#but he will be nothing but a puppet without strings by the end

[lilacxquartz]

under his authority;

officer kenjaku x f!reader

plot: finally ridding yourself of your problematic ex, he comes back in the worst possible form — themes: yandere kenjaku, (eventually) willing reader, stalking, dubcon, manipulation, he/him pronouns for kenjaku, mundane au — w.c: 3.5k

a/n: considered making this a shorter one shot, but an idea wouldn’t leave my head — warnings: extremely dubious consent, but reader is willing by the end — masterlist • ao3

Every night before you headed off to sleep, you would take the extra effort to barricade yourself in your apartment, with all sorts of intricate preparations in place… just to keep him away. You’d lock the windows, put up a bar against the front door, tuck a chair underneath the door handle of your bedroom, and sleep with a knife within reach—just in case.

Deep down, however, you knew that it was all pointless in the long run. You could never truly get rid of him, not even if you traveled to the very ends of the earth (or left it entirely). Your ex was simply not the type to let go and even though nothing had yet happened in your year alone without him, you knew that from the moment that you’d let your guard down, that he’d strike.

See, you knew him perfectly well and the sly way that he approached every little intricacy in life. He dated you for a couple of years, bending and twisting your life into all sorts of directions like a puppet on a string, swaying and meddling with the cross, having you thinking that you were the one in the wrong the entire time when it was his manipulation having you feel that way all along.

At some point, you woke up to it all however, and simply just left—choosing to start somewhere else entirely, ready to put up a fight if need be—but to your surprise, he never followed you. This is why perhaps you knew that you were in more danger than you could comprehend because if you knew one thing about him, it was that he had a penchant for holding onto grudges (and never letting anything, or anyone, go).

Such a suspicion was sorely implied however, when out from the corner of your eye on every other occasion, you would spot a glimpse of him. For a while, you thought that they had finally gotten to you; that they had driven you to complete and utter insanity, if you must have been seeing them in places that didn’t make sense. You sought help for that one however you could; through countless reports made through a system that didn’t take you seriously for whatever reason and then, later, through the means of therapy, which did help for a while. Just as you thought that he was out of your life, however, he started showing up again and in full force, too.

Your reports, just like before, meant nothing at all. All of those reports of stalking and someone lingering around your home, of your windows being scratched on and at your doors rattling during the odd hours of the night, only to be dismissed with the ask of ‘have they hurt you yet?’ or the claim that the evidence was still inefficient, so please only make such a report again if you have something to prove.

Such a ridiculous system, but that’s why you went to such great lengths to take things into your own hands. You had no choice, so what else were you otherwise supposed to do?

You were certain that all of those strange happenings were him, after all.

You weren’t going crazy.

It wasn’t like moving on was helping, anyway. His presence was constant and overwhelming, following you around like your own shadow. You were perhaps being driven crazy indeed, but it wasn’t your own doing as everyone else had otherwise claimed. You knew that deep down, these weren’t desperate illusions cast from a worn-down mind, but rather that they were strikingly real and he was surely toying with you, unable to let you go after a hasty, unspoken breakup, hell-bent on punishing you for daring to have a spine.

And just like every other time, everything was all locked up and ready to go; you were as safe as you could get. You did your usual clean sweep of everything and found nothing that could hint at danger, and yet, just as you had settled into bed… you heard something from the inside.

Tearing upright from your bed, you grabbed your phone in a hurry, dialing the police and urging that this time, this wasn’t a drill, that there was someone actively in your home so to please, please, send someone over and just because the claim was so desperate and dire, they did indeed send someone, reassuring you that it would be soon and to please, stop fretting so much. Such a soothing gesture threw you off guard a little, the pattern of the sentence piquing your interest as something once familiar, but your sleepy mind didn’t make the full connection just yet.

You opened up the door as soon as they knocked too, not thinking all that hard about just how on earth they knew which door in the block called for such a thing to begin with. You were exhausted, after all, worn down from a full year of constantly doubting your own mind, of course, your judgment was hazy. All it took was a bit of correctly applied confidence and a smooth, reassuring voice to render you compliant, to slip downstairs along with them under the claim that you would be going to the station to take a statement before you realised the chilling truth that slipped right past your nose.

That voice.

Those mannerisms.

It was him—you were with him.

You tugged at the car door, desperate to suddenly break free and yet he had you securely confined right in the back of his vehicle, driving you off into some unknown location without a single second to spare.

“You… how did you—” you spat out, your voice faltering in disbelief.

“You know, you should really practice better judgment when you’re tired, hm?” He spoke, his voice sickeningly condescending yet calm and sweet. “And now you’re in trouble. Oh dear.”

In protesting refusal, you kicked at the seat with your heel in an attempt to get them to slow the vehicle at least and plot your escape and yet, he seemed to handle such violent complaint with calculated ease, as if knowing your attempts were futile, as if knowing that he had already won.

“Let me go, you asshole,” you spat, continuing to knock on the seat.

