#biting and tearing and gnashing my teeth

[snepfeathers]

AUGH. I have to physically tear myself away from this piece and go to bed and it's infuriatingggggg

I'm so close to being done with this comm, and it's a bunch of intense shadows and rim lighting... I ❤️ shading and I WANT TO FINISH but I need to get enough sleep before work tomorrow. this sucks mannnnn

[eddis-not-eeddis]

.

[engagemythrusters]

YOU like Ashes and Blood bc it was on Arcane I like Ashes and Blood bc I've been feral about Woodkid since I was 15

[breadsacrifice]

GRAHHHHHHH

[hatchetmode]

Men can be so cute I want to rip him to shreds with my teeth

[the-movie-that-was-never-made]

There are just so many people and it's all so much and there's just so many and i just want to go home

[ghouljams]

Your Failure, His Rebirth

Tags: knight!Ghost x princess!reader, blood and violence, minor character death, medieval medicine, terrible parenting, allusions to Ghost's past, knight!Keegan x f!oc, king!Konig Summary: Sometimes the universe works in your favor, sometimes it forces you into a role you were never meant to play. a/n: look I know he wouldn't say that, that's why he's reading off the teleprompter while I hold him at gunpoint.

Blood hits the ground and is covered by Ghost’s armored knee as he struggles to stay up. Struggles for his next move.

It happens so quickly.

Your hands shake where they press to the fence keeping you from the field 

but your feet are sure

and your body knows how to jump the barricade as surely as it swings onto a horse.

You’re deaf to the shouting behind you. Uncaring of the hands that grab for you as you run. The ground lurches under you. The wind roars in your ears, racing your blood for which can leave you faster.

Your fingers wrap around the hilt of the knife on Ghost’s hip, ripping it from the sheath as you turn to face your would-be husband.

Your breath comes in hiccups, gulped down with the same fear that threatens to paralyze you. Your hands shake but your grip is tight as you hold the knife up towards Graves’ throat.

The blade of his sword brushes your dress, the razor’s edge leaving thin slices in the fabric. You hope it cuts you, gives you some bite to gnash your teeth against. You don’t see how it would be any more painful than his win.

The stands are raucous. Screaming and shouting hits your ear like the crash of waves, ebbing and flowing with each breath. Everything is too loud, too bright, too alive when you feel like you’re dying, like your belly’s been slit and it’s everything you can do just to keep standing.

You grip the hand holding the knife with your other, trying to stop the shaking. All it does is double it.

“Come on now darlin’,” Graves coos, his voice dripping with mirth, “What do you think you’ll do with that?”

“I’ll kill you,” You assure him, “I’ll kill you and then I’ll kill myself.” After all, if Ghost is going to meet his end, it’s only fitting that you follow him.

Graves tips his head to laugh. Malice fills the air. Ghost says your name, the only softness that could find you in this grave you’ve dug, and Graves twists his hand. Hearing the squelch of Ghost’s skin turns your stomach, frays your nerves. Ghost grunts against the pain, you’re sure it must be torture.

“Hush now. Royalty is talkin’,” Graves reminds him, holding a finger to his helm, uncaring that your knife hovers dangerously in front of him. His hand drops to his side before he turns his attention back to you.

“I like a little fight in my horses too, makes it more fun breaking you in.“ He tilts his head, showing you the soft pink of his neck. “Go on, let’s see if you can do it.”

You can feel the tears stinging your eyes, pushing forwards against your lash line. You will the knife forward. Grit your teeth with determination and beg your body to just move. Your hand feels so unsteady, your nose clogged with the scent of iron, he’s pointing the way, it should be easy to kill him. 

The memory of blood seeping over your hands pulls at you. The warmth of it, almost sticky the way it clung so desperately to your skin. That damn Baron’s last attempt at keeping himself alive, blood released from his body in a way it never should have been still trying to stick to the body, any body really, in a plea to cling to life. Skin had never broken so easily, had never felt so penetrable, so delicate, had never changed itself from barrier to entryway, had never sickened you quite the same as it did when your knife met it.

You remember the bile rising in your throat, the same as it does now. You know the panic still. You’re not meant to hold such instruments.

Ghost had saved you then. He dealt the killing blow. Or, at least said he did. But the blood that pooled under the crumpled body had reached towards you. A damning accusation. It had known, as well as you did now, the sins that had been committed by your hand. Sins you could still feel under your fingernails, pressing at your skin in the hopes that it too would part.

You can’t do it.

Your breath shudders.

Your knife lowers.

You feel the sick unseen smile that Graves wears under his helm, the knowledge that he’s won, like a death shroud.

And you feel Ghost’s hand just as fast,

the wrap of his fingers around yours,

And the thrust of your knife, 

his knife, 

into Graves’ throat.

The blood that comes now is like a fountain.

It sprays over you with a sickly gurgle. You hardly have time to blink and your eyes sting with the shock of blood you couldn’t avoid. Ghost’s hand wrenches yours to the side to slit his opponent’s throat, and your eyes follow it. The jagged edge of Grave’s neck, the wheeze of his windpipe, the instant drop of his sword to grasp at his neck, you feel your body shudder with the convulsion of it. 

You can’t drop the knife, Ghost’s grip makes sure of that. Your knuckles creak under the strain of his hold, your fingers going numb the same way the rest of you is. 

You can’t keep a breath in. Each gasp feels tighter than the last.

Ghost leans his weight on you as he stands, and you feel blood soak your back, your dress cut to the skin as he rips Graves’ sword from his side. You barely feel the warmth of your own blood under the rapid cooling of theirs.

Ghost points Graves’ sword at the priest, his weight against your back, his hand still holding yours, your world holding himself up on your shoulders. Your Atlas passing you the Earth.

“Call it,” He growls.

“Sir- Sir Simon Riley, is- is,” The priest stutters, glancing at your father still back in the stands, his face is white with the same shock that grips you, “has bested-” he tries again, “-Sir Phillip Graves is unable to continue-”

“Dead,” You correct, your voice little more than a whisper, “he’s dead.”

The priest nods, gesturing to the crowd with a flourish, “Your victor: Sir Simon Riley!”

The explosion of rabid excitement from the crowd deafens you, each voyeur throwing their own comments into the ring. Some cheer. Others curse. You couldn’t piece any single voice together, all of them seemed to bleed into the ringing that filled your ears, but you got the gist: villain, beast, heel. Blood they begged for, but murder… You didn’t understand the line that they drew, what was the difference? They cheered for Ghost’s injury, but screeched at Graves’ death. Blood was blood. Wasn’t it?

