he was giving you time.

Time to compose yourself.

Time to prepare.

Time to realize nothing was going to stop him from reaching you.

The knob turned.

You hadn’t even realized your door was unlocked.

It opened with a click and a hush, and there he was.

Standing in the threshold like a vision from a fever.

Blood soaked the front of his shirt. Thick and wet in some places, half-dried and flaking in others. It clung to his throat, painted his collarbone, pooled beneath his nails. His sleeves were still rolled, but the pale skin of his forearms was nearly lost beneath the spatter. There were streaks along his jaw where he’d tried to wipe his mouth clean. Too late. Too messy. A smear of it curved across his cheekbone like a smile.

And his claws, long, edged, still drawn, glinted in the low light of your bedside lamp.

But what knocked the breath out of your chest was his face.

Calm.

Completely, terrifyingly calm.

His eyes, those strange, shifting, ancient things, shone soft in the dim. Not wild. Not frenzied.

Just… peaceful.

“Darlin’,” he said, soft as a sigh. “Can ya come here?”

His voice sounded like the morning.

Like nothing had happened at all.

You didn’t answer.

But your body moved.

You hated it. How your limbs betrayed you. How your feet swung over the edge of the bed and touched the floor. How you stepped closer to him, one foot, then another, then another, drawn toward him like gravity had chosen sides.

He didn’t move to meet you.

Just waited.

Like he knew you would come.

And when you reached the doorway, when your bare feet kissed the hallway light, that’s when he touched you.

Both hands to your face. Fingers gentle, claws grazing soft against your cheeks.

Blood smeared warm across your skin.

You flinched.

But didn’t pull away.

His thumbs brushed just beneath your eyes. Not to wipe your tears, there weren’t any yet, but to cup the place where they would be. Where he knew they would be.

“Ya did somethin’ wrong,” he whispered. “Ain’t ya?”

That broke you.

“No,” you whispered, voice breaking.

The tears came all at once. Thick. Hot. Your chest heaved and you shook your head, hands flying up to press against his wrists. “No, please- Remmick, please, I didn’t- I can’t-”

“I know,” he said.

But his grip didn’t loosen.

Your knees nearly gave. Your breath hitched.

And he leaned in close, lips almost brushing yours.

“I’m scared,” you sobbed. “Please don’t make me-”

That’s when he said it.

Soft. Sweet.

Final.

“Y’ain’t got a choice.”

The words weren’t cruel.

Weren’t laced with threat.

They sounded like a lullaby.

And then, he kissed you.

Slow. Deep. Full of pride.

The blood on his mouth smeared onto yours, warm and metallic and thick enough to make you shudder. You didn’t kiss him back. Couldn’t. But your lips parted. And that was enough.

He made a sound, something like a purr, and pulled back, smiling like you’d just said I love you.

“There ya go,” he whispered.

Then, lower: “C’mon, now. Just a little bit of help.”

You shook your head, tears streaking your cheeks.

His thumbs smeared them. Not away. Just… further. Down your face. Into your mouth. Into the collar of your nightdress.

“Remmick, please-”

“Ya can,” he said again, voice even gentler this time. “Ya will.”

And when he kissed your forehead, it didn’t feel like comfort.

It felt like surrender.

He led you to the rear hall.

Step by step.

The floorboards creaked beneath your feet, slow and drawn out like they knew what was coming. The air back here always felt colder. Damper, too. Like the walls remembered every secret ever whispered against them.

One clawed hand pressed low to your back. Not shoving. Not dragging. Just guiding. A lover’s touch, if you ignored the sharp curve of his nails and the way they caught on the cotton of your dress.

The other hand gripped something heavy. Bundled tight in a canvas sheet. Edges stiff with dried blood. You didn’t need to ask what it was.

You didn’t want to know how long it had been wrapped like that.

You didn’t want to know anything.

“Take the feet, darlin’,” he said. Soft. Encouraging. “That’s it. There ya go.”

You hesitated.

Stared at the length of fabric that formed the shape of shins, then ankles, then shoes that had once gleamed polished and proud beneath the parlor light.

The man’s feet were cold.

You flinched as your fingers made contact. Felt the stiffness through the layers. The weight of it settled like stone in your stomach.

You choked.

Your knees bent beneath you, buckling under the weight of it, legs shaking, arms burning.

“That’s alright,” Remmick said quickly, already crouched beside you again. “You’re strong. Stronger than ya think.”

He didn’t offer to take it from you.

Didn’t let you drop it either.

Just walked backward, slow and steady, leading you through the back door as the hinges groaned open.

Outside, the air hit sharp.

You breathed it in too fast. Coughed once. The scent of blood clung to your face, your hair, your hands. And beneath it, rot. Curling at the edges of the canvas like the world had already started reclaiming him.

You swallowed hard.

Walked blind behind Remmick.

The trees pressed in around you, branches brittle with late summer’s death. Moonlight pierced the canopy in sharp slivers. The path was narrow. Familiar. You’d taken it before, but never like this.

Never carrying someone.

Remmick hummed as he walked.

Low and tuneless, like it was something he didn’t know he was doing. A sound of habit. Of focus. Of ritual.

You didn’t ask how he knew where to dig.

You didn’t ask how many times he’d done this before.

You just stood there, trembling, as he knelt in the clearing and began to carve the earth apart with his hands.

Not with a shovel.

With his claws.

They split the dirt like butter, curling soil and root alike with mechanical ease. He worked fast. Efficient. With a kind of composure, almost, like he was preparing a bed, not a grave.

You stayed frozen until he glanced up at you, face slick with sweat and moonlight.

“Almost done,” he said. “Just a little more, sugar.”

He stood.

Wiped his brow with the back of one hand, smearing dirt and blood across his temple.

Then he turned to you, lips stretched into a smile.

“C’mon,” he said gently. “Let’s lay him down.”

The canvas landed with a heavy thud.

You flinched again.

He unwrapped the top half. Not all the way. Just enough for the face to show. Slack-jawed, eyes glazed, neck at the wrong angle.

Your stomach turned.

Remmick crouched again, slipped his arms beneath the man’s shoulders.

He looked up at you. Expectant.

“Go on,” he said, nodding toward the legs.

You hesitated.

“Remmick-”

Your breath caught.

“I said, go on.”

So you did.

You took a deep breath, grasped the ankles again, and followed his count.

One, two, three.

You heaved.

He lifted.

And together, you laid him in the earth.

It wasn’t graceful.

It wasn’t clean.

You gagged once and turned away, bile stinging your throat. He didn’t chastise you. Didn’t rush you. Just stood there in the moonlight, waiting, the grave yawning at his feet.

When you finally turned back, your face pale and your hands filthy, he pressed a kiss to your temple.

“Almost done.”

The dirt came next.

Heavy, clumpy, wet.

It stuck to your fingers and your wrists, coated your forearms, gathered beneath your nails like it wanted to crawl inside you.

Remmick packed the final mound himself.

Then stood.

Brushed his hands together with a soft clap.

And turned toward you.

Smiling.

Like you’d just exchanged vows.

Like something had been sealed tonight, sacred and unbreakable.

His eyes shone in the dark, wide and wild and glowing faintly red.

He cupped your face again, blood dried into the creases of his knuckles.

“Ya did good,” he whispered. “So good f’me.”

And you didn’t correct him.

Didn’t move. Couldn't.

He reached into his coat.

The gesture was slow, deliberate. Like everything with him. He could’ve pulled out anything. A blade, a scrap of skin, a love letter scrawled in someone else’s blood, and part of you would’ve just watched, quiet and ready.

But instead, his hand came back gloved in shadow and something glinting beneath a soaked cloth.

He held it out to you. Waiting.

“I brought ya a gift,” he said, voice low and soft, almost shy. Like he was offering you a bouquet.

You didn’t answer.

Just stared.

The fabric, silk, maybe, once cream, was red now. Mottled. It clung wetly to whatever was wrapped inside, dark lines seeping into the seams.

He unwrapped it slowly.

Bit by bit.

Like unveiling something sacred.

A necklace.

Sapphire, deep and cold, surrounded by a constellation of diamonds so small and fine they looked like frozen tears. The pendant caught the moonlight, sparkled like a drop of river water in the sun.

But the chain, thin and gold, was streaked with blood. Still tacky. Still warm.

He held it up between both hands, letting the pendant sway gently between you.

“Belonged to his wife,” he said.

His eyes never left your face.

“Don’t worry. She didn’t put up much of a fight.”

Your breath hitched.

He said it like a kindness.

Like a mercy.

You didn’t ask what he meant. Not exactly. Didn’t ask if that meant she begged. Or wept. Or just stood there, quiet, waiting for her turn.

You didn’t want to know.

You never did.

He stepped closer.

The necklace still dangling in his hand, catching on his fingers. Blood smeared his palm now. Streaked down his wrist. You didn’t move as he reached up, lifted the chain, heavy and wet, and looped it behind your neck.

His fingers were careful.

Precise.

He fastened it with a soft click, the clasp brushing the nape of your neck, cold as a knife.

Then he stepped back. Just a little.

“There,” he whispered, his voice nearly trembling. “Look at ya. My beautiful girl.”

You didn’t look down.

Didn’t touch it.

You felt the weight of it though. The cold metal against your chest. The stick of half-dried blood just beneath your collarbone.

He kissed your cheek next.

Then your jaw.

Then your mouth.

Soft. Tender.

Loving.

Like a reward.

Like a promise.

You didn’t kiss him back.

Didn’t turn your face away, either.

You stood there like a statue. A monument to something twisted and holy. Let him praise you. Let him touch you. Let him cover you in devotion and blood and the sweetness of a love that could burn down a world if it meant keeping you in the ashes.

You weren’t sure what you were anymore.

Not a prisoner.

Not exactly.

Not a partner.

Not fully.

Not a killer.

Not yet.

But his hands, slick and reverent, cradled your face like you were sacred. Like you were his altar. His salvation.

Because you were.

You could see it in his eyes.

He’d ruin himself for you. Had already ruined others. And he’d drown you in that same ruin, over and over again, if it meant keeping you his.

He kissed you once more.

And whispered your name like a hymn.

His girl.

His gift.

His only.

The morning was red.

Not pink. Not gold.

Red.

The kind of light that made the dust in the air look like something alive, like smoke rising off a battlefield no one ever won. It filtered through the bedroom curtains in streaks, bleeding across the wooden floorboards, catching on corners like dried rust.

You stood in front of the mirror with your fingers curled around the edge of the sink, knuckles white, wrists aching from how tightly you gripped. The weight of the necklace still hung heavy on your collarbone. It hadn’t come off. Not when you undressed. Not when you bathed. Not even when you’d scrubbed at it with a rag soaked in rosewater, trying, foolishly, desperately, to pretend that was all it was. A speck. A blemish. A piece of someone else's story, not yours.

But it was yours now.

All of it.

And it wasn’t just blood that had soaked in.

It was his voice, still echoing. The way he whispered encouragements as you dropped that man’s arm into the grave. The way his smile widened when you didn’t run.

The way the man’s eyes stared up from the dirt in your dreams.

You hadn’t slept. Not really. You’d closed your eyes and drifted just long enough for the screaming to follow you in. His scream. Ragged. Human. Then the wet sound of Remmick tearing into him. Again and again and again. It kept looping, each time more vivid than the last.

You looked at your own face now, and all you could see was that man’s.

Mouth open. Arms limp. That flash of horror when he realized he wouldn’t make it out of this house.

Your breath hitched, low in your throat.

Tears stung your eyes.

You blinked them back.

You didn’t hear him come in.

You never did. That was the trouble. He moved through space like something meant to haunt. Silent, smooth, inescapable. The door didn’t creak. The floor didn’t shift.

But you knew.

Your body always knew before your eyes did. The hairs on your arms rose. The air cooled. The stillness deepened into something you could taste.

“Y’ain’t even touched your tea,” he said gently from the doorway, voice all breath and softness. “I kept it warm for ya.”

You didn’t answer right away. Just stared at yourself in the glass, hands trembling against the porcelain. You tried to draw a breath that wouldn’t shake.

Behind you, he stepped closer.

“I’m not mad,” he added. “If that’s what you’re wonderin’. ’Bout last night.”

The words landed like stones on water.

You didn’t respond.

His reflection didn’t show in the mirror.

It never did.

But you didn’t need it to. His voice wrapped around your waist like a second pair of arms, like silk stretched over barbed wire.

“Y’did so good. Did exactly what I needed.” He stepped closer. Slow. Deliberate. “That ain’t small, y’know. What I asked of you. It was big. It meant somethin’.”

You blinked hard, but the tears still clung stubborn at the corners. You clenched the sink edge tighter, like maybe it could tether you. Anchor you. Stop you from suffocating in what you’d done.

“I didn’t want it to mean anything,” you said.

But it cracked when it came out.

Your voice. Your face. Your control.

It cracked all the way down.

You pressed your lips together to keep from making a sound, but your shoulders betrayed you, shuddering once, sharp and tight.

You felt him move in behind you, his presence stretching out like a shadow cast by firelight.

“I know, darlin’,” he comforted. “I know.”

But he didn’t say sorry.

Not once.

And the necklace stayed right where it was. Cool against your skin, glittering like something beautiful, something earned.

Something permanent.

He was behind you now.

You didn’t hear him move. Not a creak of floorboard, not a shift of breath. But suddenly, his arms were around your waist. Strong, steady, certain. Like they’d always been there. Like they belonged there.

You startled, just a little.

But he only pulled you closer, pressing his body to your back with the kind of patience that wasn’t really patience at all. Just control. You could feel the way he held himself, as if something inside him had to be kept still. Contained.

His breath ghosted over your shoulder, cool and damp like a lingering mist. He smelled like clove. And sage. And copper. Always copper.

He rested his chin near your temple, nose nudging lightly into your hair.

“I can take it off,” he offered, voice low and humming. “The necklace. If it’s too much.”

You didn’t answer.

His fingers brushed lightly over the jewels. A whisper of a touch, reverent and slow. He let it linger.

“But I hoped ya’d keep it.”

Your eyes stayed locked on the mirror. On the glinting sapphires. The dried blood now fully gone but not forgotten. You swallowed hard.

“Why?” you asked, barely above a breath.

He leaned in.

Close enough that his lips brushed your neck this time, not your temple. A soft, trailing kiss pressed just beneath your ear. Not hungry. Not rough. But not gentle either.

His voice sank into your skin.

“Because it looks right on ya.”

The words were quiet, but they landed like a hand on your throat.

You didn’t flinch. Not outwardly. Your face stayed calm in the mirror. Your shoulders held.

But inside?

Something gave.

A small, buckling thing. Like a part of you that still wanted to believe you could carry this without changing shape.

He kissed your cheek once, slower now, mouth warm and oddly careful for someone so often careless with your breath.

Then he stepped back.

“I’m headin’ out,” he said, already turning toward the door. “Won’t be long. Won’t go far. Just need to stretch my legs.”

You nodded once.

Didn’t meet his eyes.

You heard his boots on the stairs.

The front door creaked open.

And like always, he left it ajar.

Just enough.

Not enough to invite the wind in. But enough to make a point.

You’re not locked in.

You’re free to go.

But you never did. Not because you couldn’t.

Because he’d folded himself into your bones. Threaded his voice through your thoughts. Left kisses on your pulse like warnings.

Before the door closed behind him, his voice drifted back up the stairs. Just loud enough to reach you.

“I love ya.”

The words sat heavy on the floorboards.

You didn’t say it back.

And you knew he’d remember that.

Would carry it like a splinter under his skin.

Would mention it again someday.

Long after you’d forgotten it.

Long after you’d wished you hadn’t.

You drifted to the garden.

The one Remmick had planted for you, despite his disdain for sunlight. He never called it a gift. Never made a show of it. Just started tending the earth one day, sleeves rolled, mouth quiet, movements deliberate. No shovel. Just his hands. Just his claws, raking slow furrows into the dirt and patting them soft again like he was taking care of something fragile.

You’d watched from the balcony that day, unsure if it was kindness or authority. Maybe both. With him, it was hard to tell where one ended and the other began.

It was overgrown now.

But beautiful. Wild.

The vines curled over the trellis like they were reaching for something they’d never touch. Lavender bloomed in thick patches near the roots. Moonflowers tilted their faces upward, shy but greedy. He must’ve come through while you were sleeping, added new things. Nightshade, maybe, or something less honest. Plants you didn’t recognize, but that hummed with some secret you weren’t sure you wanted to know.

You crouched beside a clump of jasmine. Ran your fingers along a bloom. Soft, white, too perfect for this place. You et your breath shudder out.

This was what he did.

He gave you things. He built them into your days. Little comforts, stitched between the horrors.

And they worked.

He loved you.

In his way.

It was obsessive. Demanding. It carved pieces out of you, asked for silence when you wanted to scream and closeness when you needed distance. But it wrapped around you, too. Warmed your tea. Laid your slippers out. Whispered your name like a prayer in the middle of the night.

And you.

You didn’t know what you felt.

Not entirely.

But it was real.

Not soft. Not easy. But real.

Real enough to stay.

Real enough to clean up bodies.

Real enough to wear the necklace. Still cool against your skin. Still shining in the light.

You traced the petal again. It trembled slightly beneath your fingertip.

You stood there until the sun dipped low again, until the cicadas started to hum and the air went thick with evening. That slow, syrupy hush that pressed against the back of your throat like a warning. The garden dimmed into blue shadows. The wind stopped moving.

You didn’t need to look at the sky to know it was time.

You went inside.

Back through the back door. Back into the red quiet. The warmth that never left the floorboards. The smell of sugar and copper that clung to the curtains like an old friend. The faint creak of the stairwell. The clock ticking too slow, or maybe just loud.

Back into his house.

Your house.

Home.

And there, waiting for you by the parlor door, was a new pair of shoes.

Sapphire blue.

The exact shade of the necklace.