Yet, they continued to remain infuriatingly composed, adjusting the mirror in the dark, allowing you to catch a glimpse of their coal-black eyes in the passing streetlights that phased through the road. He clicked his tongue in amusement before swerving the car off to an emptier road, forcing your body to hurl to the side in a grounding warning. “Careful,” he said, his voice laced with a cold threat, “you’re in no position to make such demands, now are you?” he asked, the reminder of your compromised circumstances hanging in the air. “Believe it or not, my role is genuine in this exchange and I could approve a warrant for your arrest if you’re not careful, so you would be wise to calm down and listen to me. How does that sound?”

“Arrest?” you scoffed. “For what?”

“Well, it could be anything, really,” he mused, calmly driving once more, “but let’s try those narcotics that I planted in your home—quite bad ones too, they would get you into a whole wealth of trouble—especially given those paranoid reports you’ve been making. Am I really that bad that you consider me a daily nuisance? I haven’t done anything that wrong, surely.”

You blinked. “You have been stalking me.”

However, all that he could do was huff out a humourless laugh as he composed a response, “Interesting claims, but I think you’ll find that I have evidence of me being busy at work for the good remainder of the year, but…” he paused, considering a pint, “how sweet of you to think of me so often. Have I been on your mind that often? Maybe you’re seeing things you want to see.”

“I wouldn’t want to see you at any time at all, you damned stalker—” you repeated, only for him to interrupt you.

“—stalker?” he asked in a completely deadpan tone, though there was a thin jab of mockery laced within it. He parked the vehicle off to the side of a lesser traveled road where the lights couldn’t quite reach before sitting with you in a stagnant silence for a while. When he finally broke the quiet, he spoke up again in a hushed tone, as if careful to not be heard (even though it was just the two of you in the car), “your claims aren’t entirely baseless, I have been… keeping tabs, but I have been careful,” he admitted, “I have been eliminating all traces of evidence from the moment that anything surfaced, ridding myself of anything compromising. You can try and rattle me out to the authorities if you wish, I won’t stop you, but you won’t get very far.”

“Was the break-up that significant that you can’t leave me alone?” you redirected.

Another silence brewed between the two of you, but then he quickly composed himself. “How silly of you to make such outrageous claims as if we were an item to begin with, but, I suppose that you could say that our time together was significant enough for me to be… conflicted about our parting, for a lack of better words.”

“That’s a long and pointless answer to mean ‘yes’, but alright, you do you, Kenjaku,” you mumbled, crossing your arms as you sank back into the seat.

“And what would admitting such a thing do?” he asked, drumming his fingers along the hard leather of the wheel. “We were together for a moment and just as things were getting interesting, you walked out on me,” he added, not quite losing his track of words but still pausing for a moment to school their demeanour back into something better controlled. “...Let’s say that we did leave on a bad note, surely you can understand my confusion and… interest in picking up where things had left off?”

“I understand the need for wanting answers,” you admitted, “but it doesn’t justify stalking, surely.”

“It justifies my need for closure,” Kenjaku corrected, “and now that I have you back in my hands, I think you’re overdue for some long-awaited discipline, don’t you think? Luckily for you, I’m surprisingly fair with how I deliver it, so I won’t hurt you, but I do have something in mind for the way you humiliated me.”

“Humiliated?” you scoffed yet again, although given his lack of immediate reply, you had an uneasy wave of dread pass you by with the hanging implication of what was yet to come. Something felt off, but they weren’t being clear with their delivery.

Before you knew it, he suddenly got out of the car and slammed the door shut, leaving you alone in the back of the police car for a beat, and then, without warning, tore open the back door, yanking you right outside. You landed on your bottom initially, but then he leaned you forward, pressing your chest against the dirt and cuffing your wrists right behind your back.

Pulling you up after, he slammed you into his car, caging you in with his looming overhead frame, making you feel suddenly quite small and trapped. He leaned in with his breath hot against your neck, allowing his pressing arousal to push into the small of your back while holding you in place.

“Humiliation is a two-way street, you know,” he whispered as he pulled down your jeans to your knees with your underwear following suit, “and I don’t think I can forgive such abandonment, at least not so soon.”

You remained frozen in place, realising exactly what he was planning to do, letting him talk as words refused to leave your own lips, “I always did like the lack of fight you put up during our time together,” he purred, “I bet it’s because you secretly like submitting to me like this, huh?”

His words were intentionally full of spite and mockery, but you were still confused and barely recovered from the extreme relationship they had you trapped in prior; it was an overwhelming time that left you with a piled-up emotional burden and nothing else beyond that point… but their touch admittedly, always succeeded in making you feel good in a way that nothing else or nobody else could compare. So skilled was the feel of his fingers over your skin—the only time he would ever listen to you.

“And what happened to your snark?” Kenjaku hummed, unzipping his slacks, dropping the pair to gather at his thighs, “I thought you had a lot to say just now? Did that all disappear too? Do you want me to make you feel good again? I bet none of those late-night hookups you’ve been having have been satisfying you the same way I ever could.”