It all felt the same sticking to your skin.

Tunneled your vision until you couldn’t see anything but the blood soaking your empty fingers.

Your lady-in-waiting holds your face in shaking hands. Her handkerchief wiping your brow, over your cheeks, her lips move silently as she takes your hands to wipe them as well. Keegan swipes your --Ghost’s-- knife from where you’d unfeelingly dropped it to the dirt and slips the blade into his belt. 

The ringing is starting to leave your ears, replaced by your lady-in-waiting’s sobbing. “My lady,” repeated over and over through her tears. It’s only then that you realize the weight of your knight has left you.

You turn to look at the dirt, praying you don’t find him lying there, dead.

“Where’s Ghost?” You find your voice long enough to ask. 

“With the physician,” Keegan replies. His hand finds the back of your lady-in-waiting’s neck, turning her sobs to sniffles. She keeps wiping at your hands, the bloodied handkerchief doesn’t clean anymore, it smears. Bloodying and unbloodying your hands with each swipe.

You cast your gaze around. They land on the retreating shoulders of your knight. His armor hanging awkwardly off his body, his side still bloodied and leaking. He leans his weight onto another knight, one arm around the man’s shoulder, the other around the doctor that helps him limp back towards the tents. You pull your hands from your lady-in-waiting to run after him, and she pulls you right back.

“My lady,” Her voice rises in a panic.

“I have to make sure he’s alright,” You tell her thoughtlessly.

“You’ll have to do more than that,” Your father’s voice booms behind you. Again you feel your blood drain from your body. Your shoes squish in the bloody mud, you’re sure most of it must be from your own shock with how quickly it seems to rush from you. You turn to find your father, your mother beside him, her hands clenched so tight in her skirts that the fabric is starting to protest. 

“Have you any idea of the mess you’ve made?” Your father asks, his teeth grit. “Throwing my kingdom to a dog with no master. Who knows what he’ll do to us.”

“And you’re any better? Bringing in foreign brutes to try and- and-” You gesture vaguely to König who hovers behind your parents, then to yourself, “You think a man like that wouldn’t kill me before my wedding night?”

König scratches his cheek under the chain mask he wears, muttering in German, “Ah, I miss my wife.” You don’t know what the fuck he’s saying but the weary-nostalgic look he gives your bloodied dress doesn’t make you think it’s anything good.

“You think Graves would have been any better?” You ask, your gaze steadily kept off the corpse at your feet.

“Graves was loyal to-”

“To himself!” You cut your father off, “You truly think that man had the kingdom’s best wishes in mind while brutalizing his opponents?”

“And you think a Riley does?” Your father asks, his tone flat, accusatory. 

“No,” You relent, anger rising in your throat. You’ve never cared where Ghost came from, the reputation that hung like a sword over his family’s crest. Ghost has more than proved himself, more than shown his capabilities, and more than shown where his allegiance lies. “But he doesn’t have to care about the kingdom,” You harden your voice, Ghost doesn’t care for the crown except when it sits on your head, “he’ll care for the people because he cares for me.”

Your father shakes his head, opens his mouth to speak, and freezes. König’s knife dimples his neck, exerting the slightest pointed force to press the skin without breaking it. The German looms behind him, bending over his shoulder to cock his head and watch the pallor of your father’s face as the blood drains from it. The chainmail of his mask hangs haphazardly to the side, and you watch the sickly smile that splits his mouth, showing his teeth as he speaks.

“You are a weak fool,” He seethes, “What battles have you fought to earn your kingdom? What foes have you slaughtered?” The knife presses more firmly against your father’s throat and you feel your stomach flip, your heart clench, at the blood that blooms and falls over his skin. As much as you may hate the man, you don’t want to watch anyone else die. “I have often thought that crowns should be won.” 

Your father, proud and steady, has never felt the kiss of a sword. His throne was handed to him, and though he once trained in fighting, he’s never seen battle. You watch the man that you have always looked at as a pillar of steadfast rule, of divine right, crumble in the face of a little blood. A man who would sell his own child in a time of peace, looks like such a small evil next to König.

You’re starting to think perhaps thrones should be won too.

“But the-”

“Do not start caring for your people now Herr König,” König drawls, the words thick on his accented tongue, “it is-” he pauses, looking for the word.

“Embarrassing?” You suggest, your father tries to glare, any malice already snuffed by his fear.

“Yes, embarrassing.” König agrees. He points his knife your way and gestures at you, “Go on little maus, go find your prize.”

He doesn’t have to tell you twice. You grab your skirt in still shivering fists and run towards the knights’ lodgings.

The losing knights are licking their wounds when you get to their tents. They nurse scrapes and bruises, split lips and cut brows, bruises already purpling over their ribs as their pages assist them in discarding their armor. They pay you little mind, but those that do… You can feel their eyes tracking you, imagining what they might have had if they weren’t up against such formidable foes. 

You don’t give them a second thought, pushing the flap for the physician’s tent to the side in order to duck inside.

Your eyes find Ghost immediately. Stripped down to his breeches, the wide plane of his back tensed as the physician pokes and prods at the deep gash that runs through his side. Blood oozes out of the hole in his back, the tensed muscle so beautifully displayed under his skin now fills in a deep red between its torn edges. The physician leans in to sniff at the wound and Ghost’s already tensed muscles seem to tense further, as if even the sound of it might hurt him. No. His chest expands a fraction before the tension is back, squeezing tight at his ribs like a vice. It’s breathing that’s hurting him.

The mess of his blond hair is drenched with sweat, his skin smeared with blood and dirt, he looks the picture of a man beaten into the ground, and yet he positively glows in the dim light of the tent. Your new king. 

You take a hesitant step forward and the physician glances at you. Only to stop his work and dip his head in a bow that forces Ghost to turn and look as well. You watch the painful twist of his muscles as he moves, the squeeze of blood from his wound. There’s a darkness in his eyes, a pale-ness to his cheeks, it must be excruciating. You can’t help hurrying to him, throwing your arms around his slick shoulders and burying your face against his neck. 

Your dress is already bloody, your nerves already frayed, what else can you do but look for his pulse’s quick thump.

Ghost’s hand squeezes your wrist. Clean. 

“My lady,” He murmurs, “Let the physician work.”