They didn’t look expensive. Not flashy. Just thoughtful. Too thoughtful. A little too perfect. The soles hadn’t touched ground. The leather looked like cream. Soft enough to bend, strong enough to last.

They were still wrapped in tissue paper. Still perfect.

And on top, a note. Folded twice, edges crisp.

For when you feel like walkin’. But only if I’m with you.

You didn’t cry.

Didn’t smile, either.

You just sat down in the chair beside the box, touched the ribbon. It gave under your fingers, like it had been tied gently. Like it had been placed there just moments before.

And maybe it had.

Maybe he was watching.

Maybe he never stopped.

You looked around the room once. Let your eyes pass over the mantle, the mirror, the empty hallway. Then back to the shoes.

Blue as blood in moonlight.

He wanted you to wear them. To remember him every time you moved. To know you weren’t alone.

That you’d never be alone again.

Even if you wanted to be.

You rested your hands in your lap. Smoothed your palms over the hem of your skirt. And waited.

Because you knew he’d come through the door soon.

And you needed to be ready.

Two bodies.

That was all you saw at first.

The front door swung open on its silent hinges, just wide enough to catch the night air and let in the swamp’s low, humming breath. Then, dragged across the threshold like afterthoughts, came two bodies.

Ankles gripped in Remmick’s fists. One man. One woman. Limp. Unceremonious. Their shoes scraped along the steps with dull thuds, their limbs sagging like broken dolls. Their heads knocked once, twice, against the frame as he yanked them forward over the threshold, then across the floor, right over the woven runner you’d cleaned just yesterday.

He didn’t pause to readjust his grip. Didn’t hoist them up by the arms or cradle the neck. Just dragged them straight across the polished pine, the hem of the woman’s dress catching on a nail, the man’s cuff leaving a damp smear along the grain.

You were already sitting when the door opened. Curled at the far end of the parlor sofa, one leg tucked beneath the other, a book open in your lap. You’d read the same page three times now. Or tried to.

The fire had gone soft, more glow than flame, and the air smelled faintly of lemon oil from the furniture polish you’d used that afternoon. The quiet had stretched long enough to feel foreign. The kind of quiet you always thought maybe, just maybe, meant a reprieve.

But it never did.

And deep down, some awful part of you had known.

You knew it when he left without telling you where.

You knew it when the sun dipped low and the shoes sat untouched beside the door.

You knew it when your fingertips hovered over the necklace at your collarbone, blue and cold and impossibly bright against your skin.

The quiet of the day had been too full.

The stillness too practiced.

The gift too kind.

Now, he was back. And he brought proof of it with him.

Remmick looked up as he stepped inside. Not hurried. Not sheepish. Just calm.

Casual.

As if he’d been returning from a stroll through the garden and not some carnage-stained errand that ended in slaughter.

And he smiled.

Sharp. Crooked. Gleaming even beneath the gore.

His shirt, what was left of it, clung to him in soaked folds. Torn across the collar. Split open down the front. Dark with blood and something thicker beneath. His trousers weren’t better, stiff with drying stains, the cuffs tracking flecks of mud across the parlor floor.

But it was his hands, claws, that made your breath catch.

Those clever, expressive things.

They were soaked up to the elbows, glistening red at the knuckles, sticky across the nails, the fingers flexing slightly as if trying to forget what they’d just done.

The blood hit the floor with every step. Slap. Smear. Slap. The sound seemed to echo, loud against the hush of the house.

And around his neck,

The gold chain.

The same one from all those months ago. When he first walked into your life, quiet and strange and smiling with teeth too white and eyes too old. The chain had caught the afternoon light back then. Made you think of warmth. Of wealth. Of good manners and good shoes and someone just passing through.

Now, it caught nothing.

Just blood.

Draped against the hollow of his throat, the metal barely glinted beneath the gore. But you knew it. Recognized it in a way that made your stomach twist. Not with fear.

With memory.

Back then, he’d brought honey. Compliments. Ribbons.

Now he brought bodies.

And not once, not even as he stepped closer, dragging the corpses across your freshly scrubbed floors, did he look ashamed.

He didn’t stop until they were halfway into the parlor, just a few feet from where you sat.

Close enough that the stink caught up to you. Metal and dirt and something that curled the back of your throat.

You stared.

At the man. At the woman. At Remmick.

At the man who said he loved you.

At the one who’d kissed your neck that morning and murmured, Won’t be long.

At the one who’d bought you shoes.

And finally, finally, looked at you proper.

Then, he smiled again.

Like this was nothing.

Like it was love.

“I got greedy,” he said with a smile that pulled too wide. Too sharp. The kind of smile that didn’t look right on a human mouth. “Ain’t proud of it. But-”

He dropped one of the ankles with a wet thud and dragged a blood-soaked hand through his hair, slicking it back from his brow. The strands clung there, heavy and dark with something not yet dry.

“-damn, if it didn’t feel good.”

The book slipped from your lap.

It hit the floor with a soft thud, pages bending inward like they were trying to hide. You didn’t look down.

Couldn’t.

Remmick tilted his head. The firelight caught in the red sheen along his jaw, the crimson glint in his eyes, the blood on his lashes, the teeth brazenly bared behind his smile. His gold chain lay across his collarbone, no longer shining, just soaked.

“Now don’t start with that look,” he said gently. Like you were being difficult. Like this was a misunderstanding. “Ain’t nothin’ different about this than last time. Just… more.”

You opened your mouth.

Closed it again.

Your throat tightened. Heat rushed up from your chest to your face, fast and dizzying.

“I can’t,” you said. Too soft. A ghost of breath.

He blinked.

You swallowed, tried again, louder this time, firmer. Your voice broke on the last word.

“I can’t do this.”

His smile didn’t disappear. It tilted. Softened. Confused. Like he’d misheard you, like you’d offered a strange joke in poor taste.

“Sure ya can,” he said with a little chuckle. “You’ve done it before.”

“No- Remmick, I mean it.”

You stood too fast and stumbled backward, shoulder bumping into the arm of the couch. Your hands shook. Your legs wouldn’t stay steady. Something inside you wanted to bolt.

“I-I thought I could prepare for this. I thought I’d be ready if it happened again. I tried to be ready.” You gasped, the tears rising too quickly now. “But it’s too much. It’s too much, I can’t- I can’t do it again.”

You covered your mouth with both hands as the sob came. Hot and involuntary. It made your knees buckle.

He didn’t say anything.

Just stood there in the parlor’s golden light, two bodies behind him, the blood still dripping from his sleeves. His shirt was open, clinging to him in places and torn in others, revealing streaks of red drying along the lines of his ribs. The bloodied gold chain at his neck looked too bright against it. Almost sickeningly bright. Like something holy lost in rot, just as defiled.

And yet he watched you.

Like you were the only thing that mattered in the room.

Like the rest of the blood didn’t exist.

Like he liked this. Your shaking, your fear. Or maybe it wasn’t that. Maybe it was something worse. Maybe he needed it.

He dropped the second ankle.

The bodies sprawled in opposite directions, lifeless and heavy, arms twisted beneath them. But his gaze didn’t follow them. Never once did he glance away from you.

He started walking.

Slow, deliberate steps. Not rushed. Not angry. As if trying to convince you to not run away. Even though he knew you wouldn’t.

His claws hadn’t retracted yet.

You could see them now. Long and sharp, extending clean past his fingertips like polished blades. Shimmering wet.

You backed away until your spine met the bookshelf, hands splayed behind you against the wood.

“I’m not mad,” he said gently.

God, why was that worse?

“I just thought ya might help.” he went on.

He was close now. Close enough to breathe in. Close enough to taste the iron in the air. His outline looked too tall in the firelight, too narrow at the shoulders, too still.

You turned your face away, but his hand came up, bloodied, clawed, and cupped your cheek with the same reverence you remembered from quieter mornings. His thumb smeared a tear away.

“You’re cryin’,” he murmured, and it almost sounded like it surprised him.

Then, instead of licking it away, he kissed it. Softly. Slowly. Like he knew that was what you needed. As if that made it better.

You sobbed harder.

“Please,” you whispered, barely able to speak past the tightness in your throat. “Please, Remmick. Not this time. I-I can’t.”

He leaned in, brushing his lips against your nape, his breath traveling hot and sticky down your neck.

And then, in the sweetest voice you’d ever heard:

“Sometimes I think about killin’ ya.”

Your whole body went still.

Not in fear.

Not in surprise.

In something worse.

Recognition.

Because you knew. Knew without needing a second breath, that he meant it.

The words didn’t drop like a bomb. They slid in like a knife. Quiet. Precise. Familiar.

He tilted his head, brushing his knuckle down your jaw like he hadn’t just said the most horrifying thing you’d ever heard.

“Every day,” he whispered. “Mornin’ and night. Before ya wake. After ya sleep. When you’re liftin’ the kettle, or brushin’ out your curls, or sayin’ my name like it still means somethin’ soft.”

His eyes were wide now, blue burning red at the center. Hungry. Hollow. A flame with no wick.

His hand drifted down your throat. Light as a feather. He traced the line of your pulse with the back of his knuckle, sighing at the flutter under your skin.

“Don’t mean I want to,” he said. “Not in the way you’re thinkin’. I’d never do it to hurt ya. It ain’t about that.”

You didn’t move. Couldn’t.

He stepped in closer, just close enough that your breath bounced off his shirt. Soaked and stiff with blood, the collar dark and curling at the seams. You could smell it all over him now. On his breath. In his hair. On the chain pressed tight against the hollow of his throat.

“Sometimes,” he started, “I see ya sittin’ there with a book in your hand, brows furrowed, lips pursed, and I think: God, I’d like to still that moment forever. Seal it. Keep it. Bury it right inside me so no one else ever gets to see it.”

His hand dropped lower.

Over your ribs.

The curve of your waist.

“Sometimes,” he went on, his voice still syrup-sweet, “I think about your blood spread out over the floor like a paintin’. The kind of red that don’t fade. The kind that says y’were mine.”

You whimpered.

And it made him shiver.

“But then ya smile at me,” he said. “And I think, no, not yet. Not yet. Let her smile again. Let her ask me what I’m hummin’. Let her scold me for trackin’ dirt into the kitchen. Let her keep bein’ good.”

His hands moved again. Gentle. Worshipful.

He wrapped them around your hips and turned you, slow, pressing you backward until your thighs brushed the edge of the sofa.

Until you could see the bodies again.

Still sprawled on the parlor floor.

Still leaking onto the wood.

Your knees locked.

Remmick lowered you down like you were made of glass. One hand cradling your spine, the other smoothing your skirt beneath you. He sat beside you, far too close. Turned to face you as if there was space to spare.

His claws scraped your knee where the fabric had risen.

“Y’see, darlin’,” he said, cupping your face again, “it ain’t about cruelty. It’s about closeness. I love ya so much I can’t figure out what to do with it. It don’t burn clean. It don’t settle.”

His eyes gleamed.

“I wanna take ya in. Swallow ya whole. Wear your name on the inside of my mouth. I want ya with me, inside me, forever. That’s what this is.”

You were shaking now.

Tears welled, but you couldn’t blink them away. They just sat there, blurring the edges of him. Of the room. Of the lifeless shapes still cooling on the floor.

“Ya think I don’t see it in ya too?” he lied, so confidently that you almost found yourself believing it. “That same want? That same ache? Ya look at me like I’m already inside you.”

You made a choked sound. Couldn’t tell if it was protest or grief.

He kissed the corner of your mouth again.

Then lower.

Your jaw.

Your throat.

His hands roamed with reverence, but they were still stained.

And it was still happening.

“Sometimes,” he breathed, lips brushing the shell of your ear, “I think I’ll wake one mornin’ and do it. Just let it happen. Let my love finish what it started. But I haven’t yet.”

He leaned back just enough to look at you.

His kissed a tear from your cheek.

“I haven’t,” he said again, softly. “Y’should remember that.”

You should’ve screamed.

Run.

Shoved him back.

Instead, you stared at him through tear-glossed lashes. Silent. Spinning. Unmoored.

He leaned in once more. Kissed your cheek like it was something fragile.

“Y’don’t ever have to be afraid of me, sugar. Long as ya stay.”

And for a moment, just a moment, you almost believed him.

Remmick’s lips brushed yours, feather-light at first, a barely-there caress that left you reeling. You could taste the copper tang of blood on his mouth, feel the warmth of it against your skin. Your breath caught as he pulled back slightly, just enough to feel his breath against your face. A soft huff of air, a reassurance.

But then his hand slid up your spine, blood smearing across your dress, and all softness fled.

This time, when his mouth met yours, there was no gentleness. No hesitation. Just hunger, visceral and consuming. He kissed you like he wanted to devour you whole, his lips slanting over yours, his tongue pushing into your mouth and claiming every inch of it as his own.

You whimpered, fingers groping at his shoulders, but whether to push him away or pull him closer, you didn’t know. Your thoughts were muddled, thick with fear and revulsion and a deep, wrenching want you couldn’t name. He tasted like death. Like sin. Like every dark fantasy you’d ever had but never dared speak aloud.

He yanked your head back to bare your throat, kissing down it, hot and open-mouthed, his tongue flicking out to taste the salt of your skin. His other hand, which had been stroking idly up and down your side, slipped under your skirt. You tensed, a protest rising in your throat, but he shushed you before you could voice it.

“Shh, now,” he murmured against your throat, fangs ghosting over your skin. “You’ve been achin’ for this. Starvin’ for it. A man’s hands. A man’s mouth. And ain’t it a mercy it’s mine givin’ it to ya?”

His fingers brushed your inner thigh, dragging through the wetness that had gathered there. You could feel the scrape of his claws, even through the fabric of your panties. A shudder ran through you, and you hated yourself for it. Hated that some twisted part of you wanted this, wanted him, even like this, covered in blood and filth and the evidence of his crimes.

He teased you through the thin fabric, his touch light and maddening. Circling. Flicking. Dipping just inside the edge before pulling away again. You whined, hips bucking of their own accord, desperate for more. More pressure. More friction. More something, anything to ground you in the midst of this debauched nightmare.

“Please,” you gasped, not even sure what you were asking for. For him to stop? For him to keep going? For the world to open up and swallow you whole, so you didn’t have to reckon with this unfamiliar depravity?

He chuckled, dark and indulgent. “Greedy girl,” he chided, his breath hot against your ear. “Don’t worry darlin’. I’ll give ya what y’need.”

He punctuated his words with a hard press of his fingers, rubbing rough circles over the damp fabric. You cried out, back arching, lungs seizing with the intensity of it. It was too much. Not enough. Your thoughts were fragmenting, splintering under the force of your need. You felt like you were drowning in it.

In him.

And still, he whispered filthy things in your ear, coating your skin in his words. Telling you how much he loved you. How much he needed you. How he’d do anything to keep you, even this. Especially this.

Remmick sucked at your throat, slow, deliberate, letting the warmth rise, letting you squirm. Then, without warning, he bit down. Deep. Sharp. A growl rumbled from his chest at the sound you made, part gasp, part sob, and he shivered like it thrilled him. “That’s it,” he breathed, lips glossy with blood and spit. “Sing for me, sweetheart.”

He growled as he left a map of his obsession on your flesh, fingers finally shoving your panties aside to slide through your slick folds.

Inside, something was screaming. Screaming for you to run, to fight, to do anything but this. To not let him take you like this, stained with the blood of innocents, surrounded by the evidence of his madness.

But your body... your body was betraying you. Arching into his touch. Soaking his fingers. Trembling with a heat you’d never known before. A heat that was as twisted and all-consuming as he was.

He pushed his fingers inside you, and you cried out at the stretch, the burn of it. He was big, bigger than you’d ever had, and the scrape of his claws against your inner walls only added to the intensity of it. It hurt, God, it hurt, but with every flex of his fingers, every curl and twist, you were hit with a new pang of euphoria, a pleasure so sharp it was almost painful.

You were so close, teetering on the edge of something huge and shattering, when he suddenly pulled his fingers out, leaving you achingly empty. You whimpered, hips bucking, seeking, but before you could even form a protest, he was pushing your legs apart, baring you completely to his gaze.

And then, without warning, he was on you, his mouth hot and wet and voracious. He ate you out like an animal, fangs still bared, growling into your flesh like he wanted to consume you whole. The sounds he made were obscene, wet and slurping, echoing in the quiet of the room like some kind of debauched symphony.

You thrashed beneath him, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling, pushing, trying to get him closer, get him away, you didn’t even know anymore. The pleasure was cresting higher and higher, coiling tighter and tighter, a spring on the verge of snapping. You felt like you were being flayed alive by it, torn apart piece by piece by piece.

And when you finally broke, it was with a scream that tore from your throat like a wound. You came so hard you saw stars, your vision whiting out, your lungs seizing, your body convulsing. And through it all, he just kept lapping at you, drinking down every drop of your pleasure like it was the finest wine. Like he couldn’t get enough of your taste, your need, your everything.

Your breath came in sharp pants, thoughts equally scattered. Fragmented. Lost in the haze of pleasure and horror that clouded your mind.

And then, with a monumental effort, you pushed him away. Or tried to. Your arms felt weak, your muscles trembling with the backlash of your climax.

He looked up at you, his face soaked with your arousal, a feral smile spreading across his lips. “I’m not done yet, darlin’,” he growled with a low rumble that vibrated through you. He tore at his clothes, ripping the blood-soaked shirt over his head, exposing his crimson-streaked torso. You tried to protest again, but he shushed you with a kiss, a deep, consuming kiss that left you tasting yourself, him, and the metallic tang of blood.

He lined himself up at your entrance, and you could feel the heat of him, the thickness, the promise of what was to come. You tensed, a flutter of panic in your chest. “Remmick, I-” you started, but he cut you off with another kiss, his hips surging forward, impaling you in one swift, brutal stroke.