He has more hair on him than you’d thought. You feel it vaguely when you shake your head, the light strands of hair on his shoulders tickle your nose, and you can feel where it’s been slicked close to his skin running down his spine the same way you feel your dress stick to you. You feel terribly childish, failed somehow. Why do you still feel like you’ve lost even with your prize in your arms? 

His hand doesn’t leave you, doesn’t push you away, he makes no noise of discontent at your flagrant disregard of his order, and you wonder how much of his comment was more for the physician’s benefit than his own. 

“She’s alright sir,” The physician informs Ghost, “Can move to your lap when I tackle the back.” Ghost grunts and you peek over your arms to watch the physician. His fingers are prodding Ghost’s wound again. The cut looks just as bad from the front, the skin bowed in and sliced long from the wiggle of Graves’ sword, and the muscle streaked with blood. Pulling your own needle and thread through his skin feels like a distant memory now.

How had you managed to hold your stomach then, when you find it so fragile now.

“I’m sorry,” Ghost grits, as the physician packs herbs into the wound and pinches the edges, “There’s blood on your hands because of me.”

“Royalty mustn’t apologize.” You mumble. His fingers squeeze your wrist lightly.

Ghost is quiet, only the wet pull of threads through skin filling the silence between you. There’s no comfort in the rub of his thumb over your wrist, and the longer you stand there the more pointedly you feel the drying mud of blood and fabric congealing against your skin. It’s unignorable and uninterrupted. There is only the chill of tacky discomfort that sticks to you.

“Ghost?” You ask nervously, the air feeling heavy, bearing down on your shoulders like a terrible weight.

He breathes and it feels like a noose being fitted to your neck. You squeeze your arms tighter around his shoulders, begging him to be as selfish as you feel, to give you this one thing, to not let you go now. 

“It will follow you,” He says finally, his words cutting through the anxious tension in your shoulders, “You’ll scrub your hands and still feel blood under your nails, you’ll ask yourself if there wasn’t someone better, a hand that didn’t hold you like a weapon.”

“I made my choice,” You press, “you’re my sword, and if I can’t be-”

“I’m your knight,” He clarifies, “and I have loved you far past what is acceptable for a knight-” he hisses through his teeth at the physician’s work, his voice faltering for only a second, “-but I’m still your knight. Not the other way around.”

Despite yourself you smile, your cheeks hot and your stomach giddy. He’s reprimanding you, his voice anything but sweet and yet you can only focus on one thing. Love. You repeat it to yourself like a mantra. Love, love, love. Far past what’s acceptable, far past what’s expected, what’s necessary, far past what’s proper. Love, love, love. From your knight who’s always held his hands steady and now seems to shake down to his fingertips as the physician presses herbs between the stitches of his wound.

“I love you,” You whisper, sure he’ll hear you. He always has.

“I know,” He tugs at your wrist, raising it to his lips to scrape his teeth over your pulse, you wonder if he can feel the way it hammers under his lips, “and I’ll be dead in the fucking ground before I let anyone take you from me now.”

[papenathys]

Me writing a poem about my sister like I love you I love you I love you we are the same we are foils we are parallels we are the sun and the moon and the arm against arm and red and blue and green and gold and spring and fall and we are overlapping and we are twins and we are years apart and isn't it beautiful and a little bit terrifying how deeply two lives can be etched upon each other and what a curse and what a blessing it must be, being sisters

[pinkie-quinns]

rocker eddie/actor steve | exes to ??? | slightly nsfw under the cut | fame au p3 |

p1 p2 p4 p5 interlude p6

Steve’s presented at award shows countless times. He’s good at it. He’s funny, he’s charming. But usually, he didn’t want to strangle the guy standing next to him. Usually, the guy hadn't been pawing at his dick ten minutes before.

But he gets through it. 'Cause he’s a professional.

He is aware. Aware that the tension stifling the room isn’t exactly appropriate for the Animated Feature Film category.

Aware that he did, in fact, tear Eddie’s (uninsured) silk shirt.

Aware that, despite a scurry of last-second HMU efforts, his perfect hair looks insane.

Aware that this is a live broadcast. Aware that anyone with eyes could look at the state of both of them and probably only come up with 3 feasible conclusions. Aware that unlike the photo, this is pretty fucking incriminating.

But he gets through it. Cause he’s a professional.

Eddie's being punchably smug about it, of course. Emerged from the bathroom, pupils blown, eye glitter smudged, lips swollen, and “Ready for his close-up!”

He didn’t even talk to Steve after they were escorted off stage. Just slipped a note in his pocket.

Skip the afterparty?

Skip the afterparty. Who does he think he is? Steve’s expected to show face. His team needs him to show face. They have another suit prepared and everything. He gets it's a foreign concept to Eddie, but people actually rely on him.

Fuck him. Steve can’t just skip the afterparty.

He skips the afterparty.

He ignores the 40 frantic texts from Robin.

He gets his car to drive him to Los Feliz.

It's just the same as 5 years ago, but all reverse. The deja vu is making him woozy, making him sick. Same place he was five years ago but no one's here for apologies.

This time it's a knock at Eddie's door.

Stupid and hollow and idiotic. Steve’s still in his ugly velvet suit. The door swings open. Eddie’s changed. Showered. Hair damp and frizzy. Liner and stage glitter staining his under eyes. He looks soft under the yellow porch light.

There’s a moment, a millisecond where Steve knows he could turn around. Slam the door in Eddie’s face and pretend this never happened.

But he's all red inside, all forward momentum and frustration and anger.

“I still fucking hate you.”

Eddie offers him a sad smile. “I know.”

And then the door is shut behind him and Eddie’s got him against the wall and Steve’s tongue is back where it belongs. Where it’s always belonged. He wants Eddie to choke on it.

Eddie’s grinning, glassy-eyed worship, panting into his mouth, “Missed this.”

Nope.

Steve needs be miles away from whatever the fuck that is. So he gnashes Eddie's lip between his teeth. It's hard enough to draw blood. He needs him as red as he feels.

“Fuck you.”

In the hallway drag to the bedroom, he’s all destruction. Wants to knock down everything in sight. Wants to shove Eddie into his stupid platinum records and his stupid ten thousand dollar guitars. He wants fire and earthquakes. He wants Eddie split in half.

Eddie hasn’t gotten the memo, apparently. Keeps a cool laugh through the whole thing, laughs when Steve pushes him against some hideous credenza (a fucking credenza, the Eddie he knew would’ve throttled himself.) Laughs when some marble thing gets swatted to the floor like Steve’s a particularly bratty housecat.

“Damn. Really got you revved up, huh?” Eddie’s grinning at him like this whole thing is some kind of fucking joke. They’ve made it to the bedroom, finally.

Steve bites bruises at his neck. “Do you ever shut the hell up?”

“Nah, kinda my speciality, Ha–”

He pushes the heel of his palm into Eddie’s crotch. “You’re pathetic.”

“Yeah?” It’s a whine.

“So fucking pathetic.” And then Steve’s on his knees.

He gets lost in it. Just like he used to. He never does anymore. He’s still a bit drunk but he feels all heady like he’s taken the wrong pills. Feels wired too, like he drank three red eyes. Feels a lot of things.

It’s all the same and it’s all so different. Their bodies are different. Soft in places they once were hard. Hard in places they once were soft. They’re not old yet, not really, not at all. But they’re not teenagers anymore.

It’s like he can’t find the ground anywhere– Eddie’s hands on him, Eddie’s skin on him. Bare and rough and different and so familiar it whips the air out of his lungs. Eddie knowing just what works, knowing how to touch him better than anyone. Knowing him better than he knows himself.

He feels cursed. He feels ruined.

And when Eddie finally fucks into him, on that gaudy four-poster bed, a mess of sweat and sheets and glitter, he can’t help the part of him screaming home home home home.

Eddie lights a cigarette when it’s over. Offers one to Steve but he quit years ago. Not that he would know.

Steve says, “You've got to stop that shit, man. It’s gonna kill you.”

And Eddie does that stupid sad smile again. “I’d deserve it, wouldn’t I?”

So Steve finds as many pieces of his suit as he can. Hopes to god Tom Ford doesn’t like, sue him for losing it. Hightails it to the front door. He’s not interested in small talk. Not interested in throwing this asshole another pity party.

Eddie follows him out, leans against the door frame, easy and sad and stupid handsome and Steve hates him nearly as much as he hates himself. “Will I see you again, Harrington?”

Steve can't let him have this. Can't let him win after all this time.

“Don’t count on it.”

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Mission Control 8

Warnings: non/dubcon, violence, stalking, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Captain Hydra

Summary: a man marches into your life on a mission

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

The bus is speeding. Zigzagging dangerously through the city streets. You slide across the seats, clinging on for dear life as another veer sends you slamming against the window. Another wild turn and you fly in the other direction. 

This time, you hit another wall. Something just as hard and unmoving but different. The wall wraps you up around neck and waist. The man lifts you and carries you into the next scene. A zipping highway with wind whipping around your face. You cover your ears and turn as a flash limns to your left. You turn to face down the headlights and scream. 

You crash into the dirt of the forest. The hum of crickets and sway of trees tickles your brain. He stands above you, staring down at you, not speaking, just watching. You don’t know what he wants. Why doesn’t he just tell you what he wants? 

You wake with a start at the sharp tweak of your nipple. You’re flat on your back as his teeth squish your flesh and you yipe. You grab his golden hair and try to push his hand away. Your thighs crush around his large calloused hand, his fingers pressed roughly to your cunt. 

The front of the night gown is pulled open below your tits and the bottom rumpled to your stomach. His is rigid and unyielding, as he was in your dreams, yet the last time you saw him, he’d been less than. 

He doesn’t flinch as you writhe and whine against his unbidden touched. He bends his fingers, sinking them past your entrance as he bites down on the tender flesh of your chest. He snarls around you, like an animal.  

“Please,” you whimper and press against his crown, “it hurts.” 

He growls louder and nibbles until you squeak and squeal. You dig your heels into the bed and arch your back. He pushes into you until the heel of his hand is against you. Your thighs clamp around him until the flesh hurts from the tension. 

He rams his fingers in and out. You exclaim and reach past him, grasping for his arm. He snaps his teeth down and you spasm, throwing your hands up. You lay flat, terrified, and let him keep going. 

He shoves his fingers in to their limit, jamming them into you until your pelvis aches. It’s as if each thrust is an effort to get deeper, to break the resistance of your body. You ball your fists as tears overflow and you squeeze your eyes shut. 

In, out, in out. Each move aches. His other hand crawls up the bed and locks around your throat. He lifts himself over you. Your eyes snap open as he glares down at you. He keeps you pinned as he rocks his hand harder and harder. 

You croak and whine as he watches you. His brows furrow and he stops as his fingers bottom out once more. His eyes search yours. He slowly pulls back. You shudder and he lingers along your entrance. He dips back in, just as meanly as before. 

You yipe and slap his wrist. You latch on and gnash your teeth, “it hurts.” 

His eyes narrow and he tilts his head. He shifts and looks down at his hand. He rears back again and pauses before he pokes back inside. This time slower but still painfully. You bite your lip, 

“Please,” you trail your hand up his arm, feeling the hard muscle, “please,” you rub his shoulder. “I’ll be good. I’ll be good.” 

He slips back to his lower knuckles and delves in, gentler, as gently as it seems he can. The tension in his muscles is immoveable. He’s wrought through to the core. 

He does it again. His gaze stays on his hand as he watches himself. He slips his hand away from your throat and plants it on the bed. He sits up, focusing between your legs as he moves his fingers in and out.  

Despite your fear, you slicken around him. The roughened skin along the heel of his hand steadily brushes your clit as he tilts in and out. You blow out between your lips and groan. You shouldn’t like it, it still burns, but not so bad. Your body does not abide the fear that clouds in your head. 

Your pelvis knots up around his intrusion and your stomach clutches. You puff out as you push your head down into the flat pillow. You stretch your arm down the bed and dig your nails into the bed. You feel the clustering of nerves, pinging off each other as the tempo of his he trusts changes. 

He presses his hand flat on your pelvis as he growls. You hear your body clinging to him, sopping as he pushes in and out. You close your eyes again. Shame sears through you, scalding your flesh and surging in your veins. You turn your head and bite down until your jaw throbs. 

He hums, several times, in time with your hitching breaths. Curious drones as he works his hand against you. He moves his hand to grip the bunched fabric of the nightgown. Your thighs tingle and the sudden burst of energy has you spasming and squirming. 

“Ah, ah, ah,” the pathetic mewls trickle from you. 

You keen and draw out the strained notes. He mimics them with the motion of his hand until finally you are quiet and he is still. You quiver and open your eyes. He drags his hand from your cunt and holds it up, examining the slickness smeared across his palm and shining around his fingers. 