You cried out, a sound of pain and pleasure mingled together, your nails digging into his back as he filled you completely. He was nothing you could’ve prepared yourself for, stretching you to your limits, the sensation was nearly unbearable. He started to move, his hips rolling in a rhythm that was both primal and precise, each thrust driving him deeper, harder, more relentlessly than the last.

“God, ya feel so good, sugar,” he moaned against your neck with a huff that made you shiver. “So tight. So wet. Y’were made for this. Made for me.”

You could feel the soreness building, the ache of being stretched, of being taken so ruthlessly. Your body was overwhelmed, every nerve ending firing, every sensation heightened to almost unbearable levels. You whimpered, your hips bucking in time with his thrusts, unable to do anything but take what he was giving you.

Remmick’s eyes were wild, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he drove into you. “Look at ya,” he panted, voice so thick with lust you could barely understand him. “So beautiful. So perfect. Ya take my cock like a dream.”

He leaned down, licking the tears that streamed down your face, his tongue hot and wet against your skin as he purred. “Ya taste so sweet when you cry.”

You tried to divert your attention, to escape the intensity of his near-crimson gaze and the raw, animalistic need that burned in his eyes. It was a need that terrified you to your very core. Your eyes darted around the room, seeking anything to anchor yourself to, anything to distract from the overwhelming sensations coursing through your body.

Your gaze landed on the necklace that swayed from his neck. That blood-soaked gold chain that glinted dully in the firelight. That gold chain that followed you from the life you once had to now, wrapped in Remmick’s embrace, his body moving against yours in a rhythm as old as time.

He noticed your distraction, a cruel, knowing smile playing on his lips as he reached up and took the necklace into his mouth. He bit down on the gold, his teeth sinking into the metal with a force that should have bent it, his eyes never leaving yours.

“That’s it, darlin’,” he groaned, the words muffled around the jewelry. “Focus on that. Focus on me. On how good this feels.”

And God help you, he was right. It did feel good. So good it hurt. So good it was almost too much to bear. The pleasure was a sharp, piercing thing, a knife’s edge of ecstasy that left you breathless and dizzy. With each thrust, each roll of his hips, each brutal, delicious stroke, the pressure inside you built, a coiled spring ready to snap, your body teetering on the brink of something monumental.

You could feel the guilt gnawing at you. A dark, insidious thing that clawed at the edges of your mind, trying to break through the haze of pleasure. How could you find enjoyment in this? How could your body respond so eagerly to his touch? To his invasion? You knew the depth of his depravity. The extent of his crimes. You were a willing participant. An accomplice.

You were ashamed of the moans that fell from your lips, ashamed of the way your body moved with his, ashamed of the desperate, keening cries that escaped you as he brought you higher, closer to the edge of oblivion.

Remmick's hips continued to roll in a relentless rhythm, his body glistening with sweat, his breath coming in ragged, desperate gasps. He leaned down, his voice a drunken, fervent whisper against your ear, his words a mix of promise and threat. “M’gonna put a baby in ya, sugar. Gonna fill you up. Watch ya get all fat ’n slow ’n pretty.”

His words sent a shock of panic through you. A cold, paralyzing fear that cut through the haze of pleasure and left you reeling. You tried to push him away, your hands pressing against his chest, your body tensing as you tried to escape the inevitable. “Remmick, no-” you gasped, your voice hoarse, your eyes wide with a mix of terror and pleading. “You can’t-”

But he was relentless, his body pinning you down, his strength overpowering yours in a way that left you feeling helpless. Trapped. He captured your wrists in one hand, holding them above your head as he continued to move inside you, his hips never ceasing their brutal, demanding rhythm. “Shh,” he cooed, his voice a low, soothing purr that contrasted sharply with the wild, untamed look in his eyes. “You’ve been askin' for this. You’ve been beggin' for it. I know you have. And I’m gonna give it to you.”

He leaned down, tongue invading your mouth, exploring, conquering, silencing your protests as he continued to move inside you.

You tried to turn your head, to break the kiss, to gasp for air, but he followed, his lips never leaving yours, his breath mingling with yours, his tongue continuing its relentless exploration. He kissed you deeply, thoroughly, his lips moving against yours with a suffocating desperation, as if he were trying to pour every ounce of his being into you. To consume you wholly.

“Remmick, please-” you managed to gasp as he finally broke the kiss, your chest heaving, your body trembling with a mix of fear, pleasure, and something else, something almost akin to desperation. “I can’t-”

But he only smiled, a slow, knowing smile that sent a shiver down your spine, a mix of anticipation and trepidation. “Ya can, sugar,” he insisted, the lack of choice you had in the matter laced on every word. “And ya will.”

With a final, shuddering thrust, he buried himself deep, his whole body seizing tight as he spilled inside you, breath caught somewhere between a grunt and a gasp. His mouth found your shoulder, and without pause, he bit down. Hard. Fangs sinking deep. The pressure broke through your skin, and the sound that left him was low and guttural. Like it came from the oldest part of him.

The pain hit first. Bright. Hot. A sudden wash of heat that bled through your dress and soaked down your arm. You cried out, not just from the hurt, but from the way it tangled with everything else. Your spine arched, your chest heaving, your head going light from the sheer force of it.

Remmick didn’t stop. Didn’t pull away. His hands gripped tight around your hips, and he moved through the aftershocks like he couldn’t bear to let the moment end. The bite held you still. Anchored. The only sound in the room was the ragged pull of his breathing and the faint sound of blood dripping onto the sofa.

When he finally stilled, he didn’t let go, or pull out.

He licked over the wound slow, careful, as if tasting something rare. As if trying to commit it to memory. A quiet sound rose in his throat, something between a hum and a sigh, and you felt it against your skin.

You were shaking.

Spent.

And he held you like you were something precious, something ruined, something he couldn’t stop himself from needing.

The sheets smelled like lavender. Fresh. Clean. As if nothing had ever happened at all. As if you hadn’t just laid beneath him in the room where the bodies had gone cold, their blood still tacky on the floorboards.

As if he hadn’t taken you with that same blood smeared down his chest, soaked into his sleeves, crusted along his jaw.

As if he hadn’t whispered love into your mouth while fucking you raw against the parlor sofa, his hands pinning yours down, his hips relentless, the broken cries that spilled from your throat sounding too much like pleading and too little like pleasure.

And then, when it was over, when your body was wrecked and shivering, your legs too weak to stand, he’d kissed your forehead like a lullaby, scooped you up in his arms like you weighed nothing at all, and carried you to the bath.

The tub was already full.

Of course it was.

Warm. Steaming. Waiting for you.

You’d wondered, hazily, if he’d drawn it before or after.

He didn’t speak as he undressed you. Just peeled the ruined nightgown from your skin with slow, reverent fingers. His claws retracted now, nails blunted and gentle. No urgency. No demand. Only care.

The water lapped up around your body as he eased you in, one hand holding your back, the other at your hough, lowering you as though you might break apart in his arms.

He didn’t get in with you. Not at first.

Just knelt beside the tub and cupped water over your shoulders, your breasts, your thighs. Ran a cloth down your spine. Washed you in long, slow strokes, like he was trying to scrub the memory of the bodies from your skin before it sank too deep.

But it already had.

Still, you let him work. Let him wash your hair, comb it through with his fingers. Let him tilt your head back and rinse it clean. Let him trace every curve of your body like it was scripture.

He scrubbed the blood from your shoulder with painstaking tenderness, kissing the half-healed wound in between passes, calling you his miracle, his mercy, his girl.

His voice never rose. Not once.

Not even when you flinched from his touch. Not even when you cried.

He kissed your eyes dry.

You thought about the quiet days. The good ones. When he made breakfast in the morning and left hibiscus tea on your nightstand. When he sang while he cooked. When he brushed your hair with such delicacy you almost forgot what his hands were capable of.

And you thought about the other days. The long silences. The backhanded questions. The hollow, hateful stares that brought you to tears.

Your body ached in places you didn’t have names for. Inside and out.

And he was so gentle now.

You wanted to scream.

Instead, you let him rinse the soap from your skin and lift you out of the tub. Let him wrap you in a towel, thick and warm, smelling faintly of clove and firewood.

Let him dry you off. Let him carry you to his bedroom, both of you silent now, except for his breath brushing against your temple.

The mattress dipped under your weight. The pillows caught your head like a secret. The blanket was heavy in the best way, and his arms found you again before you could move away.

Remmick curled around you like a second skin. One arm beneath your waist. One over your belly.

His fingers didn’t move. Just stayed there, still and steady, like they could already feel what had been made between you.

His mouth was at your neck again, breath soft, lips barely brushing.

And still, you didn’t sleep.

You just stared into the dark, remembering the warmth of his voice when he called you good. Remembering the snap of bone. The wet sound of flesh giving way. The feel of his body slamming into yours with no hesitation, no mercy, like love could be beaten into you if he just took enough of you for himself.

He shifted behind you. Pulled you closer.

There was no space left between your bodies.

None between the truth and the lie of it.

And you still didn’t move.

You kept your eyes open. Fixed on the wall.

And thought about everything.

About your daddy’s store. You thought about that first. The sound of the bell over the door, bright and sweet as wind chimes. The gentle sweep of the broom on the front steps every morning. You thought about how the sun used to come in through the big front windows, painting long streaks of gold across the shelves. You used to watch the dust swirl in the light and think it looked like magic.

You thought about the girls you’d grown up with. How you used to sit on porch rails with your legs swinging, eating too much candy and daring each other to run barefoot down the gravel road. You wondered where they were now. If they were married. If they had babies.

If they thought about you.

You wondered if any of them had come by the store. If they’d stood on the same wooden floorboards you once stood on and asked your daddy where you’d gone. If they were told you were gone for good.

Or maybe they didn’t ask at all.

Maybe they figured you’d run off with a man, like so many girls did when the world backed them into a corner and made them choose between being loved or being lonely.

You thought about your mama next.

About how she used to wrap your hair at night, hands gentle but firm, fingers slick with oil. She never let you skip it, not even once. Not even when you pouted and said you weren’t a baby anymore. “Still my baby,” she’d say, tying the scarf with a kiss to your forehead.

You thought about what she’d say now. Whether she’d still hold you close, or just hold your face and try not to cry. You didn’t know if she’d recognize you.

Not like this. Not with him.

Remmick shifted behind you in the bed, stirring as if he could feel your thoughts pulling you too far. He curled tighter. Pulled you in with him. One arm clutched low around your waist, the other curling beneath your ribs. Like he was trying to mold his shape to yours. Like if he could just hold you close enough, you’d stop trying to leave, mind or body.

And maybe he was right.

Maybe he could fold you into him, press you so deep into his chest you’d forget where you ended and he began.

You blinked slow.

Your throat ached.

The room was quiet. The air was warm. The shadows on the walls flickered and stretched like they didn’t know where to settle. The lamp on the dresser hummed soft and low, casting gold against the covers, turning everything honeyed and still.

There was no lock on the door.

No chain at your ankle.

No order in his voice.

But it was a cage all the same.

A soft, warm, gilded cage.

And you had stayed.

Because where else was there to go?

You’d imagined leaving. Dozens of times. Pictured it clear as glass. The road winding long and empty behind you. The night cool on your skin. Your heart in your mouth.

But every time you chased that dream far enough, it ended in the same place.

Here.

With him.

You’d made too many trades along the way. Traded silence for safety. Traded truth for comfort. Traded fear for something that looked too much like love to name it anything else.

And now you had nothing left to bargain with.

You’d redrawn the line a hundred times, and now the chalk had run out.

So you stopped thinking.

Let your muscles go slack.

Let the ache in your chest press itself into the mattress. Let the silk of his voice echo in your head.

You’re safe, darlin’.

My beautiful girl.

I love ya.

And finally, you let yourself go.

[egelantier]

boldness is all!

so murderbot 1.9 was just personally tailored emotional porn for yours truly, 10/10, no notes, those people are amazing and i hope they get to adapt all the books. i want to see what they do with art like burning.

the thing about the show overall i really loved is how deft, economic and intentional they're with their adaptation choices. ASR is a deceptively hard book to adapt, i think, given that it's delivered in a very detached narrative from a deeply unreliable narrator, and everything the show team chose to do with it was just - well-thought out in a deeply satisfying way.

giving gurathin his woobie corporate spy backstory? elevates him from the straight man description in the book (the humans in the books are deliberately sanded down and smushed together - it's murderbot's narration and it doesn't want to care too much and it doesn't want to pay attention; but we as independent viewers have to care, otherwise there's no show), gives him this beautiful kismesis rapport/understanding/tension with murderbot, and quickly and efficiently hammers in the 'under this form of predatory capitalism everybody is abused and exploited, but also there are levels to that' that takes the books some time to unfold. who knows if they get a second season? and it's already all here.

leebeebee? quick corprim entry point of view, nice thematic foil for both gurathin and murderbot, the quick demonstration of how presaux' way of communicating with corporation rim is both good and dangerous for them, and a sideside demonstration that yes, sometimes people will participate in their own exploitation and will choose the promise of being the boot over the freedom from the boot, and there's that.

sanctuary moon? aside from how much fun it is, it provides us with quick and dirty insight into murderbot feelings - something that it most definitely has in abundance AND something that it staunchly refuses to admit or embody all the way until, like, fifth or sixth book in the series - and also a beautiful demonstration of how a person will learn empathy from anywhere, even second-grade soap opera, because personhood is made of connections, and the urge to connect is just that strong. it IS a mediocre show, that is; this mediocre show allowed murderbot to invent and try out concepts completely integral to its sense of being and perceiving the world way ahead of time. (also makes me think of how the most enduring Ye Fandoms of Olde were slightly mediocre, long shows that had to be read very closely and sometimes against the text to read all the richness and joy into them.)

(and also for the horrendous, startling vulnerability and generosity of murderbot sharing its comfort episode with mensah AFTER she called it a mediocre show. i would never, i swear to god.)

the throuple? a) hilarious b) a quick and dirty crash course on how presaux navigates sex, relationships, sticky ethical situations, cringe and changes - by treating each other with maximum respect possible and knowing that they can talk about shit even when shit is deeply embarrassing for all parties involved.

it's not maybe the only correct way to do things - in some other universe it could've been done completely differently, and it's okay - but in our sad little world where adaptations usually go either with slapping a title on any tangentially related standard save the cat story, or with slavishly following word for word without understanding what those words do, i was incredibly surprised and pleased.

[skzophreniic]

⍣ ೋ cw: explicit sexual content. fingering. thigh licking. watching through cams. fun stuff.

⍣ ೋ notes: why am i enjoying the crack fics at the end more than the actual smut?

🧾 FORMAL INVESTIGATION REPORT Filed by: Concierge Aeryn Subject: Spa Incident Staff Member Under Review: Jeongin Yang Guest Involved: Room # Unknown. Did she ever even check in or did she just head for the spa?

Jeongin knocked lightly—even though the door was already open—and stepped into the security room with his usual, suspiciously sweet smile.

"You wanted to see me, Concierge Aeryn?"

He looked freshly showered. Hair still slightly damp, uniform ironed to a crisp, skin glowing like he just walked out of a facial and not a formal inquiry. Which, technically, this was. Sort of.

Aeryn didn't look up right away, just motioned for him to sit with a little flick of her pen. Jeongin padded across the room, folding himself neatly into the chair opposite her—hands in his lap, posture polite, that soft little grin not budging an inch.

Across the room, Jisung was already spinning lazily in his chair, one foot pushing off the desk while he munched on a suspiciously loud granola bar and smirked like this was the best part of his day.

“Jeonginnie,” Jisung greeted, mouth full. “Caught you slippin’, huh?”

“I didn’t slip,” Jeongin replied, blinking at him with mock confusion. “I just massaged someone.”

Aeryn finally looked up.

“The problem is where you massaged them.”

Jeongin tilted his head, all wide eyes and fake innocence. “...Their legs?”

“They said your hands got a little too familiar,” Aeryn said evenly. “And that you made some… odd comments.”

“Compliments,” Jeongin corrected, sweetly. “Nice ones. About how soft their skin was. That’s not weird, is it?”

“Depends if your hand was on their inner thigh when you said it.”

He blinked again, the picture of gentle confusion. “Oh. Was it?”

Jisung choked on his granola bar and had to turn his laugh into a cough.

“Alright,” Aeryn said, setting the folder aside. “We’re reviewing the camera feed.”

Jeongin didn’t even flinch. “Camera feed? There’s cameras in the spa rooms?”

“There aren’t,” Jisung said proudly. “But I installed a few extra in the ceiling corners after a guest said the eucalyptus steam was making them see God.”

Aeryn sighed. “And I told you to take them down.”

“You said to ‘stop abusing the tech budget.’ You never said specifically to take them down.”

She didn’t argue—just waved a hand, and Jisung spun dramatically toward the monitors.

“Spa Room Three, yesterday, 3:00 to 4:00,” he narrated. “Behold: Exhibit A.”

The screen flickered to life. A high-angle view of Jeongin in action. He was serene. Focused. Angelic.

Also very much letting his hands slide way too high up the guest’s thighs for something that was supposed to be a full-body massage.

“Oop,” Jisung said cheerfully. “Pause.”

The image froze with Jeongin leaning over the table, one palm suspiciously close to the towel’s no-go zone, and a little smile playing on his lips.

“Enhance,” Jisung added dramatically, tapping a key he definitely labeled himself.

“Is that… humming?” Aeryn asked as faint audio played.

Jeongin didn’t even blink. “That’s part of the experience.”

“You were humming Vibe by Taeyang.”

“It’s relaxing,” he said calmly.

Jisung leaned closer to the screen. “Look at his face. That’s the face of a man who knows exactly what he’s doing.”

Jeongin smiled at the monitor, like he was proud. “They didn’t complain.”

“They did, actually,” Aeryn said, dryly. “To me. In writing.”

“They also said they didn’t stop you because your hands were soft,” Jisung added helpfully. “Which, honestly, is the best review I’ve ever heard.”