He holds it up for you to see. Your lashes flutter and you touch your cheeks in embarrassment. He brings his hand close as he considers it then licks away the sheen on his palm. You cringe but don’t move or make a noise. You’re too terrified. How much else will he do to you? 

He laps clean his fingers and knuckles. Almost mechanically. Thoroughly. When he’s done, he turns and lowers himself stiffly to his back. You see the bob of his own arousal at the edge of your vision. 

He feels between your and grabs your hand. You tremble as he lifts your arm and pulls it across him. He guides your fingers to his twitching erection. He lets out a whimper. Your stomach plucks as you close your grip around him. 

You don’t dare deny him. 

[missmimii]

𝐓𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐑 | 𝐌－𝐒𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐎𝐋𝐎

୨ৎ － 𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 | In which Matt can’t resist the taste of his companions fright

୨ৎ — 𝐂𝐖. 18+, Vampire!Matt/Dom!Matt, mentions of blood, biting, light slapping, degradation, face grabbing, fingering, detailed intercourse, gagging, breath play if you squint, dom + sub dynamics (and probably more but I’m tired.)

୨ৎ — Mimi’s notes! | Why hello! I know it’s been a while, (like 2-3 months while), but I’m back! I’m doing my best to come up with new and creative concepts that help me with showing and putting out writing that aligns with who I am, I love doing new au’s, so leeeet me know what you guys think!

The littlest of whimpers elicited the girls throat weakly, lips parted as her eyes fluttered open and shut with small breaths. “Mm..” she could hear her heart thrumming in her ear drums, slowing slowly but surely as the pale man’s hands tightened around her wrists.

Matt’s harsh grip tightening around both wrists, pinning them above her head as her body writhed in both pain and pleasure. The faint sound of wetness could be heard over the girls whimpers, neck craned back as the males face buried into the skin. “－yes,” he whispered, a gruffness in his tone as he bit down with a gentle force.

She let out a moan, feeling the sharp pain shoot down her neck and clavicle as his teeth punctured the mantra of her pulse. “Fuck.” As soon as the taste of the sweet, honey-like blood hit his tastebuds, his eyes practically rolled back into his skull. The syrupy liquid swirled around his tongue lavishly, making him groan as she struggled underneath his stature. “M－Matt,” she gasped, lips parting with a gasp as she felt wetness trickle from her glistening cunt.

The tip of his cock probed at her opening, just barely making the friction she so desperately yearned for. “Mm?” A chill went up her spine as his hot breath fluttered over her wounded pulse, lightly licking over the area with blood coating his tongue. Matt moaned, eyes darkening as he resisted the urge to clamp back down onto her beautiful neck. “s’okay baby,” his cock slowly slipped into her, making her moan out with a small whimper. “It’ll all be okay.” Her tight walls squeezed around his length, not knowing if she wanted him to pull out, or go even deeper.

She didn’t know what was more magic, the fact that the wound in her neck was now slowly healing from his salvia, or the way his cock felt so perfect and snug inside of her cunt. It was like he was made for her, and she knew nobody would ever compare. “Matt,” the girl whined, feeling his cock kissing her cervix, the throbbing of her walls around his veiny cock making him grunt. “mm? You takin’ it like the good fuckin’ girl you are?” Her lips parted with a trembling moan at his words, but no words emitted as the vampire pressed two fingers to her lips. “shhhh .. just take it.” Jesus.

The tips of his calloused fingers nudged between her lips, and without hesitation they parted. Matt hummed in approval, teeth gnashing together as he fought the urge to fuck into her mercilessly. Languid, innocent, blinks from her ethereal eyes sent his way, drool slipping from her lips as she hallowed her cheeks around his fingers. “Fuck.” She’d been so good. The poor thing had bared her neck for him, the pounding of her pulse and tight little cunt almost unbearable to resist as he stared at her from across the room.

What kind of man would he have been if he didn’t give in. She’d just woken from her nap, eyes still puffy, cheeks a light pink as her lions mane of a hair framed her jaw messily. She looked so －ruinable. “Take it.” Matt gritted, seeing tears blink away in her eyes as she gagged on his fingers, the other hand gripping her thigh in a bruising, yet gentle manner as he pulled out.

With blurry vision she stared up at him, heaving through her nose as he worked his lengthy fingers down her throat. Her tears ran down her cheeks with small whines, unable to help herself from rubbing her thighs together. “Ah －ah,” Matt tutted, using his free hand to act as a barrier between her thighs. Matt scoffed with a low, condescending chuckle as she used the position to her advantage, rutting her hips up into his palm. “Fucking pitiful.” She threw her head back, Matt’s words stinging, yet feeling so good as he lazily swirled his thumb around her clit.

A string of spit between his fingers and her lips as he pulled them from her warm mouth, the girl already panting for air as she gazed at him with a glint in her eyes. Brat. “Panting like a bitch in heat,” Matt scoffed, patting her cheek sternly before grabbing her jaw roughly. “fuckin’ pathetic.” At his words she felt her tight cunt pulse around the digits, making him chuckle. “That? That’s what gets you?”

She gasped as he plunged two fingers in her abruptly, hand slipping down to her throat as he worked the long digits into her roughly. “You aren’t even embarrassed, are you?” Wetness squelched around his fingers, pooling underneath her hips while he gripped her throat snugly. “course you aren’t. Can’ fuckin’ feel you squeezing around my fingers and cock every time I call you out for being the little slut you are.” Oh god.

Without warning her stomach clenched, a fiery ignition exploding in her gut as she moaned out with her eyes squeezed shut. Over, and over, and over. It felt like she couldn’t stop cumming, the release never ending as her thighs trembled helplessly. “Fu－fuck!” She whimpered weakly, sweat beading at her forehead as she gasped. Realization hit her like a brick, wincing to herself as she slowly peer her eyes open.

Oh fuck me.

Matt’s jaw was clenched, eyebrows furrowed as he looked down at the soaked sheets, and the shaking of his companion. “Matt I’m so－” shit. With a sharp gasp, Matt parted her thighs roughly, sliding between her thighs as he gripped them with force. “Not fucking yet you aren’t,” he gritted, red flashing in his pupils as he eased his cock back into her. “You wanted to cum? Let’s see how much you can take before you tap out,”

“My bets on till dawn, my fleshling little fuck-toy.”

Tags! : ୨ৎ－ @fratbrochrisgf @jetaimevous @sturnstvr @sturniolosarethebest @stonermattsgf @imwetforyourmom @st7rnioioss @endereies @pkfferoo o @mqttittude @mattsbrowser @conspiracy-ash

© MISSMIMII 2024

[katieaki]

My post-apocalyptic Lesbian Cowgirl Mailman choose-your-own adventure has just updated! Read it here, for free on my Patreon! This is only the third installment of PART TWO, so it's still a great time to hop on board!! I just made a summary of the first part, here, which tells you basically everything you need to know about Lou, her unrequited(?) love, and the ill-advised journey she is beginning as of this update.

In the previous update, we found out (kind of) what the object of Lou's affection wrote to her in that heavily, heavily perfumed letter. In this update, she has to deal with what she learned. Her traveling companion/special delivery, Holliday, is being... quite nice? At least, comparatively? They have a bit of "And There Was Only One Bed" going on, in that they're sharing a tent made for one. That's fun, right? Sleepover!!

Excerpt under the cut!

“I’m sorry to have been the bearer of such bad news, Lou, truly I am,” she said. She stroked the back of Lou’s hung head. Lou was surprised to find she found the gesture comforting, not condescending or overly familiar.

“It’s not all bad,” Lou said, her head still resting face-down on her knees. Her voice sounded pinched and nasal to her own ears and her throat felt almost too tight to speak. The knees of her jeans were thoroughly soaked through with tears. “She said she loves me.”

“Oh,” Holliday said, her brows knitting together. She held her other hand to her chest. “Oh, you poor thing.”

“She said. Right? That she loves me back?” Lou said. “She did say.”

“Oh, honey,” Holliday said. She cupped Lou’s chin and tilted her face up, searching her face for something, but Lou didn’t know what. Her hand was not as soft as Lou had expected it to be since everything else about her was so refined. “Bless your heart.”

Something about having to meet her eye made the tears start back up with renewed vigor. It hurt. It hurt bad. She wanted to say that it wasn’t fair, but that wasn’t how these things worked and frankly, Venus was right. That only made it hurt more. She couldn’t even gnash her teeth and wail against the injustice of it all. Venus was right, she was never around. She was always away. She was unpredictable and unreliable. She’d been so happy to be a rolling stone, gathering no moss for so long and now it was biting her in the ass. Turned out, girls liked when you were a little mossy.

[hoshigray]

Just thinking about hate sex with Toji and how fucking exhilarating yet unforgiving it would be to experience such a thing with that man.

A/n: (Reuploaded bc I forgot smthn my bad) A little something for y'all so I can whip up something in my drafts to celebrate 50+ followers and getting 1k notes on my daddy toji drabble!! Tysm again for the love!!! :')))

Cw: mean dom! Toji x fem! reader - spanking (1x) - doggy style then switch to missionary position - degradation (Toji calls you a "lil' girl," "bitch," and "ho") - pet names (dollface, baby, baby cakes, sweetheart) - Toji biting your shoulder - slight bondage; the reader has their hands tied behind them - the reader feels humiliated while Toji is his cocky egotistic self - mention of blood.

Wc: 575

Toji's so ruthless with you. Your face's kissing the cold floor, hands tied behind your arched back for Toji to do whatever he wants with your ass on full display.

The pace of his hips is so absurdly harsh your legs feel as if they're about to give way, and you can do nothing but receive his irrational treatment. You can feel his dick use your swollen cunt like a toy, his girth stretching your poor southern lips, and it hurts along with the merciless rhythm.

You try not to cry as tears prickle under your eyelids. The fucker of a man already has you in a humiliating position, and his hands leave crescent markings from his fingers on the side of your hips. Seeing your face in tears is the last thing he needs to see.

Toji bends down to your ear, his body weight pressing down on yours, and it has to take you biting your lip hard to suppress a moan from your lips. The taste of blood sits on your taste buds.

"What's wrong, dollface?" The husky voice almost makes you squeeze hard on his cock. God, you hate this man so fucking much. "You were talkin' some high and mighty shit not too long ago, where'd that pretentious bitch go? Wanna — hnngh! Shit, shit… Wanna hear that sweet voice again."

You peer at him through your shoulder. The aggrieved glare isn't taken seriously by the older man. "Hmph, pretentious? Quite a big word, didn't think a brute like you knew i- Iiiyaaaaah!!!"

A hard smack to your ass has you gasping for air, followed by your pussy gripping his manhood, and Toji has to use your shoulders as leverage to not cum in haste. You feel as if you can't breathe with all this pressure and weight on top of you. A tear finally comes down from your face and smears onto the ground.

"I'm not playin' games with you, ho." Toji gnashes his teeth and draws downward to bite your shoulder blade, earning an ear-piercing shriek from you. That outta teach ya a lesson. "Got anythin' else smart to say, lil' girl?"

You can't fight the tears at this point, letting them slide down your pretty face. The pathetic and humiliating atmosphere clouds your senses so much so that crying is the only thing left to do.

"Hic…N-No…" Your sobs come out naturally, and you do what you can to hide your face from Toji.

That didn't seem to be in your favor because he heard the weep, bringing himself up to switch your position. Your front is now facing him as he can see the tear-stricken face, and the glare you give him is through squinted eyes filled with anger and misery, proof that your dignity is broken.

Toji whistles and smirks. "Heh, if you could see the look on your face, baby. I'd love to have a picture of it in my wallet."

"F…Fuck you." Your spat with words that still possess venom, even if you're physically restrained.

"News flash, baby cakes:" An unforeseen thrust has you yelp aloud, so harsh and savage that your back arches towards Toji. He sneers. "Already am."

His pace returns at its relentless tempo, his dick bullying your insides, and you moan in helpless whimpers. Toji leans down to grab your face before he kisses you to shut your cries. "And I'm gonna enjoy every moment of it, sweetheart."