“Are you punishing me?” Jeongin asked sweetly. “Or are we just all watching me massage someone really well together?”

Aeryn stared at him for a long beat.

"...Do you want to be punished?"

Jeongin blinked, innocent. “I’m just here to cooperate.”

“I bet you are,” Jisung muttered, queuing up another angle—this one definitely from a camera hidden inside the aromatherapy diffuser.

The footage wasn’t grainy. Of course it wasn’t.

Jisung might’ve installed the cameras without permission, but he spared no expense on resolution. Every single detail was crisp—down to the glisten of oil catching on your skin, the shift of your thighs, the subtle tremble in your belly when Jeongin's fingers sank just a little deeper.

You had gone pliant. Laid out like a gift—towel hitched scandalously low across your hips, legs slightly parted. And Jeongin, watching now with his cheek resting in one hand, remembered exactly how you sounded when he first brushed his fingers over the seam of your thighs.

Like you were trying not to moan. Like you already knew you’d fail.

On the monitor, his hands slid up again—slow, deliberate, tracing the inner line of your thigh with nothing but the flat of his fingers, knuckles grazing the edge of the towel like it was an accident. It wasn’t. Of course it wasn’t.

“You have such soft skin,” his voice purred through the speaker—low and honey-sweet, a whisper that seemed to settle right between your legs.

You shifted.

Inviting.

Needy.

The towel dipped a little more—and Jeongin’s hand followed.

On screen, he knelt at the edge of the table and opened you. Gently. Palms bracing your knees, spreading you wider under the guise of pressure relief, until the curve of your sex was barely hidden by the terrycloth. He dipped his head forward, brushing his lips just above your knee. Again. Again. Until his mouth was just under the edge of the towel.

A sound escaped you—barely audible, but the kind that dragged straight down Jeongin’s spine.

He remembered the way you breathed—shallow, trembling. He remembered how slick your thighs already were and not just from the oil.

On screen, his hand disappeared beneath the towel.

You gasped.

“Fuck…”

Jeongin’s voice was soft, barely louder than the steamer in the corner. “That’s it… let me help you…”

And then his fingers moved.

The screen captured everything—the slow pump of two fingers between your legs, the deliberate way his wrist turned to press into your clit with every curl. He was fucking you with his fingers, slow and deep, while his mouth brushed up your inner thigh in time with every roll.

Wet sounds started to echo faintly through the speakers.

You were grinding against his hand now, movements small and desperate, biting your lip as your hips rolled toward every touch. The towel had long since stopped being modest—hitched up to your waist, exposing everything. And Jeongin’s face was right there, open-mouthed, eyes half-lidded, watching you fall apart like he’d done it a thousand times.

“You’re so wet already,” he murmured against your skin. “Wanted this from the second I walked in, huh?”

A moan tore out of your chest.

He pressed his thumb to your clit and circled—once, slow.

You whined. Loud.

“Oh my god—Jeongin—”

“Shh…” His voice was so soft. So fucking gentle. “Just relax. I’ve got you…”

On screen, he kept stroking—slow, deep pumps of his fingers, thumb working in tight circles, mouth open against your thigh like he couldn’t help but taste. Your legs trembled, then locked around his shoulders, heels digging into his back as you came with a high, helpless cry that echoed even through the tinny speaker.

He didn’t stop.

Not right away.

Not until you were panting, twitching, hips still rocking up into the aftershocks while his fingers slowed, then slipped out with obscene slickness.

He kissed the inside of your knee.

“Better?”

You nodded, dazed and glowing.

And on the monitor, Jeongin smiled. Sweet. Sinful.

That same smile he was wearing now—sitting in the security room like a perfect little employee, legs crossed, hair still damp, watching himself fuck you with his fingers in 4K.

Silence stretched thick in the room.

Jisung’s granola bar was halfway to his mouth, completely forgotten.

“…Wow,” he said, breathless. “That was the hottest shit I’ve ever illegally recorded.”

Aeryn didn’t speak.

Her eyes were locked on Jeongin.

And Jeongin—ever the picture of soft denial—tilted his head and asked sweetly, “So… am I being punished now?”

______________________________________________________________

🎥 [CAMERA ON — INT. SKZOTEL CONFERENCE ROOM – NEXT MORNING]

Aeryn sits at the head of the table, looking like she hasn’t slept since Spa-Gate. Everyone else is seated, half-awake and wholly unbothered. Felix is eating grapes out of a champagne glass. ]

AERYN: So apparently... because the guest formally submitted a complaint—thank you for that, by the way—

Camera smash-zooms to Jeongin, who waves cheerfully.

AERYN (CONT'D): —we’re required to conduct an official HR investigation.

HYUNJIN: We have an HR department?

Everyone turns to Chan. He looks around like he’s never heard of "HR" in his life.

CHAN: We have a gym?

🎥 [CUTAWAY – CHAN INTERVIEW]

CHAN (shrugging): Look, I’m all about structure and accountability, but HR was supposed to be… a vibe. Like, do we need a department for being decent humans? I thought that’s what the spa diffuser room was for.

INT. LOBBY – 12:02 PM

Aeryn hangs up a call and turns to the staff gathered around her.

AERYN: Okay, legal says if we don’t assign an HR officer, we could get fined.

CHANGBIN (stepping forward in slow motion, wind machine on him for no reason): I got this.

Everyone stares. There’s an awkward silence. Somewhere, a dog barks.

SEUNGMIN: You’re the valet guy.

CHANGBIN (pulling a fake mustache out of his pocket and slapping it on): Not today.

🎥 [CAMERA CUTAWAY – CHANGBIN INTERVIEW]

CHANGBIN (in a suit three sizes too tight): Do I have a psychology degree? No. Do I own a clipboard, a tie, and a laminated flowchart titled "How to Feel Things Without Suing Anyone"?

Yes.

Welcome to HR.

INT. “HR OFFICE” (formerly the lost and found closet)

A printed sign on the door reads: “Human Resources – Legally Separate from Valet Services, Emotionally the Same Guy.”Inside, Changbin has arranged exactly one chair, one file folder labeled Confidential (ish), and a stress ball shaped like a buttcheek.

JEONGIN (sitting politely): Is this a safe space?

CHANGBIN (gruff): That depends. Did you or did you not spiritually ascend into someone's pelvic chakra without signed consent?

JEONGIN (beat, then blinking sweetly): ...They were glowing.

CHANGBIN (writing something down): Noted.

🎥 [CAMERA CUTAWAY – CHANGBIN INTERVIEW]

CHANGBIN (very serious): My process is built on three pillars:

Respect.

Confidentiality.

Physically intimidating people until they admit fault, then hugging them until they cry.

It’s foolproof.

INT. “HR OFFICE” – ROUND TWO

Jisung’s turn. He slouches into the chair, tossing his phone on the desk.

CHANGBIN: Tell me about the cameras.

JISUNG: Define “installed.”

CHANGBIN: Define “lawsuit.”

JISUNG: I plead the fifth.

CHANGBIN (writing): Okay but you spelled “Spa Room 3” as “Horny Cam 1” in the system.

JISUNG (grinning): It’s branding.

INT. STAFF LOUNGE – NEXT DAY

Changbin holds an "HR Debrief" in the lounge. There’s a PowerPoint titled: “Touching People: Let’s Circle Back”

CHANGBIN (clicking through slides): Slide One: “Is It Okay To Lick a Guest’s Inner Thigh?” Answer: Only if they initiate a full legal contract and you have SPF 50 on your tongue.

HYUNJIN: What if it’s SPF 30?

CHANGBIN: Then that’s an OSHA violation.

🎥 [CAMERA CUTAWAY – JEONGIN INTERVIEW]

JEONGIN (smiling faintly): Honestly? I think I learned something. Mostly that Changbin could kill me with a binder clip. But also… boundaries are hot.

INT. LOBBY – FINAL SCENE

The staff gathers. Changbin hangs a framed sign: “SKZOTEL EMPLOYEE CODE OF CONDUCT: Don’t Touch But If You Do, Get It In Writing.”

Everyone claps. Jeongin raises his hand slowly.

JEONGIN: So like... if I ask first...?

CHAN: You ask me first.

AERYN: And me.

CHANGBIN: And also... the Lord.

Camera zooms in dramatically on Jeongin’s face as the screen freezes mid-blink.

______________________________________________________________

Series taglist: @nightmarenyxx @miyaluvvsyou @jisuperboard @fackeraccount @silly250 @lov3rachan @lze325 @angel-writes-here @jesuisstay

[kissessio]

I live, laugh, love, breathe, and eat Terusai / Saiteru, and although it's a pretty popular shipped, it's basically hated by 50% of the fandom, ESPECIALLY people who didn't watch past Season 1 bcs Season 2 wasn't dubbed (if you're one of those people, you are MISSING OUT)

So here are some reasons why I ship Terusai and think it's one of the most canon ships we have (DNI if you genuinely despise the ship, do interact if you like it / wanna know why people ship it)

1.) Many people say Teruhashi only likes Saiki bcs he doesn't flock at her like everyone else does, and though that is the main reason he caught her interest, it isn't the main reason why she likes him. At first, it does start off like that. He doesn't pay attention to her, frustrating her as well as piquing her curiosity as she tries to charm him, which causes her to develop feelings for him in the process, which seem quite shallow at the start (Saiteru is a SLOWBURN, trust) but as time goes on and she learns more about Saiki, this false image she has of Saiki which is this shy flustered guy kind of melts away and she sees the "true" him, someone who's more aloof, stoic, and antisocial, and still accepts him and yearns for him (as seen in the mixer episode when says "it'd be more fun if Saiki was here, even if he'd just be in the corner silently the whole time...") Not to mention Saiki was the first to really treat her like a person. Everyone only sees her on the surface level as the pretty and perfect girl, basically hust a mary sue and nothing more. But since Saiki can hear her thoughts, he can see past that, and treats her as he would to anyone else – like she's a normal person, because deep down, she is. Internally, she isn't perfect, and although she gets upset when she isn't treated like she is perfect, it's inevitably what she needs bcs she heavily relies on validation of others too much that it becomes unhealthy (like when she overworked herself trying to memorise everything about everyone until she fainted and Saiki caught her) so since Saiki treats her like this, it's no wonder her at first shallow feelings would deepen.

2.) "But Saiki clearly hates her / doesn't like her or romance" The thing abt Saiki K that makes it so good is that Saiki is an unreliable narrator / the things he says won't always be true. And plus, he's a confirmed tsundure, as we saw in the episode w/ his grandpa where he said "You've been a Tsundure much longer than I have". He says he doesn't like his friends and doesn't care for them, and yet he goes out of his way to do things for them (such as protecting Kaidou from the scammer psychic lady, altering the world so Mera didn't have to hide the fact she had part-time jobs, and disguising Nendo so he'd get hired as a waiter) all under the guise that it'd benefit him or just doing it in general with no explanation. Why would it be any different with Teruhashi? He's done many things that suggest he at least cares for her (Protecting her from the newspaper club, knocking her brother out so he wouldn't bother her while she was sick, swapping out the creepy gift her brother got her for a cute one that he picked out for her, getting mad on her behalf after his brother was mean to Teruhashi, etc.)

3. The mixer episode. I mentioned it earlier, but in this episode, Imu tries to set Teruhashi up with a few guys because she was under the guise that Saiki was bad for her. Yet, as I mentioned earlier, Teruhashi yearned for Saiki's presence, even though she knew he would just stand there and most likely not even pay attention to her, she just wanted him there. This causes something to sink in for Saiki apparently, and later, the guys do rock-paper-scissors on who gets to date Teruhashi. Saiki suddenly appears and WINS the game before knocking the guys out and saying "I can't let any of you have her." Need I say more?

4.) The episode when Teruhashi fainted. In this episode, Teruhashi, as I mentioned earlier, was overworking herself to memorise everything about all her admirers because she didn't want them to think she didn't care about them. Inevitably, she overworks herself, and faints in front of the crowd of guys. Saiki catches her. He gets mad on her behalf, saying how she paid so much attention to them but they didn't even notice how tired she was before carrying her to the infirmary. Once she wakes up and finds out Saiki carried her there, she tries to find them, brushing off her admirers' next few questions and saying she forgot as she went to thank him. This means A LOT because for someone who hates attention (the main reason he even disliked teruhashi at first was because she draws a lot of attention) yet he went into the crowd and caught her, carrying her in front of all her admirers, drawing basically hundreds of peoples attention despite all his efforts to blend in throughout the entire anime. And Teruhashi, after spending so much time memorising everything about everyone for their praise and validation, just says she forgot so she could go say thank you to Saiki. Again, need I say more?

5.) Saiki's offu. In one of the season 2 episodes, Teruhashi tries to be more like Aiura, changing her style to be more gyaru-like, but later reverts back to her old self and her inner monologue says "i guess saiki wants a girl who's more true to herself... I'm true to myself!" Or something along those lines, and suddenly, she hears an "offu" turning her head and all the audience sees is saiki covering his mouth. He spent SO MANY EPISODES avoiding saying offu, even telling toritsuka during the island field trip episodes that he'll do anything to avoid saying offu, only to finally say it in season 2? And unlike everyone else who says offu over her looks or little kind gestures, he says offu because of her genuine thoughts? AGAIN, need I say more?

6.) All of the matching official art they have :

(I'll make a second post including all the other ones !!!)

7.) Saiki K family tree pattern. Everyone in the Saiki family has the initial S. K. Saiki Kusuo, Saiki Kurumi, Saiki Kuniharu, Saiki Kusuke, and if Saiki were to marry Teruhashi, her initials would be S. K. (Saiki Kokomi). Same thing with birthdays. Kurumi and Kuniharu are both born on the same month, which is the same thing with Kusuo and Kokomi, both their birthdays being on August (16 and 6)

8.) Saiki overall not being able to stop Teruhashi from getting what she wants. Unlike with Aiura, where his powers overpower hers and he's able to change the outcome of her predictions (as seen in the episode where he goes to her place of work and makes all her predictions incorrect), he stands no chance to Teruhashi's extreme luck. Despite trying to interfere with his powers, they still ended up in the same group for the field trip. Despite bringing Yuuta, the end of their amusement park date was still positive on her end. Despite trying to seem unlikable, even at the end of their cafe-mall date, her feelings didn't go away. When she wants something, she'll get it, and she clearly wants Saiki.

9.) The alternate universe episode. In that episode, we got to see one of the universes in which Saiki was still... well, Saiki, yet a tinsy bit more open with his friends. In this universe, he's actually dating Teruhashi. That means that as he gradually grows more open to everyone, he gets romantically closer with Teruhashi? Maybe,

10.) They parallel each other. So. Much. People who don't like Teruhashi often say it's because she's arrogant, but so is Saiki. Since he's psychic, he views himself to be the most evolved of the human species, and kind of has a god complex. But you can't blame him, because he practically is. He has almost every super power and can bend the universe to his will. So technically, he isn't arrogant, just self aware. And so is Teruhashi. She is canonically beautiful, even Saiki said so himself, and with how so many guys love her, of course she'd know she's pretty. Much like Saiki, not arrogant, just self-aware. And they both don't use these things for anything morally bad, they just use it to their advantage because they can. They also both have creepy brothers, but uh... that's just both of them being cursed by something.

11.) They've clearly impacted each other as they got more character development deeper into the show with the help of their friends – Teurhashi shows character development early on, rejecting Saiko and the shallow life she always dreamed of because he had insulted Saiki and the friend group. Meanwhile, Teruhashi's troublesomeness, along with the whole friend group being a nuisances helped Saiki realise he doesn't actually mind troublesome things, something MANY FANS COMPLETELY WALK OVER and continue to characterise him as guy who actually doesn't gaf.

I hate when people depict Teruhashi as this super bratty mean girl and Saiki as someone who GENUINELY hates everyone !!

And also, ship what you want, just don't bash other ships !!

[thattimdrakeguy]

I Kind-Of Prefer Jason Todd's Original Resurrection

The Superman Prime thing punching reality is a little goofy--creative, but goofy.

So I get why people don't like it.

I think it's a lot better, though. Lazarus Pit actually originally couldn't bring people back to life. They bring it up in Under the Hood actually. That was a retcon as far as I'm aware.

The original grit and nastiness of the original resurrection scene is powerful stuff though, like a modern-ish horror story.

Also, damn look at that hot head, calming himself down while suffocating. Oh Jason and that temper of his. Look how temperamental he is--Okay, I'll stop.

This imagery too. Could hang it up on your wall if you were into edgy stuff like that.

Jason Todd here is only 15-years-old too. Only six months after he was murdered in that explosion. Teen got some freaking heart in him that's for sure.

Makes ya feel something.

The way he's drawn there walking down the hall. Total horror story stuff. I love it. It's so marvelous and dashing in a disturbed type of way.

Another thing I love is how the Lazarus Pit in this story looks like lava too. Adds to the horror story, modern day Frankenstein without sewing together bits and pieces of different folk together.

'bout bringing the brain dead back to proper life.

Giving me genie Jafar vibes though for some odd reason.

Like these two images combined or something.

I mean they're both red themed, I dunno...

What's with the early '00's and making Talia an absolutely wretched person? He's twenty at this point I believe, but I didn't see no consent. That's your lover's son ya freak.

(I've been corrected, he wasn't even 20. Have fun knowing Talia is even worse here than I initially realized. That's...I was going to say fun sarcastically, but nah, that's really weird, and super gross.)

Damn why couldn't they keep up the pace with Jason Todd, man? I don't necessarily want to make the post, and I probably won't do it for a while anyways, but they treated Jason like total dog shit after this for no good reason. I think some people forget how bad he had it for a bit. Still doesn't have it good--but--jeez whole other level for a bit.

The writing is so strong.

I can't put into words how much I love the narration boxes here. It's like the bible, except I give a shit.