⋆⁺｡˚⋆˙‧₊✩₊‧˙⋆˚｡⁺⋆

Again, tysm for the support!! It really fills my heart when y'all like my stuff, and I hope to continue writing things I like~~

[kagecreep]

Bloodlust Dreams (RoninxMC)

(KillerChat) Description: You meet Ronin in the alleyway. Kiss or kill? Why not both? (Spoilers for Ronin ending in KC)

Notes: Kiss or Kill is the final option? no. kiss AND kill. we're both going to hell hand in unloveable hand stuck in each others guts CW: extreme gore ig? and YES i know its completely unrealistic for them to survive this let me have my fantasy some dialogue in the beginning was taken from the game cuz obviously. extremely gorey i guess. not the worst but its, um, yeah. my shame bared with gnashing teeth <3

WC: 1.9k (Parts 1 & 2)

━─━────༺༻────━─━

Your skin was splitting at the seams, red hot angered blood, cells dividing and cracking open. Pinned immobile against the dirty wall, many times cleaned of splattered blood splashed with knives and boots and bullets.

"I told you, baby. I'm your little wish fulfillment. I'm what you dream of. Isn't this a story for the ages?" He grinned. "Come on –– tell me what you want! Do you hate me, do you love me? Are you gonna kill me? Or are you kissing me, darling? How much do you feel?"

There was, of course, a reason behind your desire to write about a killer. A hidden longing, founded in the beauty of tearing flesh, sinew and organs, palettes of vein blue and bile green and iron red. Being of somewhat sane mind kept you from ever enacting such things in real life––instead you dreamt of it, slept neck deep in peeled muscles and seeping blood. You wrote about it deliriously. Desirously. 

You didn't know if Ronin realized that; if he knew his game was not corruption but an allowance––permission––for you to give in to what was already there. You supposed the darkness was inside everyone, lurking, that howling beast mourning its captivity, shrieking when its head reared to the light.

Your mouth arrived at his mouth, like destruction, like deliverance, like a dream. He was laughing mad, like you're his plaything, like you're his darling, like he expected no less from you.

That laughter filled up and infected your thoughts, your muscles. You yanked the knife out from beneath your jacket where it lay concealed, pressing the shivering metal against his chest. But it delighted him––his laughter howled in the alley, barking up the brick walls. Cackling over the stains of pooled blood. 

"This is what you want, isn't it?" You hissed, biting at his lips, clawing at his jacket. The pins and zipper, the scissors, ripped at your fingers. "You want me elbow deep in your guts."

"Oh, darling," he seethed through gritted teeth, "only if you'll let me warm my cold little fingers in your aorta."

His hand gripped your hair, digging in and pulling, ripping, tearing. Sanity and skin. You kissed, tearing into his heat, desperate to overwhelm him. But standing above you, towering above, he kept you immobile. The wall of his body gave no mercy. You tried to move him, to pin him instead, to set him helplessly against your will, but his weight pressing in rendered you the prey. Heavier he leaned in, digging your knife into him willfully with his weight. You sucked in a gasp.

"C'mon, don't tell me it was all for show," he said between kisses, dark eyes watching how your attention flitted between the knife and his lips. "You pulled out the knife. Use it."

You kissed harder, pulling at his lips and tongue with your teeth, and in a blinding madness jerked the blade across his abdomen. Wet heat seeped from the wound, dripping through his black shirt and onto you. You moaned at the sensation and shared that hot breath with him, whispering into his mouth. The knife clattered out of your shaking hands.

"Am I pretty now?" You asked, squeezing the blood-soaked shirt and smearing the excess over his face.

His eyes rolled back into his head, a long moan singing from his heart. Darting from his lips, his tongue snaked out, licking the iron taste from your fingers. It curled around your bone, his piercing catching on your knuckle.

"My turn," he whispered with his devilish grin.

Fingers. Claws. Puncturing in, digging in, always consuming in liquid desire to sink within your flesh, inside, inside, inside. His fingers were inside you. He had ripped the protective layer, peeled everything back, and dug his skeleton into yours. He took your breath away. Lucifer and his pale, beating eyes.

"You offered me your heart," he murmured, lips brushing against yours in a moment of sudden gentleness. "I'm just taking what's mine, darlin'."

You laughed. Your lungs sung, collapsing, wheezing as he pushed in deeper. His grin grew wicked, tight and sharp, cackling as your vision went hazy. 

But you were not yet lost.

You pulled him in, claws over his neck, and bit into the soft flesh–-the junction between his throat and bare shoulder. The hot skin gave way and fresh blood spurted from where your teeth punctured, your wide jaws lapping up every pouring rivulet. In your ear a full moan rang from his vocal cords, vibrating in your canines and incisors. You released, letting the blood flow, and kissed open-mouth up to his lips, where you latched onto life once more. 

Foreign skin in your belly, grappling your intestine. Squeezing. You lost the ability to scream. When his grip loosened, your shivering, sweating hand clawed its way down his chest, tore his shirt, and plunged into the heat of his open wound. 

You found yourself staring into the gates of Heaven. Hands warm and sticky, grasping, inundated in Ronin's life-force. Shining, blinding light, like the sun beating down, cool rivers at your feet.

"You think that you corrupt," you whispered, bells ringing in your ears and vision blinded by the ethereal light. "No. You release. Set free. You liberated me, Ronin. You're my divine messenger."

A hitch in his breath, and he withdrew from your guts. Your vision returned from that bleaching light, and you watched his lips tremble, his eyes go wide as his pupil's shrunk.

"My angel of rot," you moaned, pressing the words into his skin through your kisses. "You gonna let me bleed all over you?" You asked, worming up through his stomach, under his lungs and finally, over his heart. "Archangel?"

You squeezed. ~+~

Sex bathed in blood. Well, you weren't sure if it was sex. Neither of you once touched the other's genitals, but you were arm deep in his organs. He was elbow-deep in yours. Maybe it was some sick, divine intervention that allowed you to live beyond that critical moment when he grasped your beating heart. You knew it shouldn't have happened. You shouldn't be standing. And even so, even living past that moment, you shouldn't have followed Ronin home like a ragged dog on a leash.

His room was darker than you realized when you had all those video calls. Through shaded windows, painted lamps, and coloured fairy lights, Ronin doused his room a deep red that bled from the walls and ceiling, pooling on the floor. Everywhere tapes and old vinyls piling up on shelves and tables––the scent of iron mingling with a thick perfume. Despite the visual and olfactory stimulation, your mind could not be torn from a single thought.

He had been gentle with you.

He ripped you open with nails, tore your flesh apart, and his blood was still crusted beneath his fingernails––but his movements within you, sinuous and lithe, warped around your intestines and organs and left no mark. He cradled each organ like an infant's head, weak and fragile, ready to break by his crushing hand.

You had not been so careful. Your actions very nearly gave him a heart attack, but here he was, sitting between your splayed legs, wiping up the last of the blood crusted on your stomach and chest. His eyes remained on his work for the most part, but occasionally drifted up to watch your heavy expression with a smirk. That spark of pride in his eye never left him.

The scar you gave him was even––almost perpendicular to the thick scars just beneath his chest, a pale pink against his white skin. It cut cleanly and sewed cleanly, with little trace of your wretched intrusion. But you––five gnarled points, jagged tearing across your torso where he ripped and gnashed. Like a door forced open, the wood splintered across the floor. You stared at him, absent of the light, and wondered if he realized you would never heal from this. You would never look the same. His at least had the chance to heal, become something pale and fragile. Yours would forever be a tender wound––a rounded, broken halo of Ronin's claws.

He was staring at you now. His ministrations on your stomach had ceased, and all his attention was on your distrait gaze.

"What?" You asked flatly.

"Jus' wondering what's going on in that pretty little head of yours," he said.

At the side of the bed, strewn across the floor, piles of bloodied tissues and cut string occupied the edges of your mind.

"Thinking about what we did," you said, and this time your voice lost its' strength; quiet and diminutive.

"Feeling regret already?" He pouted. "Here I was feeling proud of you."

"Not exactly," you said, looking up to meet his gaze. "I... hm."

Your eyes fell back down to your lap; his knees touching your inner thighs, his hands on your hips, your hands––quiet and diminutive.

"Guess I'm... wondering what you want with me now," you mumbled.

"What I want with you?" He repeated, laughing. "Darlin', I'm not nearly done with you! What makes you think that was the end? I took you to my home, didn't I? Tenderly nursed your wounds like the lovers do? Isn't that what you wanted?"

Your brows knitted, furrowed together.

"I wanted your blood on my hands."

"And you got it," he murmured, leaning in. "Doesn't that satiate you at all?"

His breath against your lips again. Coasting across, gentle––gentle as his hands wrapping around your lungs. Desire coiled up in your throat, blocking your air.

"No," you whispered.

Tears blooming in the corners of your eyes blurred your vision, but even through that haze you watched how his grin widened, sharpened, and cut into your sanity. 

"You want more?" He rasped, lips brushing against yours with every vowel. "You want another kiss from my blade, baby? Jesus, you're insatiable. Hope you don't forget to feed me, too." He paused, eyes flickering to your lips, and murmured. "Think I might be as insatiable as you."

"You want my blood in a jar?" You asked quietly.

"I want your head in a jar, sever your spinal column n' keep it as an ornament, pretty little white bones hanging like bells," he said, his voice singing in the quiet room. 

His hands roamed up and under your neck, grasping your jaw. He dug in, nails into your skin, and pulled you down, forcing you to stare him in the eye. You steeled yourself and met his demand.

"What do you want... darlin'?"

"I want everything," you said through gritted teeth.

"Patience is key. Thought, bein' a writer and all, you'd know lots about it," he said.

"Sometimes," you said, scanning his eyes. "Sometimes the words flow like a raging torrent and your fingers flick across the keys so fast you can barely hear the individual tapping. Though... yeah... sometimes you sit staring at a blank screen for hours... just waiting for something to come."

"Glad to know you have experience. Y'know, you need patience to be a killer––need to be able to hold in that blazing fire till juuust the right moment. Guess I'll have to train you up a bit," he pressed into your wound, "'n whip you into shape."

You groaned, tensing at the pain flooding from your wound.

"Does it involve real whips?" You asked, your grin spreading.

"You wish," he said.

Razor grins––spread like cut cheeks, bleeding, dripping. A beautiful, bloody ending. You wrapped him up in your arms and squeezed, breathing in his scent, taking in each of his wandering hands slipping over your body. 

[hannie-dul-set]

❥ HOSTILITY — na jaemin.

p — NA JAEMIN x gn! reader. g — suggestive, stageplay! au. w — making out, swearing, reader tells jaem to k himself, reader spits on jaem's face and he does something...questionable. 438 words.

note — this got the most votes in the poll so here's another one where jaemin is an asshole and a weirdo bcs for some reason y'all seem to enjoy it as much as i do 😭 i'm p sure that my vampire jaem fic will be trapped in gdocs hell for long time, so take this as compensation. tagging — @alwayswithjaemin @cerealdreamwriter @tyongff-ff.

“i fucking hate you.”

na jaemin’s lips are hot on yours, a sickening flame that you want to tear yourself away from. “i hope you drop dead.” his shirt wrinkles in your fist and you groan into his mouth. “fuck you, you’re the worst.” a squeak escapes your lips when he pulls on your hair. you’re about to cuss him out but he cuts you off with another kiss.

“i get it—” he huffs, “—you can’t stand me—” teeth gnashing, tongues wet, “—but do the both of us a favor—” hungry, animalistic, “—and look at me like you wanna fuck me instead of wanting to bury me alive unless you wanna repeat this scene over and over again, yeah?”

to the eyes watching from below the stage, it may seem like a passionate moment between the characters you’re both playing, but to you it’s a set designed by hell. you want to strangle him when you wrap your arms around his neck for a breather. you want to twist a knife into his throat instead of leaving a nest butterfly kisses. 

“good,” he whispers, a wet trail from your earlobe to your jaw as he places a heavy hand on your hips straddling his lap. “last one. close your eyes.”

“eat shit.”

you throw yourself off him with a gasp when he bites hard on your bottom lip, teeth scraping against the swollen muscle and you look at him with so much abrasion and repugnance that he only laughs.

“alright, good job! let’s have a water break. be back here in ten!”

you hate na jaemin with every fiber of your being, and you won’t let him off so easily for nearly making you bleed. a nasty sound erupts from your throat. your spit lands on his cheekbone when he ducks down to grab a water bottle, which consequently drops back on the floor with a loud noise. you snicker. he’s looking at you like he wants you dead. you attempt to shove past him but jaemin yanks you back by the wrist with a staggering strength and you warn him with a sneer.

jaemin’s grip tightens around your wrist. you’re sure it’ll leave a bruise. he wipes your spit with your own two fingers and puts them in his mouth. his teeth sink into your skin. your fingers burn against his tongue. “what the fuck is wrong with you?” you exclaim after pulling yourself out of his hold.

“my bad,” he mocks, a smug look on his face. “thought you were aiming for my mouth.”

“fuck you.”

“save it for the play.”

“go kill yourself.”

“after you.”

HOSTILITY. © hannie-dul-set, 2023.