Anyways, I hoped you've enjoyed our big ol' Jason Todd history lesson today.

It's been really fun reading this again.

Really hope too anyone that been along with me on this journey today has enjoyed themselves too. I like being an educational blog for the Bat-Family. I get a good kick out of it.

But for now--

BONUS:

Hey, I found out where people got the idea of pit madness from!

I think people that are more used to the movie probably read this and assumed that's what happened with Jason Todd.

Important thing to note though:

In the original story as you can see by the rest of the post above, Jason wasn't dead when he entered the pit. He was already alive.

Up to this point we're led to believe Ra's was lying anyways about it being able to resurrect people.

Wasn't 'til later, possibly when they simplified this story, did it become able to full on resurrect people.

Be honest, does he seem insane to you?

[suigenerisisadiva]

IF THE BATFAM HAD A REALITY SHOW: EPISODE 2 !COSTCO EXCLUSIVE! - FEAT BATSIS!READER

Pairings: Batfam x Batsis, batboys x batsis Content: Swearing, crude humour, Damian is a warning in himself lets bfr, classist jokes, reader calls Bruce "Daddy" in a platonic way, because that's what I call my father, the internet has sexualised that word too much imo

A/N: This was so fun you guys, if you want more pls tell me Huzzlings I tag: @ilona2nerrie, @softieekayy, @inejinn, @watchmakerhippo

🖤The Wayne Family: Trauma, Trust Funds & Tiaras🖤 – Episode 2: ‘The Costco Incident’

[OPENING SCENE: Theme Song Over Slow-Mo Glam Shots]

Flashing paparazzi. Designer heels on marble floors. One (1) feral sibling wrestling someone off-camera. Cut to black SUVS, Steph falls into pool. Tim is asleep in the confessional booth. The screen reads:

They have money. They have issues. And now they have a camera crew.

NARRATOR:

“Previously on Trauma, Trust Funds, and Tiaras—Stephanie discovered her incompetencies in the kitchen, Richard had a catastrophic breakdown leading up to the family dinner and Y/N had her banana milk stolen and never found out about the offender, this week on Trauma, Trust Funds & Tiaras, the Wayne take a trip to Costco, in attempts for "middle class immersion" in the words of Mr.Wayne.

CONFESSIONAL CAM - Y/N

[Y/N]: Daddy said we needed to learn how to ‘live like the commoners.’ So he rented out a Costco. Because obviously the most grounded way to experience the working class is by clearing out a warehouse that sells peri peri sauce by the bucket. I came for the free samples and banana milk.... and to watch Tim horde coffee beans and red bulls like a fucking dumbass

SCENE: INT. COSTCO – DAY

Dick, with wonder in his eyes: I love Costco it's like Target but on creatine.

Jason: (Already holding three rotisserie chickens) I'm not leaving without the giant teddy bear. I need it. For my—emotional support.

Tim: Why is everything in packs of 600?

Damian: (pushing the cart as though it is a war chariot) WHY ARE THERE THREE KILOS OF GRATED CHEESE IN THE CART?

Y/N: (holding a 1.5kg jar of Nutella and appears to be bench pressing a 72 pack of banana milk) “You bitches are asking the wrong questions. Where are the food samples?”

CONFESSIONAL CAM: TIM

Tim: Y/N took one of those free samples and looked the poor woman dead in the eye and said, ‘I’m going to need a whole pie for testing purposes.’ And somehow she GOT IT.

SCENE: HOUSEHOLD SUPPLIES AISLE

Bruce: (reading label) Darling, do we need a pack of 48 bath towels?

Y/N: We didn’t need a 70-room mansion either did we daddy, but here we are.

Jason: Are we talking about regrets? Because I found a kayak. I want the kayak.

Dick: Jason, we don’t have a lake????

Jason: Didn’t say I’d use it on water Dickwad

CONFESSIONAL CAM – DAMIAN

Damian, (arms crossed, fully serious): I tackled someone for the last tub of hummus. I have no regrets. They were 76. Survival of the fittest.

SCENE: CHECKOUT

Employee: (terrified) That’ll be $9,873.42.

Y/N: (hands over another party-sized bag of doritos, walks over to buy hotdog ) Dad, blink once if you’re judging me.

Bruce: (does not blink)

Tim: We bought 120 rolls of toilet paper.

Y/N: “You say that like you don’t have trust fund anxiety.”

Jason: “I bought a tent even though don’t camp, I just wanna to sit in it when I hate all of you

CONFESSIONAL CAM – DICK

Dick: We lost Damian for a few minutes and when we found him he was in the mega camping tent on display

CONFESSIONAL CAM – BRUCE

Bruce: I wanted to teach them humility. Instead, Y/N asked if she could buy a forklift ‘just because it looks like fun.’

CONFESSIONAL CAM – Y/N

Y/N: I did donuts in the Costco parking lot with my Urus, I made Tim film it.Jason joined in with his motor bike, and Dick stole the dirt bike Dad bought Damian, I literally love this family.”

ENDING SCENE: THE LOADING DOCK

Bruce stares at a mountain of bulk items.

Jason and Dick are sword fighting with baguettes.

Tim is checking if they got enough cold brew to last the week (they didn’t).

Y/N is trying to fit a 2m teddy bear into The Range Rover because her Urus' boot is full

Damian is attempting to indoctrinate a goose that wandered in from outside into crime fighting.

Narrator:

“Next week on Trauma, Trust Funds, and Tiaras — - the Waynes throw a charity gala, Y/N mistakes it for a themed rave. - Tim overdoses on espresso, needing a chamomile tea IV Drip, - Jason wears the giant teddy bear as a disguise. “Tune in for more wealth, whiplash, and whatever the hell Damian’s doing in the koi pond.”

LMFAO I HOPE YOU ALL ENJOYED THIS!!!!!

Likes, comments, reblogs and requests are highly appreciated! Requests are open!

Sources !-

Blue lines - @cursed-carmine

Bat dividers - @sister-lucifer

Batfam Header - Pinterest (Robin #6)

This post is property of suigenerisisadiva.

[bigball-thefrog]

Teased Him Just Enough To Hate Me~: Ace X Reader (Smut)

______________________________

Poll

Alright everyone I'm back and here with the first part of my recent poll where you all decided between which I posted first. And Ace won the poll! So here you all go, ya filthy animals (jk I loved writing this and it was my idea) enjoy your smut.

Warnings/Tags:

Gender neutral reader

Smut

Handcuffs

Being cuffed to the bed

Teasing

Slight oral (male receiving)

Gender neutral reader with female genitals.

Ace goes a little feral

Vaginal penetration by male genitals

Rough sex

Deep sex

Unprotected sex

Coming without pulling out

Smut with fluff at the end

______________________________

Narrator POV

Ace and you had been in a relationship for awhile and had become comfortable with sex. In fact you two were constantly exploring and trying new things to see what you both liked. Which lead to today.

The Whitebeard pirates had stopped at an island for supplies, food, ale, the usual, you had joined Thatch with picking out the best products for everyone to eat for the next few weeks. Ace had gone off on his own to explore the island and see if there would be anything fun for you two to do, when he came across an adult store. A smirk spread across his face as he stepped in inside, an idea growing of what he wanted to do with you tonight. He soon stepped out of the store with his bag and went off to find you. Once he found you over by some fruit he snuck up behind you and wrapped his arms around you, "There you are princess~" you gasped and jumped and gasped before playfully punching him in the arm, "You asshole, don't scare me like that~" "Sorry princess I just got excited because I have something to show you~" he said as he dangled the bag in front of you. "Oh? What did you get me?~" You aid as you carefully took the bag and looked inside, your eyes widening in surprise as you spotted a pair of, pink fuzzy hand cuffs. "Ace..." "C'mon princess we've tried so many different things, how come I haven't cuffed you to the bed yet?" you smirked and looked back at him. "Fine, we'll try them out tonight. But don't get too cocky now.~" You said as you gave Ace a playful pinch on the cheek before going back to your shopping, Ace pumped his fist in success, excited for tonight.

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After the crew had gone to sleep, Ace had snuck out of his room and towards yours, he quietly knocked and waited for you to open the door almost visibly shaking in anticipation. You opened the door in your pjamas, which to Ace, was the sexist thing you could wear, "You ready to test those handcuffs princess?" He said with a smirk, as his eyes trailed down your body, "Yeah, get your cute ass in here already." Ace made his way inside and closed the door behind you two. You took the charge and pinned Ace to the wall with a kiss, he quickly kissed back as his hands went to your hips and lightly squeezed them as he moved his lips against yours. After a few moments he pulled away panting, "Someone's impatient tonight~" he said as he lead you over to the bed, gently pushing you down and climbing on top of you. "Yeah, I just can't wait to use those handcuffs~" Ace smirked and repositioned you both to where he was laying on his back again the headboard and you straddling his lap, "You're excited about being handcrafted to the bed? Didn't think you'd bo SO excited princess~" "Oh I am excited, but but not for being the one chained up." Before Ace could ask what you meant, you quickly grabbed his hands and cuffed him to the bed. "Princess, what are you doing?" Ace asked as he tried to move, but couldn't move much at all, you smirked and sat up to straddle his thighs, "You really think I'd let you chain me cuff me and have your way again? No, I'm finally gonna get payback and tease you the same way I've been teased by you multiple times before~" You said as you took off your shirt, exposing your chest to Ace.

"Goddam..." Ace muttered as he felt his pants began to tighten already. "Alright princess, give it your best shot, try and tease me." you smirked as you reached down and gently pressed his bulge, casing him to groan, "You think I haven't slept with you enough to know just how to tease you? Oh Ace my darling, I know your body just as much as you know mine" you stopped pressing on his bulge and reached for his zipper and pulled it down before pulling down the button. His bulge grew without the restraint of pants and you pushed on his bulge again causing him to groan, "Is that all you got sweetheart? This is just getting me excited." "Oh trust me, this is nothing" you said then pulled down his boxers letting his cock spring free, fully erect and already leaking precum, "Oh, it's so easy to get you excited Ace~" you teased, despite being under your mercy, Ace still kept up a front and smirked, "That's just because you're so goddam sexy darling~ Everything about you gets me going." "Sweet, but flattery will get you nowhere." you took his cock firmly in your grasp and pumped it a few times before leaning down and taking his tip into your mouth. Ace shuddered and clenched his body at the feel of your lips. You didn't fully take him in your mouth but just teased his tip, lightly sucking while wrapping your tongue around it too, making him moan and buck his hips, trying to get more of his cock into your mouth. Once you noticed this you removed your mouth and smirked "*tsk tsk tsk* Look at you, so desperate it's painful, and here you thought you couldn't be teased, now you know how it feels." you mocked and sat up, letting go of his now swollen red cock. Ace looked up at you with a dazed look, panting and tensing his body, trying to get some sort of relief. Now sitting up, Ace got a good angle of your body making him somehow even more turned on. You decided to make it worse by starting to play with your chest, groping and rubbing them, taunting Ace because he couldn't touch you himself.

"Dammit princess... If you don't let me out these cuffs soon and let me touch you... I'm gonna fucking snap..." Ace groaned as he tensed his body, craving release and your body. You chuckled as you let go of one of your breasts and used one finger to trace his leaking tip, "Oh? What makes you think I'm gonna let you out?" you teased and flicked his tip making him wince. "Then I'll break out of these damm cuffs!" Ace grunted in frustration. "Oh please, you're not gonna break out if these cuffs, you're completely under my mercy until I'm satisfied~" you said as you moved off him and started to take your bottoms off, now completely exposing yourself to him. Ace started to become so frustrated his Devilfruit activated and made his cock become even more red. Wanting to push your teasing to the max you straddled his lap again and teasingly rubbed your entrance against his top causing Ace the growl, his frustration heightened to the max. You kept up this painful teasing, now finally pushing Ace over the edge, his teeth bared, his face turning red as he heated his hands and wrists with his Devilfruit and snapped the handcuffs like they were nothing. Now free he grabbed your hips and practically impaled you on his red hot cock, you let out a loud gasp and froze as Ace let out a sigh of relief, his cock relaxing a tiny but but not coming yet. He than sat up and kept you on his lap as he moved his hands to your chest, finally getting to touch and grope you as much as he wants to. "Fuck finally... Now you're mine... And don't think I'm not gonna punish you for what you did sweetheart." He said with a smirk that made you gulp.

Once Ace had his fill of feeling your body, he moved his hands to grab your thighs. He then sat up properly, keeping you firmly on his lap and cock. He looked at your position on his lap and smirked, you were on top but he had full control, "So fucking beautiful~" he murmured before raising his hips and you upwards, pushing himself deeper inside you before lowering himself down and almost completely out of your warmth before slamming back inside and as deep as he could, you threw your head back and gasped in a mix of pain and pleasure. Ace then repeated his actions and started to fuck you, hard, deep and fast while keeping you suspended above his lap. He continued thrusting like this for awhile until he suddenly layed you on your back folded you into a mating press and climbing on top of you to fuck you deeper. At this point you stopped trying to muffle your moans and just let every moan and gasp fly out your mouth, too caught up in pleasure to care about waking up the others. His cock hitting your g-spot repeatedly started to build up pleasure and that familiar feeling of an orgasmic knot in your stomach started to grow and the same with Ace, the feeling of his lower regions starting to tense as his release quickly approached him. But he held on, he held it in, he needed to keep going until he felt your walls clench around him, then he'd let himself cum and come with you, one of his favorite things to do when he was intimate with you. Your orgasm started building up quickly as Ace kept up the same pace and as soon as your walls began to clench from our release, Ace let go and shot his hot ropes of cum deep inside you, your body clench as your orgasm ripped through your body, filling you with that feeling of ecstasy you loved so much. Ace held you firm against his lap, letting the last ropes of cum spew out into you, and letting you ride out your orgasm. Once your body relaxed and you were both left panting, Ace pulled out and carefully moved you to lay next to him. Despite being sweaty and covered in each other's fluids, Ace just moved to wrap an arm around you.

Ace pulled you close and placed a gentle kiss on the top of your head, but instead of turning around to face him and kissing him back you just stayed facing away from him. Ace quickly noticed this and spoke up, "Hey, what's wrong?" "This isn't how I wanted tonight to go..." "What do you mean?" "I wanted to be the one to tease and fuck ou tonight... But I instead just got pushed back down to the bottom and got my brains fucked out instead..." Ace listened to what you said and frowned a little, he knew he had snapped and took control of the situation, but he didn't know it would upset you so much. So he sighed and pulled you closer," I'm sorry baby I thought you liked it when I took control." "I just wanted to get you back for all the times you've teased me..." Ace lowered his head and peppered kisses along your shoulder, "Well if it's any consolation I found you *mega* sexy when you were you were teasing me like that." your cracked a small smile but didn't say anything else, "And... Now that I know what it feels like, I'll calm down on the teasing... Is that okay?" you nodded and turned around to face him, "Yeah... It's okay." Ace smiled and placed a gently kiss on your forehead "I love you, my little firecracker~", you finally gave him a soft smile and kissed him gently on the lips, "I love you too, my firefly~" Ace's smile widened and he pulled you as close as he could before pulling the blanket over you two. "No bath?" You asked. "Nah, not tonight I just wanna hold you close like this without moving for as long as possible. We'll bath tomorrow." you smiled and started to get comfy, "What about all the fluids leaking onto the bed?" you questioned, "Eh, I'll leave it fir whoever is on laundry duty tomorrow" Ace replied as he rested his head on top of your chin and closed his eyes. You chuckled at the thought of the poor soul that would have to clean up your mess tomorrow morning, you then nestled your head underneath his chin and soon drifted off to sleep with him.

______________________________

Fun fact! Ace is actually my favorite character in the series, so this has been one of my favorite part of pieces to write so far. Please enjoy for now, and I'll post the Sabo smut hopefully soon.

Kelly🐸

[sencrose]

— LOVE ME HOW YOU LIKE ♡

pairing: okkotsu yuuta x idol!f!reader

tags: noncon, stalking, yandere, breaking in, unreliable narrator (mostly yuuta pov), aged up charas (yuuta’s in his 20s), solo male masturbation, squirting, breeding/pregnancy talk/baby trapping, multiple orgasms, overstim, cunnilingus, fingering, yuuji makes a short guest appearance in the intro lol

wc: ~8.6k (... idk how this happened)

summary: Yuuta’s oshi is a horrible enabler.

a/n: happy belated birthday yuuta! atp you can rip underground idol!reader from my cold dead hands. based off of a post i made a while ago. thank you @infinitatis-ink for beta reading :> dividers by @/adornedwithlight

ao3 link here

It’s not Yuuta’s usual scene, but he felt bad when nobody responded to Yuuji’s invitation to spend a night out in Shinjuku. In Yuuta’s defense, he thought they would maybe go to an izakaya or two, get a meal and a few drinks before heading home. However, what Yuuta was unable to predict was Yuuji deciding to go to an idol show on the fly. Yuuji was practically begging him to go, making promises that it’ll be a lot of fun. And when words don’t work, Yuuji grabs Yuuta by the wrist and leads him to the venue despite his protests.

So that’s how Yuuta finds himself in a random basement venue crowded with sweaty guys on a Saturday night. Again, not necessarily his idea of a night out. But Yuuta’s a good sport, so he’ll do his best to enjoy the show anyways.

What starts as a murmur bursts into a boisterous cheer as soon as the stage lights flash on. It’s radiant, nearly blinding. It’s not the lights that sear a black hole into his vision. No, it’s you.

In that fluffy costume that makes you look like a slice of cake personified. The way your skirt bounces exemplifies the pep in your step as you make your way around the stage. Your eyes meet his as you wave into the crowd, and he thinks he’s having a heart attack.

“Good evening everyone! We really hope you enjoy the show we have in store for you tonight!” you speak into the mic, exuding a blissful aura like it's second nature. Yuuta swears he can feel it embrace him, the first warm ray of sunlight you feel after a barren winter.

The crowd roars in response before quieting down. The silence only serves to spur the anticipation drumming throughout his body, his heart beating loudly in his ears, catching in his throat.

The instrumental starts with a sweet chiptune lead, and all hell breaks loose. The rhythmic chants and clapping nearly blow out his ear drums, and he loses Yuuji in the chaos of fans rushing closer to the stage. It’s disorienting, trying to follow along while not losing his sights on you.

He moves along with the crowd, ebbs and flows like the ocean’s waves. No matter how much he’s pushed, he’s focused on you. Once he finds his footing, it gets a bit easier. It lets him focus on other things, like learning your name through the fan chants. It’s a cute one, one he savors on his tongue whenever he yells along with the crowd as you sing.

With every step, every graceful note that spills from your lips, he can only feel himself falling deeper. It’s like you’re a siren, and him, the unfortunate sailor who’s all too willing to walk to his demise. He yells and cheers even louder in his trance, just to see if you’ll grace him with another look.

And you do.

It’s brief but you look right at him again for the second time tonight, with a dazzling smile that puts the sun to shame.

How can he keep your attention? Maybe he should’ve stopped by and bought a lightstick or two before coming in.

Song after song after song, he roots for you with a frenzied energy he didn’t know he had in him. It’s a battle against his parched throat to force the words out and really make sure you can hear him. Every time you look his way, he feels electric. It’s like static, all his hair standing on edge like he’s rubbed a balloon and your gaze is the point of contact that zaps you both.

Before he knows it, the show’s over. It’s far too soon for his liking. Even though it was Yuuji’s idea, Yuuta’s really warmed up to the whole thing–far more enthusiastically than he thought he’d ever be, so much so he’s tallying the number of times you looked his way.

Six. Six times he’s felt that electricity run through him, six times you’ve made him catch his breath and nearly choke on it. Did you feel it too? There’s no way you didn’t. He could see it in the way your eyes sparkled, in the smile that was hand-delivered to him. It’s too many times to be a coincidence.

Yuuta only manages to snap out of his trance when all the lights turn back on and Yuuji slings his arm around him.

“Sorry I lost ya earlier,” Yuuji apologizes, out of breath, presumably from dancing and chanting with the wotas, “how was it?”

“It was,” he pauses for a moment, “fun.”

“See, I told you it’d be fun!” Yuuji beams at the confession. “You wanna get chekis?”

“Chekis?”

“Yeah, like a picture with one of the girls. I already know who I’m choosing tonight!” Yuuji pats Yuuta on the back, a friendly gesture Yuuta returns in kind. “But since you don’t know the members, you can just choose a color. Doesn’t really matter.”

It doesn’t really matter, he said, but it really does. Because if Yuuta chose differently he never would have been able to meet you.

So once he gets to the front of the line, he points at the laminated picture of you.

It shouldn’t be this overwhelming. Idols are normal people too. It’s a lot more obvious with underground idols, in the dingy live venues they book, in the way they stumble over their words on stage or occasionally forget a dance move or lyric. There’s appeal in the imperfect, a diamond in the rough.

But that’s the thing, you still shine bright, blindingly so.

As Yuuta walks up to you, his nerves only get worse. His senses are running on overdrive taking you in, in all your ruffly glory. Something sweet and floral hits his nostrils as he breathes in. He didn’t consider you’d be wearing perfume. It’s the right amount – just enough to whet the palate and bite his tongue in fear of saying something wrong.

He thinks he’s seeing things when he’s barely an arms width away from you, and everything about you seems to sparkle.

You look giddy when he gets up to you, a large smile plastered on your face with open arms as if you’re reuniting with an old friend.

Is he supposed to hug you?

While he hesitates, you’re quick to close the distance, wrapping your arms around his waist. Yuuta carefully does the same to you, doing his best to not implode on the spot. When you let go, he’s flushed in the face and has to think about something else to calm himself down.

“Ah! I haven’t seen you around,” you ask with your hands behind your back and eyes wandering like you’re examining him, “you’re new here, aren’t you?”

“Y-Yeah, you could say that,” he says. The room feels ten degrees hotter.

“What’s your name?”

“Yuuta.”

“Yuuta…” you repeat carefully, as if you’re tasting it on your lips, “Cute name for a cute guy. Is it ok if I call you Yuu-tan?” You look at him with this doe-eyed expression that makes his chest taut.

When you say it like that, with your eyes glimmering under the stage lights, how could he say no? Yuuta’s stumbling over his words, babbling like an idiot before he’s finally able to get out a meek, “sure.”

You seem to like that, your face lighting up with pure glee.

“Alright Yuu-tan, what kind of pose did you have in mind?”

He absolutely did not think this far ahead. He has to tell himself to calm down, breathe in, breathe out, before asking, “what kind of poses do you usually do?”

“Mmm… Hearts are pretty common I’d say.” You gently grab his hand and the softness of your skin triggers alarm bells in his head. He’s in danger. “But since it’s your first time, how about we do something special?”

You say it in a way that has him blushing harder – first times.

“S-special?” he repeats.

Carefully, you wrap your arms around his waist. Softer than when you first grabbed him. Like there’s a gentle affection weaved within your embrace.

Your face is pressed against his chest. It’s enough for his breathing to shorten, to be far too aware of the pressure you place on him.

With an innocent pout you look at him, softly reassuring him, “Just pretend I’m like your girlfriend or something.”

You’re close–too close. And this whole situation is just too much for him. There’s no escape from you–your smell, your warmth, the softness of your skin.

“Do you have a girlfriend, Yuu-tan?” you ask, leaning into him more.

Did he hear you right? Every time you talk it feels like you do so with the express purpose of stealing the air from his lungs. But still, there’s no way that’s what you asked him. Right?

“Huh?”

“I said,” you purr into his ear before repeating your question, “do you have a girlfriend, Yuu-tan?”

So, he did hear you right. Now he’s scrambling again for an answer, blood pumping so hard he can hear it steadily pulsing in his ears.

“N-No.”

“Then you can think of me as yours!” you exclaim, far too easily. It echoes like a clocktower’s bell at noon. If he listens close enough, he swears he can hear the notes of a wedding march.

The only anchor that can bring him back down to Earth is a tug on his shirt, a whisper of your touch against his chest. When his eyes meet yours, he’s starstruck. The glitter around your eyes only serves to make his heart beat faster, how it sparkles and makes you look even sweeter.

“Alright, look at the camera for me, okay?”

So he does. You get in position too, soft lips pressing against his flushed cheek. It happens too quickly for him to react, and with a countdown from three and a flash, the picture’s taken.

You’re quick to sign the polaroid, and Yuuta can barely get a look at what you’re writing before you finish.

“Hold it carefully, ok? The ink can smudge,” you instruct him, gently passing over the picture. “And don’t shake it! The whole shake it like a polaroid thing is a myth.”

He silently takes the picture in his hand, carefully taking it in. You’re able to fit a decent amount on the picture. In the top left corner, “To my beloved Yuu-tan,” and in the bottom right, “Thank you for coming!”

“I hope you’ll come back again,” you say sheepishly, a bit like a girl who just confessed to their crush on the school rooftop.

“O-Of course!” Yuuta’s practically forcing the words out of his words, doing his best not to choke.

“Pinky promise?” You lay out your pinky for him, waiting expectantly. Yuuta, on the other hand, is struggling to recollect himself.

“Mmhm.” He brings his pinky over to yours, and you wrap around each other’s fingers. Yuuta thinks it’s just that until you bring your hand back to kiss your thumb.

“Seal it with a kiss?” you ask with an innocent smile.

“Huh?”

You don’t repeat yourself, simply look at him in a way that makes his cheeks red. After a moment, Yuuta repeats the motion, nearly shaking as he brings both of your hands closer to his lips before kissing his thumb.

By the time he finds the courage to look you in the eyes, he’s sure there’s steam coming out of his ears. His gaze shifts down, but darts back up as soon as he hears you giggle.

“You promised! No take-backsies. I don’t like broken promises.” You pout before breaking back into that picture perfect smile of yours. “Thanks for coming by, Yuu-tan!”

– The post concert dress down is the same as usual. Struggling to get out of polyester costumes clinging to your skin from sweat, doing your best to fold your ruffled layered skirt into a manageable mass and failing the first couple of times. It’s a routine you’ve gotten used to.

What you’re not used to, is receiving a warning from one of your groupmates.

“Hey.” Your group leader stands over you as you attempt to continue packing your costume away. “You've gotta be a bit more careful.”

You look up at her with a raised brow, taking in her disappointed expression. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” she relents, her tone becoming more annoyed than disappointed.

So this is what you think it’s about. But it really isn’t any of her concern. You haven’t had any problems until now, so what’s the harm in continuing? If anything, she should be grateful. If you were to crunch the numbers, you’re sure you bring in a decent amount of fans by playing up the girlfriend experience schtick. And not just any type of fans – devoted ones. Those that return to night after night to spend a minute of their time with you. Those that would empty out their wallets at a snap of your fingers.

If you were to be honest with yourself, you like the power you hold. There’s a thrill that rushes to your head when your fans are stumbling over their words, stringing along a response for the sole purpose of pleasing you. But there’s no way you’d ever admit that to her. She just wouldn’t get it.

You let out a deep sigh. “It’s fine! This type of crowd is harmless. I’m just trying to do my job, you know.”

“You’re going to attract some crazies if you keep going down this path.”

“Yeah, yeah.” You shrug her off as you finally fit your costume into your luggage, swiftly zipping it close before it has the chance to recoil.

“Hey.” She grasps your shoulder to grab your attention. “Listen, I’m being serious,” she says, and there’s a genuine tinge of concern in her voice.

“Me too. I’m making us money. Good money. And if it means I have to bat my lashes and put on an act, then that’s what it is.”

She sighs, defeated. “Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

–

In the days after the concert, Yuuta falls into a rabbit hole. It’s just too easy – your group is pretty active on social media, trying and promoting just about anything that’ll stick. It starts simple enough with a livestream here and there. Just listening to you talk makes his heart all warm and fuzzy.

The longer he lurks and follows, the more he realizes just how many opportunities there are to take you in. You being an underground idol works in his favor. Desperation’s the name of the game, with you selling just about anything you can get your likeness on – signed polaroids, acrylic standees, can buttons, the list goes on.

Eventually, he’ll put in orders for those as well, but none of them replace the sensation of holding your hand in person, of your soft lips against his face.

At the end of the day, there’s no way you can’t see his devotion towards you. At this point he knows everything there is to know about you–through the selfies you post online, the memes you retweet, even the daily blog post where you write about your day.

There’s more than that as well. There’s an inherent intimacy he feels in the single shot chekis he orders as soon as the shop link drops on Twitter, in the comments he leaves on your livestreams, with the username you unknowingly gave him.

And in the short weeks he’s been following your account, he’s greeted with a rare chance encounter. A custom video, made by you, just for him. And though the price is probably hefty for what it is, he’s quick to seize the opportunity.

Sure, he’s burning a hole in his wallet. But how can he complain? When he can hear your sweet voice again, talking to him like he’s the only one in the room. It’s the closest thing he can get to seeing you for now. Things have just been so busy these days. He wonders how other sorcerers play the balancing act between dating and work.

But just a couple weeks later he gets an e-mail. He nearly jumps in his seat in his room when he sees the e-mail notification with the subject line “to my beloved yuu-tan~”.

His phone comes alive with you in frame, sitting in something different from your usual stage costume. Something cute, something that sends butterflies to his stomach and a blush to his cheeks. A comfy sweater that seems just a little bit too big for you, along with a matching skirt. The hem dangerously brushes against your upper thighs, and he has to make a considerable effort to draw his gaze back to your eyes.

The background is a simple white backdrop, and judging from the lighting situation, it’s probably something you filmed in your room. You’re filming this. In your room. Just for him. The thought is enough to make his heart race.

“Is this on?” Your finger taps on to the camera, face getting closer to the lens before moving back. Even when you’re clueless, you’re adorable. “Ah, it is.”

“Yuu-tan! Thanks for supporting me so much as you always have!~” Your voice is bright as always. The way your nickname for him dances on your tongue feels like a salve for even the most mortal of wounds.

“Your support is number one in my heart, you know. But Yuu-tan…”You drag out his name in a way that’s too much for him, and the way you pout up at the camera? This has to be attempted murder, he thinks. But he continues listening attentively. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen you. I miss you, I really do.” Your voice pulls on his heartstrings and makes him ridden with guilt. It genuinely pains him to hear you like this, his chest tightening at the sound. But then your voice lightens up, your expression brightens with the next words that slip past your lips, “you’ll come to the next show, won’t you?”

Yuuta finds himself nodding at his phone, as if you’ll be able to see his response if he’s enthusiastic enough. Yet, it’s as if you knew exactly how he’d reply.

“Alright, I’ll see you there then! This is a promise.” You lift your pinky up to the camera before pulling it back. “Oh wait, I don’t think I can do this through the camera, haha. Guess you’ll just have to finish it in person! Bye bye!” you sign off, and the video ends there, paused on your angelic smile.

Yuuta nearly breaks his phone replaying the video over and over again. It’s surprising the image of you hasn’t been burned onto his screen. But there’s one part in particular that’s his favorite.

It’s when you pout and disarmingly look up at the camera. Bat your eyelashes in just the right way to make him pitch a tent in his pants. That combined with the way you say his name, it’s no surprise the next thing he does is frantically search for the bottle of lube in one of his drawers.

What happens next, there’s no way you can fault him for it. All he can think about is how cute you are as he dispenses lube on to his right hand and unzips his pants with his left. Once his cock’s free, he groans as he palms himself, daydreaming about how you’d hold him. His other hand finds his phone, repeatedly going back to the same timestamp where you’re practically moaning for him.

He finds a rhythm, fast. Not just for jerking off, but looping your voice in a way that makes him light-headed. It just adds another layer to the image of you playing in his head. If he times it just right, he can pretend that slick wet sound of him fucking his hand is your sweet pussy instead. His pace gets faster, thinking about the other kinds of sounds he could wring from you.

You would moan so sweetly for him. He’d do everything in his power to make sure of it. He’s far from a selfish lover. He’d be sure to prep you beforehand, his hands tracing the curve of your body before delving into your underwear. Start a bit slow, teasing you into asking for more as he plays with your clit. He wonders what kind of expression you’d wear.

Maybe you’d be a bit shy. Maybe you’d be needy, desperate to ask him for more. Whatever’s the case it doesn’t matter, as long as he gets to hear your sweet voice.

Once he’s tested the waters he’d go faster, and he thinks about the heave of your chest, the short breaths you’d give him as you’re getting closer. Would you call him by his real name, or the nickname you’ve given him? He doesn’t really mind either way, but part of him hopes for the former. Regardless, the mental image of you cumming on his fingers along with your voice played on loop is enough to send him over the edge with a choked moan, hot ropes of his seed spilling from his slit. Yuuta’s body nearly gives out as he relaxes back into his chair, exhausted and out of breath.

“Alright, I’ll see you there then! This is a promise!” Your voice plays again through his phone as he finally comes down from his high.

So he steels himself. Tells himself that it doesn’t matter what the occasion is, he’ll make sure to go to the next live show, the one after, and the one after that. It’s a promise, after all.

—

The next time Yuuta goes to see you, he’s a bit more prepared. At least, that’s what he likes to tell himself.

In reality, he’s still just as nervous as the first time. While the video was nice, it just doesn’t hold a light to seeing you in person. Getting a waft of that sweet, floral perfume of yours as he approaches you, relishing at how the smell of the live venue just seems to disappear in your presence. Then there’s the ball that forms in his throat that he can’t swallow as he gets closer.

You light up as soon as you see him, star-bright.

“Yuu-tan!” you shuffle up to him with your arms outstretched for a hug, “I missed you!”

“I missed you too,” he says, and it feels like a weight’s been lifted off his chest. He brings you in closer, but feels a bit self conscious when he realizes just how tight you’re holding on to him. Tight enough that he can feel the curve of your tits pressed against him. Then he finds himself panicking and letting go.

“Did you have a good time at the show?” you ask, seemingly unphased by his internal plight.

”I did, I did,” he replies, nodding a bit too enthusiastically.

“I’m so happy you remembered our promise.”

”O-Of course.”

“What kind of pose did you want today?” Your expression softens as you put your hands behind your back and bend slightly, look up at him doe-eyed and curious.

After all he put into coming to the show, he’s stunned into silence. He had one in mind, but the idea simply melted as soon as he saw you. He can’t help it, it’s just what you do to him. He’s sure he’s making a fool out of himself again, and can feel it in the way his cheeks burn with embarrassment.

”Could you choose again?” he asks meekly.

“Hmm…” you muse, pouting dramatically and placing your chin in between your thumb and index finger. Yuuta waits with bated breath.

“Could you make a circle with your arms?” you say with a snap of your fingers.

”H-Huh? Sure.” He awkwardly follows your instructions, his fingertips meeting one another, miming the act of holding a large box against his chest.

You bend down and disappear from his vision, only to reappear between his arms.

“Boo!” you exclaim, palms faced outward with your fingers spread apart.

Yuuta’s startled. It isn’t that the act itself is scary, but the way you press against his chest and grin at him awakens a gnawing desire in his head. The lengths he would go to see you smile like this for him–just for him. By the time he’s shaking out the thoughts out his mind, he realizes you’ve been waiting for a response.

“Ah, you really scared me,” Yuuta jokes, feigning a scared expression to soothe his nerves.

“Hm? You think I’m scary, Yuu-tan?” you quip back, but then you’re pouting your lips, and the way the glitter glimmers under the stage lights makes it look like you’re going to cry.

It’s like you’ve pierced his heart, he swears he can feel it. Maybe with Cupid’s arrow. It seems like a side effect of this is becoming a blubbering mess every time he tries to speak.

“N-No, that’s not what I meant!”

“Don’t worry,” you giggle with a bright smile that soothes his heart, “I’m just messing with you.”

Gently, you adjust his position until his arms are wrapped tightly around your waist.

But when you press up against him, Yuuta thinks you’re approaching dangerous territory. Even with all the layers in your skirt, he swears he can make out the shape of your ass. It doesn’t help that you keep adjusting your position, brushing against his clothed cock multiple times over. All he can do is bite his tongue and hope that nothing comes to light.

“Yuu-tan, is this ok?” You look back at him with that innocent glimmer in your eyes.

”Y-Yeah, it’s perfect,” he replies, nearly biting his lip as he does so.

You give the cameraman the okay to take the picture, and with a countdown that feels longer than last time, the picture’s taken.

“You’ll come to the next show, right, Yuu-tan?”

“Of course.”

“Pinky promise?” You outstretch your pinky again, and this time, Yuuta’s swift on the uptake, wrapping his pinky around yours with more enthusiasm than last time. It’s such a simple gesture, but Yuuta is fond of promises and all they represent. Love intertwined in a simple hook of pinkies. The gentleness of your thumbs pressing against each other, the giggle that leaves your lips as you make a heart with your hands.

“Pinky promise,” he repeats with a gentle smile.

—

In the days that follow, Yuuta’s come to a realization.

Don’t get him wrong, seeing you perform is great and all, but his favorite moments with you are the intimate ones. The one on ones, the short and sweet conversations where he can tune out the rest of the world. And when he does the math, they’re too few and far between.

Simply put, he can’t wait for the next show. So, he forges his own opportunities. It’s just too easy to do when you post selfies of where you’re handing out flyers for the night. Part of him thinks your agency should be a little more conscious of internet safety, but then again he wouldn’t have been able to find out where you were if that were the case.

Thanks to your social media posts, it doesn’t take that long to find you. It’s busy in Shinjuku but it’s pretty easy to follow the endless trail of girls hanging out flyers. Even though you’re lined up with all the other idols, hostesses, and maids dressed to the nines to promote themselves, he could easily pick you out of the crowd. They just don’t hold a candle to you.

“Please come to our show!” you exclaim with a smile, waving the flyer and hoping the random man in front of you will take it. And for once, he does. So you look up. “Oh! Yuu-tan! What’re you doing here?”

Yuuta feels all warm and fuzzy at the mention of the pet name.

“Ah, I was just running some errands,” he says sheepishly.

“Really?” you ask back in a hushed whisper before breaking into a smile, “what a coincidence!”

Before you can comment any further, a man sneaks into your field of vision and interrupts the conversation, shyly waving his hand at you and asking for a flyer. Your eyes light up for a second before you turn to give him your attention.

“Please come to our show!” you casually hand over the flyer to the stranger with a smile.

Yuuta doesn’t like that.

For a split second, he thinks you should quit being an idol. But then the thought boomerangs back, sits and marinates as he considers it further.

Yeah. That might be a good idea.

“It was nice chatting with you Yuu-tan, but I really gotta get back to work.” You pout at him. It hits him differently this time. He almost mistakes it for guilt, but it’s not quite that. It’s not as surface level, gets deep under his skin like poison and spreads unease throughout his body.

“I’ll see you at the next show, Yuu-tan!” you send him off with a wave and a smile, one he thinks is too soon.

Yuuta waits for you to brand your pinky for him, but it never comes.

Disappointment. It’s disappointment.

He’s been a fool. You’re distracted by all these so-called fans that you can’t see what’s right in front of you. Worse of all, your agency is putting you up to it. He really thinks it’s time for you to quit.

So Yuuta waits.

For an idol, you lack a crucial sense of self-awareness. You don’t even notice when Yuuta follows behind you once you finish your shift. Even as the bustle of the city crowd quiets down as you make your way to your agency building on a random side street, you don’t notice he’s trailing behind. Imagine how much danger you’d be in if some crazy fan were to follow you. You’re lucky to have Yuuta there for you, he just needs to make you see it too.

He almost loses you when you leave the agency building in much more normal and muted. He nearly has to stop himself from drooling at the sight of it. He can see it so clearly, the image of you wearing it on a date with him. Maybe it’d be at a cafe, somewhere he can see you laugh and smile with him as he feeds you an intricate, overpriced slice of cake. But before he gets too lost in his imagination, Yuuta shakes it off and resolves himself to continue following you.

The longer he follows you, the more Yuuta starts to feel invisible. You don’t notice him when he’s right behind you at the turnstill. When he follows you through all the twists and turns of the station, hell, even when he’s three spots behind you in line for the train. The lack of self-preservation is stunning, he thinks. More than that, how could you not notice your number one fan, your boyfriend, putting in all this effort to make sure nobody hurt you? But it doesn’t matter–soon enough you won’t have to worry about that.

You step off the train after a few stops, and Yuuta’s always behind you, not that you’re aware. The rush of people leaving the train is enough to help him blend in, but once you leave the station he adds some slack to the distance.

Another fifteen minutes of walking and he’s there, watching from a distance as you unlock your apartment and go inside.

Yuuta waits a minute before approaching the unit you just walked into. The lock to your apartment isn’t anything he can’t break through, and with a pointed blast of cursed energy, the lock breaks with a quiet snap. He makes a note to himself to tell you to get a better place.

Then again, it’d be best if you just lived with him anyways. He’d take care of anything, everything, as long as it’s for you.

The door creaks just a little as he opens it slowly, careful not to disturb you.

The apartment is cramped, narrow halls made even smaller by the coats you have hanging on wall hooks, but just down the corridor he can see your living room. Calmly, he takes off his shoes and places them down neatly next to yours before quietly walking over. You aren’t there.

He backtracks to where the hallway splits, approaching the bedroom door. It’s slightly ajar, tantalizing like a bow on top of a present. It’s as if you were expecting him.

When he pushes the door open with a slight tap, Yuuta’s greeted by a half naked figure. You were probably in the middle of undressing. He takes a moment to mentally thank whatever higher up there gave him the blessing of perfect timing.

“Get out of my apartment!” you yell, throwing whatever you can at him, but it doesn’t seem to do any damage. He walks casually towards you, even as you tremble. He doesn’t understand why you’re shaking, but he knows he can fix it. You have nothing to worry about, everything will be better now that he’s here.

His expression softens as soon as you look him in the eyes.

“Hey, hey, it’s just me,” Yuuta coos.

“Y-Yuu-tan?” you ask, voice out of breath from thrashing around, “what are you doing here?” your voice drops in a way that he hasn’t heard before. It’s intimate, he thinks.

“I’ve been worried about you,” he says, a tenderness wrapped in his words.

“Worried?” you ask in the softest tone he’s ever heard. It endears him.

“Yeah. You didn’t pinky promise me today.”

“Huh?”

“I just wanted to make sure you were okay. You usually pinky promise me before you say bye. But you were so distracted today.”

There’s a brief pause, but it feels like it lasts a lifetime. Yuuta studies your expression, one he doesn’t recognize. When your eyes meet his, he takes it as a sign to explain himself further.

“And it’s not just that. During your lives, I see you looking at other guys and it really hurts me,” his voice softens, his chest tightening at the confession. He notices the tears falling down your face, and scrambles to make it better. “But you don’t need to do any of this anymore. You have me,” he says with a hand against his heart.

It doesn’t seem to help as your barely contained cries become louder.

“Yuu-tan, you’re scaring me,” you confess.

He tilts his head.

“I don’t think I’ve said anything scary?”

Another pause. He waits for an answer but isn’t given one he wants as you run for the door. It’s a losing game to run from him, his body quick to shield you from the door, his hand tightly wrapping around your wrist.

“Why are you running?” he asks, genuine hurt in his voice.

“Because you’re scaring me, Yuu-tan,” you reply, voice trembling.

“I’m not trying to be scary, I just want to be a good boyfriend for you,” he whispers softly against your ear, and to prove his point, his hand grazes your thigh, traveling further until his fingers hook around the waistband of your underwear. “Make you feel good like you’ve done for me,” he says breathlessly.

“N-No, I don’t want this, please,” you beg.

Your words are rearranged by the time they hit his ears. For all intents and purposes, all he hears is “I want this, please” and that’s all he needs to kiss you. It’s soft for a moment, but then it’s as if something snapped inside him.

There’s no patience behind it; he’s waited so long after all. He kisses like his time with you is sand trickling down an hourglass and he’s on his last grains. All groans and grasping at your cheeks to keep you with him, hot and heavy.

“Y-Yuu-tan, please,” you plead shakily.

There’s something at the end of your words he doesn’t catch, but he’s all too willing to give you what you want, especially when you’re asking so nicely.

Your breathing quickens as his hand presses down on your legs so you can’t escape. Yuuta’s hand gingerly traces up your thigh until he gets to your underwear. The soft breath you let out when he brushes over your clit sends blood rushing straight down to his cock.

His tongue brushes against the cotton fabric of your underwear, a cute moan leaving your lips, just for him. It’s what he’s been craving to hear, the subject of all his sweetest dreams and basest fantasies, and it’s better than he could have ever imagined. Now that he has it, he needs more.

There’s no warning, no tact to his movements, he can’t hold himself back any longer. There's only pure, unadulterated desperation with every stroke of his tongue against your underwear until he finally pulls the fabric to the side.

When your hand grasps his hair, he’s taken by surprise but he doesn’t dislike it. He indulges you and even lets out a throaty moan when you tighten your grip. He didn’t take you for the rowdy type, but you’re full of surprises, aren’t you?

It enables him further to dive into you and lap around your clit to hear those short gasps that sound like music to his ears. His arms wrap around your thighs to bring you in further, his nose pressing into you as he starts to build a steady tempo.

It seems to be too much for you with the way your body keeps shifting, but Yuuta is nothing if not determined. Maybe you’re testing the depths of his dedication, but there’s no universe where he’d ever fail you. No matter how much you move, he’s stuck to you like a leech, sucking at your clit with fervor. There’s intention with every motion, in the way he huffs and inhales deeply through his nostrils, in the messy way he sucks and slurps at your slick.

Even though he’s working so hard to please you, something’s not quite right. You’re so… quiet. It makes Yuuta think you’re holding yourself back. There’s no need for that, especially between lovers. Soulmates, even.

“Let me hear how good you feel,” he pants between breaths, “it’s okay.”

His movements become more pointed, determination lighting a fire in his stomach just to hear how sweet you get when you cum. The anticipation is killing him, but he thinks there’s been a breakthrough when your thighs tighten around his head, your breaths getting shorter by the second.

When you finally cum, it’s nothing short of heavenly. Sweeter than any note he’s heard you sing on stage, better than what he’s heard in his dreams. It’s not just that, but the full body reaction as well. The trembling, the taut muscles, the rise and fall of your chest– it’s all so erotic.

So your love language is words of affirmation. He makes note of that.

The only complaint Yuuta has is that the moment was far too short lived for his tastes. He has to hear more. See more. Have more. His fingers press gently against your wet hole, one small push from penetrating.

“W-Wait, it’s sensitive–”

Yuuta cuts you off by slipping it in with ease, quickly followed by another. Hungrily looks at the point where he’s connected to you. He starts slowly, fingers carefully pressing and curling until he finds a spot that gives him the reaction he’s looking for.

“Too-too much, stop-”

He doesn’t. Why would he ever deprive you of pleasure? He presses in further, bullies the spot that makes you scream louder. It’s not long until he sends you tumbling into another climax. It’s far more drawn out than the first. He can feel it in the way your walls convulse around his fingers.

Even though it might be too much, Yuuta still fingers you through it. He can’t help it. You just look so cute like this, reduced to a sputtering mess. And knowing that he’s the only one who has the privilege of seeing this side of you? He’s on cloud nine.

He knows he’s being a bit mean right now. But there’s so much lost time to make up for. He might also be letting his jealousy of seeing you with another man get the better of him right now, but it’s ok. At the end of the day, he’s making you feel good.

Yuuta watches with wonder and amusement as you cum again. He almost feels bad for pushing you this far, seeing the way you squeeze your eyes shut and thrash around through your orgasm. While he’s not a fan of your pain, he loves being your source of comfort, the one to clean up your tears. It’s a necessary evil, he tells himself.

Yuuta plants a trail of kisses down your neck to help shoulder the burden, and it seems to help as you come down from your high.

“You’re doing so good for me,” he sighs, adoration laced in his voice as he kisses your forehead.

“Y-Yuu-tan,” you pant, “you’ve already made me feel so good. D-Don’t you think that’s enough?”

“Of course not,” he responds with a soft gasp as if he’s incredulous at the idea, “I have so much more I want to give you.”

“More?” you ask shakily.

“Mhm,” he purrs with a soft smile, unphased by the tremor in your voice. His fingers slide in and out of you with ease, drawing another soft lewd sound out of you.

“No, no, no, I can’t, I can’t-” you plead, before you’re cut off by a kiss. Yuuta notices you have this habit of denying yourself anything good for you, but you don’t need to do that. What are boyfriends for? He doesn’t stop, even when you scratch and leave blossoming trails of rose on his skin. It only makes him intensify his movements, picking a fast rhythmic pace to hit that spot that makes you moan so sweetly.

When you cum with a wail, Yuuta’s there to swallow every cry you give him, tongue swirling against yours to help you through it. There’s a tenderness to it, as if he’s telling you it’ll all be okay. In between labored breaths he huffs in your ear with a neediness in his tone, “let it all out for me.”

He didn’t mean it literally, but he’s not displeased with the results either. That being said, it does catch him by surprise when you clench and gush all over him and the sheets. The warmth of you soaking his pants makes him feel dizzy with lust. Next thing he knows he’s nose deep into your folds, lapping up at everything you have to give. Not a drop goes to waste, not when he lifts your legs and traces the trail of juices from the fat of your ass to your inner thigh.

It’s just too much for him. When he comes up for air, he’s hastily picking at his pants.

“Have you done this for anyone else?” he asks as he unbuckles his belt and slides down his pants.

You shake your head furiously in embarrassment. It’s cute. Part of him wishes he could record a video of it and save it for later. But there’s more pressing matters at hand.

Yuuta’s hard cock presses against the fabric of his boxers, begging to be freed. His hand barely breaks through the elastic when it springs free, slapping his stomach from the recoil. Seeing your hole slick with arousal for him is almost enough to make him cum right there. He takes a deep breath and tries to collect himself.

Yuuta strokes his cock before pressing it between your folds, collecting all your arousal along the way. Even this is enough to make him shiver, feel it deep in his core. He bites his lip and lines himself up with your entrance. The sight of your hole quivering as he taps his tip against it makes him lightheaded.

So he starts slow, presses against your cunt steadily until he gets past that first ring of muscle that makes you gasp. From there, it’s just a matter of patience and self control, pushing further and further until he finally bottoms out with a groan. It goes in so easily, it’s like you were made for this–for him. Yuuta feels like he’s floating.

While Yuuta’s never been one to think about his size, he still sees you squeezing your eyes shut. His hand caresses your cheek before he reaches for your hand, interlocking his fingers with yours. He brings your hand up to his lips and gives your fingers a chaste kiss, from one lover trying to comfort another.

“Hey, it’s in. It wasn’t that bad, right?” he asks softly, like he’s letting you in on a secret.

You give him a shy nod, and he smiles at that.

“You’re doing so good for me,” he praises, gently wiping the tears from your eyes. Even in the afterglow of your tears, you look beautiful. Then again, he’d find beauty in anything you give him. It doesn’t matter what kind of expression you wear, as long as it’s just for him.

“I’ll start slow, ok?” Yuuta brandishes his pinky.

There’s a moment of pause, a shake to your hand as you wrap your pinky around his. He’s already one step ahead of you and swiftly seals it with a kiss and a giggle.

Yuuta keeps his promise, as he languidly rolls his hips into yours. It takes every ounce of self control to keep a slower pace, but he has to savor his first time with you. You feel perfect around him–your warmth enveloping him like a blanket, almost suffocating with its embrace. It’s too much for him, he can’t keep biting his lip and holding back his moans. Then again, he’d be a hypocrite holding himself back, wouldn’t he?

So he lets whatever sounds caught in his throat escape through his lips, lets you hear just how much you’re messing him up. All broken groans and whimpers of your name. And maybe it’s a bit too much for you, seeing you grab the pillow to cover your face. But Yuuta isn’t embarrassed, and you shouldn’t be either, so he’s quick to toss the pillow off the side of the bed.

“Y-Yuu-tan, please,” you ask.

It sounds like there’s something else you were going to say, but the noise thins out into a hushed whine. But Yuuta can read between the lines. His hands spread your legs apart further for leverage, his lips pressing against yours until he builds it up to a slew of open mouthed kisses. Tongue against tongue, choked gasps and moans escaping into each other’s mouths. He kisses you like he wants to consume you, breathes in so intensely like you’re the air he needs in his lungs.

It’s everything he’s ever wanted. He can’t help himself from rutting his hips into yours a little harder, losing himself in the soft plush of your walls squeezing him tighter with every passing moment. Even the wet sounds of his cock fucking into you is melodic to him, along with your staccatoed gasps, it’s an earworm he wouldn’t mind keeping.

He can’t let himself all the fun though, his fingers making their way to your throbbing clit. It seems to catch you by surprise, earning a yelp from you that soon melts into a moan.

“Yuuta-”

The world stops moving. It’s as if he’s frozen in place as soon as he hears his name from your lips. No nickname, no extra letter. Just Yuuta. It’s enough to make his head spin, his nerves go haywire as he snaps his hips into yours faster, desperate to hear it again.

“Say it again,” he groans breathlessly, desperately trying to keep himself from cumming right then and there.

“Yuuta, Yuuta-” you whine in that tone he’s dreamt of, stroked himself to on lonely nights and he’s so close. All self control goes out the window as he practically fucks you into the mattress. He feels delirious feverish with an ailment that can only be cured through you. He can’t let you go; not now, not ever.

An idea hits him like a strike of lightning, reverberates throughout his entire being. His pace slows for a second. There’s a look of confusion on your face.

“If we have a baby, you’ll have to quit, right?” he asks, his finger gently tracing a heart around your stomach.

Your pupils dilate. Yuuta recalls that it’s a sign of love. Affection. His heart skips a beat.

“Y-Yuu-tan,” you mumble, a tremor in your voice, “what are you saying?”

“You’ll have to stay if we have a baby,” he whispers into your ear before his hips snap into yours, “right?”

You make some unintelligible noise in response, but he knows it’s just because you’re overwhelmed with joy at the idea. Knowing you’re happy makes him happy too.

There’s no time to waste, an urgency to Yuuta’s movements as he pushes against your legs until you’re folded into a mating press. His hips pick up a steady rhythm, the loud slap of skin echoing throughout the room.

Yuuta fucks you like he means to make good his proposal–his body pressed flush against yours, his hands wrapping around the back of your head to bring you into his embrace. He throws caution to the wind, lets lust take over.

Everything about you is overwhelming. How you scratch at his back, how you bite down on his neck hard enough to draw blood, how your legs tremble with each stroke. It’s like you want it just as bad as he does.

And who is he to deny you? His hand slips between your sweat covered bodies, trails down to your throbbing clit to show it some love. He wants you to feel as good as he does, or better. Preferably the latter.

He knows he’s doing a good job when he hears that tell-tale sign of your breaths quickening, along with your heart beating faster against his chest.

But something’s off.

You won’t stop throwing your body around, as if you’re trying to loosen his grip around you.

If this is your way of testing his love, then he’s passing with flying colors. It only lights a fire in him, determination ablaze in his fingertips as he draws tighter circles around your clit, the roll of his hips morphing to something slower, but deeper. It’s only a matter of seconds before your body gives in to his love and affection, cries sputtering from your mouth as your muscles tense up around him.

Yuuta can’t control himself any longer with your pussy convulsing around him, his pace becoming erratic, his breathing heavier. His voice breaks, a shaky whine catches in his throat before he goes over the edge.

“Love you, love you so much,” he cries before cumming, burying himself deep inside and making sure to give you everything he has. Every twitch of his cock leads to the undeniable warmth of his seed painting your insides white.

He takes a moment to collect himself and catch his breath, but he doesn’t take himself out of you. It’s like the intensity catches up with him all at once as he collapses onto you. Even in his state of exhaustion, he finds the energy to gingerly kiss your forehead.

“We’ll be so happy together, I promise.”

[matmiraculous]

Encanto TV Show

So. I had Ideas. I want to know peoples thoughts before I actually start writing. (Ignore the fact that i'm almost 4 years late to the fandom)

Season 1

1 - Pilot: The Family Madrigal (Whole Fam Feat: Mirabel)   Mirabel helps the family adjust to healthier habits in the early days after Casita is rebuilt, gently guiding them into a new chapter of life together. 2 - A Room of Ones Own (Mirabel)   Mirabel feels like the family is avoiding her and gets really upset and lonely, only for the family and Casita to reveal that they made her her own room! 3 - Luisa Lets Go (Luisa)   After accidentally breaking something during a vulnerable moment, Luisa realizes she still ties her worth to being strong and learns what it means to rest. 4 - Camilo Cares To Much (Camilo)   Camilo shapeshifts nonstop to please everyone, but when a young fan copies him a little too well, he starts to unravel. 5 - Of Rats and Men (Bruno and Julieta)   When a strange illness spreads in town, Bruno’s rats are unfairly blamed. He and Julieta team up to solve the mystery, healing a bit of Bruno’s reputation. 6 - Antonios Big Adventure (Antonio)   Antonio discovers a creature that can’t speak to him, forcing him to explore other ways of understanding, and learning that connection takes more than magic. 7 - Game Night (Madrigal 3rd Gen + Mariano)   The Madrigal kids (plus Mariano) have a game night that quickly devolves into chaos, competition, and comedy, before ending in giggles and heartfelt bonding. 8 - Flashback 1 (Madrigal 2nd Gen as Teens)   Teenage Julieta, Pepa, Bruno, Félix, and Agustín navigate early gifts, clumsy romance, and Alma’s rising expectations during the miracle’s first years. 9 - Guys Night (Agustin, Felix, and Bruno)   Félix and Agustín drag Bruno out for a night in town, challenging the village to treat him better while Bruno learns how to loosen up and be seen again.

10 - Power Swap (Whole Fam)

   The family wakes up with their gifts completely shuffled. Cue hilarious chaos, instant regrets, and a whole new respect for each other’s daily struggles. 11 - An Artists Touch (Isabela and Mirabel)   Mirabel and Isabela try to collaborate on a mural, but their wildly different creative styles clash until they find a way to blend beauty and mess into something uniquely theirs. 12 - Pranksters (Mirabel and Camilo Feat: Whole Fam)   Mirabel and Camilo start a petty prank war that escalates into full family participation where everyone picks a side. 13 - Flashback 2 (Madrigal 3rd Gen. Pre Camilo and Mirabels Door ceremonies)   A goofy happy episode about the Madrigal grandkids before Camilo and Mirabel both ahd their gift ceremonies. 14 - Still Abuela (Abuela Alma)   As the village moves forward and relies less on her, Alma questions her place in the family, until Mirabel reminds her she’s still their light, even without the candle. 15 - Bedtime with Bruno (Antonio and Bruno)   Bruno tells Antonio a bedtime story, and one by one the other kids gather to listen. Bruno feels like a part of the family finally. 16 - The Babysitters (Mirabel and Camilo)   Mirabel and Camilo babysit a group of chaotic village kids and clash hard on parenting styles, until they learn that fun and structure can coexist. 17 - La Ratonovela (Rat Telenovela Feat:Bruno and Dolores)   Bruno narrates one of his full-on dramatic rat telenovelas in person for once while Dolores keeps interrupting with ideas and questions. 18 - Hearing Hearts (Mariano +Madrigal 3rd Gen)   Mariano tries to plan a romantic surprise for Dolores, while navigating the absolute nightmare of dating someone who can hear literally everything. 19 - Flashback 3 (Pepa Feat: Newborn Antonio)   The story of Pepa’s pregnancy and the day Antonio was born. Its chaos obviously. 20 - Birthday (Madrigal Triplets)   The triplets celebrate their first birthday together since Bruno returned, unlocking sweet childhood memories, unresolved guilt, and the quiet power of forgiveness.

[becausebuckley]

michelle's buddie fic recs: week 10!

and oh, what a week it's been... so, how are we feeling about 8x09?

this is a mix of fics with all ratings, so some include NSFW content. please take a look at both the ratings and the fic tags before reading! some might contain spoilers for season 8.

if you come across something you like in this list, remember to show some love to the author by leaving kudos and a comment!

atomic spiral | ameliahart/@melliehart | 13.3k | E

Eddie starts cockblocking Buck. Things escalate from there. oh crazygirl eddie, how much i love you <3 absolutely loved his characterisation here and i though the bit with chris' "emergency" was super fun!!

blame it on the [painkillers] | OneTrueEmotion/@one-eighteen | 2.7k | GA

Featuring a broken arm, some painkillers, and an accidental love confession. so cute and soft and fun <3 i loved buck being a little loopy!!

brojob | WendigoBaby | 6.8k | E

eddie asks buck to show him a good time and they find joy along the way. loved buck's characterisation here!! and the premium buck 1.0 bit made me giggle <3

broken pieces fit together | foxwatson/@eddiediazes | 2.7k | T

When Buck gets home from the hospital, he stays with the Diazes - and stays in Eddie's bed. Maybe Eddie isn't the only one getting comfort from it. i can't even count how many times i've reread this, that's how much i love this one! such lovely hurt/comfort <3

deep inside a gold mine | marviless/@marviless | 8.5k | T

in which eddie is in love and a bit clingy about it. oh, how i adore clingy eddie <3 he deserves to be clingy!! let him cling!! this is such a gem of a fic for sure <3

everything's growing in our garden | mostardent/@laracrofted | 29.8k | E

Eddie moves to El Paso for the rest of the school year, and Buck grows a garden in his backyard and waits for him to come home. this fic!! i genuinely think this is my favourite eddie goes to el paso fic ever. it's so beautifully written, has some really funny moments too but is mostly just so gorgeous. my green thumb starts and ends with the one succulent i've had for two years, but this makes me want to pick up gardening for real. so, so good <3

feel you forever | semperama/@semperama | 5.8k | E

Buck isn’t hard, not yet, not all the way, but he still can’t help but squirm, like Eddie can see through his clothes, through his skin even, to the heart of him where he’s hiding all these fucked up desires. “Is this…” Eddie meets his eyes again. “Is this new?” SO hot. buck is so real for having a thing for eddie's hands for sure, and i loved reading about it!! so good!!

hold me closer | smilingbuckley/@smilingbuckley | 2.2k | T

Buck has a tough shift when he fills in at the B-shift. He goes to Eddie for comfort. i am a simple person. i see the tag forehead kisses, i click on the fic, i repeat this approximately 27 times. this fic feels like a warm hug after a long day, and i'm sure i'll be back to click on it for the 28th time very soon <3

homophobia in the build-a-bear | paleredheadinascifi | 2.9k | T

Eddie builds a very gay Build-A-Bear. Unless you ask Buck. Then it's just a very rainbow ally bear. this is so fun and cute and so them <3 loved it so much!!

in sickness, in health | earthtolovers/@earthtolovers | 10.9k | E

Eddie gets sick. Buck takes care of him—in more ways than one. domestic and soft and also so hot wow. i love their dynamic in this one!!

let the quiet put things where they are supposed to be | theheartbelieves | 26.7k | E

Eddie and Buck share a bed during their pandemic bubble and things escalate. oh, the glory of freak4freak buddie fics <3 the explicit scenes here are very very good, but i also really enjoyed the moments with hen and chimney!

moving on from him is impossible | playinginthunderstorms/@playinginthunderstorms | 3k | E

Eddie is stressed and has trouble... unwinding, while in El Paso. Buck helps. Like a good friend would. the best buck narration!! and such great dialogue <3 loved loved loved reading this one!!

speaking your (love) language | thelikesofus/@thelikesofus | 11.6k | T

Eddie's love language is acts of service and Buck takes full advantage of this information. this is so soft and full of love <3 i adore it!!

was i even on your way? | rangerdanger/@call-me-medusa | 3k | M

Buck gets reminded of something that happened he'd rather forget. the one thing i'll never forgive this show for is how they treated the dr wells thing, so i'm always so glad when i see fics discussing that further. this was both a really great look at buck's feelings about it, and also has some really lovely buddie <3

you're not saying you're in love with me (but you're going to) | turquoiseviolet/@turquoisevioiet | 29k | T

it takes an attempted home purchase, a holiday trip to texas, and some sisterly meddling for these two idiots to have some realizations. such a stunning fic!! i love the diaz sister so much and this has incredible chris characterisation! the scene on the pullout couch was my favourite <3

[internetgiraffekid1673]

Some Fun Facts About the Wonderlandians from the EAH Books

Maddie and Kitty can hear the narrator, but Lizzie can't. This is because, as queen, it's Lizzie's job to be bossy and bring some order to the chaos of wonderland. She "reminds things what they are when they forget." No word one way or the other on the White Queen, but I'd assume she has a similar problem.

Kitty CAN hear the narrator but spends most of her time pretending not to because:

Kitty does not like being narrated. She actively conceals her thoughts and feelings from the narrator most of the time and they have to guess based on her actions. She does have some tells though, like how she's always thinking about cheese when she licks her lips and looks up. She's also far from infallible and leaves her thoughts exposed whenever she's distracted.

Kitty has also managed to scratch the narrator before, despite them being an invisible bodiless being.

When Kitty turns invisible, she goes to a place called "Between" which is some sort of shadowland behind reality. She describes it as "a little like running, a bit like dreaming, and a lot like swimming." There is no collision In Between---you can freely move through walls and objects---and no significant gravity, since you can float. It also enables you to fast travel (1 step In Between can equal around 50 steps in reality).

It does however, make you feel weird and sleepy if you stay there for too long, and Kitty has an uncle who actually spent so much time Between that he became a permanent shadow.

The Mad Hatter can see Kitty when she's In Between. Or rather, in the words of the narrator: "He's just mad enough to THINK he can, which turns out, is very nearly the same thing."

The White Queen has a poor understanding of linear time, since it isn't linear in Wonderland. Her voicemail message says "I'm busy, call back five minutes ago."

While all three wonderlandians experience intense culture shock, Maddie has it the worst. Kitty and Lizzie are both very aloof and don't really have friends (outside each other and perhaps Maddie), but Maddie is sweet and kind to everyone, and so she has the most chances to experience Ever After's very different idea of manners. For example, Maddie was convinced for years that everyone in Ever After had really bad table manners because nobody had ever started a food fight.

Lizzie has an incredible memory, especially for things she reads, and was able to memorize the entire script of a play within 24 hours.

Lizzie has a deck of playing cards that her mother gave her with advice on them instead of numbers. Lizzie lives or dies by this advice, even when it doesn't make much sense in context, until she goes through some character development.

Sleep magic doesn't work on Maddie because she's crazy enough that her brain assumes a) she is already asleep and reality is just her dreams or b) her dreams cause reality.

Lizzie can build anything out of cards. Literally anything, and almost immediately. It's magical. She's built an entire wall out of them before. I can't remember if she has, but she definitely could build a functional bridge out of them.

All 3 Wonderlandians consider Cedar Wood a friend (best friend in Maddie's case), and would fistfight people for her.

[voyaging-too]

It is part of the framing device of LOTR that Tolkien isn’t the author, that he’s merely translating an ancient manuscript into modern English. The real author of The Hobbit is Bilbo, the real author of LOTR is Frodo and to a lesser extent, Sam. However, Tolkien isn’t actually very interested in the literary conceit that the narrators of his third-person narratives are characters within those narratives. He’s using the appendix “on translation” as a pretext to explain his clever use of Old English and Norse in place names, he’s using an unreliable narrator exactly once, to explain the difference between two editions of the Hobbit, and he’s fascinated by the idea of characters comparing their lives to stories or trying to understand their lives as stories, but very little of that actually goes into the narration.

In a Doylist sense, I’m willing to say that the novels are not at all written from the subjective POV of the characters that have supposedly written them. I’ve recently read the Book of the New Sun and also Thomas Mann’s Doctor Faustus, very different books that both engaged deeply with the narrator being present in the story, with the massive gap between the narrator writing in the “present day” and the past self that he narrates. LOTR doesn’t do that, this isn’t meant to be a criticism, just a statement: it is a books that books can sometimes do, and LOTR is not doing it, it cares about other things.

But in a Watsonian sense, a lot of interesting questions come up when you take the conceit seriously and accept these characters as the author of their own story. Bilbo might be the easiest: The Hobbit is a children’s story because he’s chosen to tell it as a children’s story, probably for young Frodo himself. The story he’s telling is mostly light-hearted, and he’s poking fun at himself all the time, and he’s also poking fun at the dwarves a lot. The Hobbit addresses the reader in a way later LOTR rarely does, saying “you can imagine how poor Bilbo felt when X happened” or “you can probably already see the flaw in Y plan.” Some of these might be responses to interjections, to questions and criticisms little Frodo voiced when first hearing the stories.

Frodo’s narrative voice is different, much more serious, since he’s writing for grown-ups from the beginning. I don’t mind that he’d described many events where he wasn’t personally present: I can imagine that he had long conversations with the other members of the fellowship, especially Merry and Pippin, and then turning his notes of their account into a narrative that’s filtered through his own sense of narrative, humour and aesthetics. Frodo basically just ghostwrote those chapters, based on lengthy interviews. The really weird thing comes in with the account of events that Frodo personally experienced. Fellowship starts with Bilbo, then shifts to a point-of-view focused fairly narrowly on Frodo, with some brief detours into the perspectives of the other hobbits. In Towers, we’re already firmly in Sam’s perspective, we see most of Frodo’s actions through Sam’s eyes, and we mostly stay in that perspective until the end of the trilogy. If Frodo wrote this book: why? Why not write of his own experiences, as he did in the previous chapters? (Of course there’s the Doylist answer, Tolkien decided that Sam’s POV was more compelling and that Frodo’s struggle with the ring was more interesting shown from an outside perspective and probably impossible to write from an inside one. But what’s the Watsonian answer?)

One possible answer is that Frodo chose to write it that way, write it focused on Sam and not himself, either because to focus on himself would have hurt too much, or because he wanted to highlight Sam’s importance, to show him as the real hero. (Note to self: Gertrude Stein wrote Alice B. Toklas’s autobiography, I probably need to check that out.) There’s also the possibility that Sam wrote those chapters. Frodo tells him it’s his job to finish the book, and the usual reading is that Sam merely wrote the end of the Grey Havens chapter, but we can argue that the book was quite unfinished, and Sam had a larger part in more of it. It’s possible that Sam read Frodo’s chapters on the ring quest and figured that he had to rewrite them from scratch. It’s possible that Frodo found it so painful to write about that it’s just dry, brief outlines. “Crossed the tunnel. Big spider got me. etc.”, the whole thing is like five pages. Maybe memories formed under the influence of the ring are no longer wholly accessible: having lost the ring, they are distant, spectral, like they happened to someone else. Or maybe the ring actually warped Frodo’s memories and thoughts of those events to the point that what he wrote is just fifteen chapters of Book of Revelations level hallucinatory horror, wholly incomprehensible to anyone else. And of course there’s the possibility that during those chapters, Frodo has acted in a way, or at least thought and felt in a way, that Sam doesn’t want to share with the world. Sam is covering up that the journey was even harder, and that Frodo was corrupted by the ring in worse and sadder ways, and so he’s rewriting Frodo’s chapters to protect his memory.