It was humiliating alright, he knew exactly what you wanted and how you wanted. You loved it when he bit at your neck and when he pulled your hair just enough to make you feel good, but without long-lasting pain. You loved the way his hands would smack and smooth over your tender skin, bruising galaxies from his feverish touch. How his teeth would graze along the sensitive spots, making your life feel like putty in his hands; so malleable and yet so rigid, and yet, you knew fully well that he was bad for you.

He didn’t give you much time beyond that point to seek out confirmation, readily lining up the tip of their hardened cock to press into your soaked entrance, finding it almost peculiar at just how desperately soaked you already seemed to be. With a gentle push inside, he buried his shaft within your slick walls, easing into you slowly, taking his good, sweet time to get used to the feel of you again. Almost achingly slow, he pushed himself into your hilt and then back out, feeling almost insultingly delicate.

Kenjaku’s lips then lined up with your neck, peppering lazy kisses against your throat, but not surrendering to the heat of the moment like you almost desperately, guiltily craved. Such burning need that was evidenced by the full year of not being able to let you go and yet, now that he had you—he held himself off.

Albeit involuntarily, you drawled off a low whirring whine, arching your back into his form, letting him deepen his shaft into your core, yet never once accelerating as you hoped. Kenjaku remained infuriatingly composed and controlled, never once losing his cool, gently rolling his hips out and then back in, letting the need build up in you, yet never satisfying it.

“Such a needy thing,” he murmured, “what’s the magic word?”

“P-pl—” you were about to say, stopping yourself right as you were about to give in.

Kenjaku sucked at his teeth. “We’ll get there. You could never make me soft.”

He continued to roll his hips back and forth against you, nice and slow, pressing your body straight up against the cold, uncomfortably hard surface of the car with his uniform uncomfortably digging into your back. The coarse material roughly chafed through the thin fabric of the top you wore, rubbing painfully against you as all the wrong sensations were tackled instead.

It was painful, almost, and yet you felt your composure letting slip earlier than you would have liked, wanting nothing more than to give into the moment and for once, forget about him and what he put you through prior and just… feel good.

“P-please,” you gasped and then bit your lips, curling them into your mouth to stifle the remainder of the confession—humiliating, indeed.

He stilled for a second and you swore that you could feel his eyes bore into you with an almost feral resolve. For a while, he didn’t say a single thing and then, without warning, you cried out a choked-out whimper without registering exactly what had happened.

Suddenly, a deep, searing pain flooded your senses, making your eyes well with tears and spill in a matter of seconds. The realisation hit just a moment later, recognising the sensation as pain as he thrust repeatedly into your teased cunt at full force; his cock hitting right where it hurt and then without stopping, doing it again and again. Your reactions were poorly timed as you moaned out of sync with his feverish movements, pistoning himself into you with the driving force of someone crazed with reckless abandon. With such sawing aggression that emphasised just how needy he truly was, no matter the claims that otherwise left his lips, pinning the blame on you.

His hands then snaked around your chest but didn’t settle, reaching to wrap around your neck instead. His palms squeezed against your sensitive skin, choking out whatever pretty little noises you had left behind.

Your body recoiled slightly in pained protest as he continued to impale you; his hot breath rolling steamy pants of air that prickled against your clammy skin, pushing you closer towards the edge. His breathing became sloppier too, as he fucked himself as rough as he could into your sopping heat, quite literally spearing his length into you, until he couldn’t anymore. With one stuttering, rough, and final thrust, he melted into you entirely, crashing his body against yours as he filled you up with his own pent-up need. For a moment after, his hips gently bucked, albeit seemingly involuntarily as he sought to ride out the aftermath of his near-violent orgasm, only parting when he could quickly recompose himself and regain control over both of the situation—as well as you.

And after a while of such recovery—after helping you find your balance and dress you back up with almost attentive care—a darker thought slipped into his mind. Helping you sit back inside of the car, into the front this time, he let you quietly recover as he drove off somewhere else this time. Not to your home, nor to his, but… somewhere else entirely, because, if he was being real about you, he already knew that you wouldn’t give up on trying to get him into trouble—wouldn’t you? You silly thing. Oh no, he had to do something about that, and luckily for you, he had no such intention to kill you off, because you were the only thing in his life that he wanted to keep around for good and he had a good idea that you wanted this too, even if you were being so stubborn lately.

“Wait,” you piped up at long last, “where are we going?”

Kenjaku snorted out a half-laugh, finding your late realisation to be amusing before clearing his throat and answering you, “I’m not letting you go this time, so we’re taking a little detour—I’m going to keep you holed up with me forever,” he revealed, “maybe in chains at first as I figure out something more… permanent, but it’s all for a good cause, you know?”

You huffed, only to be interrupted, “A good cau—”

“—yes,” he replied in a matter-of-fact tone, “a good cause. I want to keep you forever, but I can’t have you running off on me. At least not again.”

You found yourself reacting in a way that surprised you, trying to sink into the seat again and kicking at whatever you could, but not as a means of escape, but rather out of frustration at your own mind. You could only respond in an uncertain murmur, still exhausted from the rough encounter, “You’re impossible, just… let me go,” you requested instead, although not sounding convincing to either him or yourself, knowing that it would probably be easier to just surrender instead.

“Oh you”, he endearingly cooed, smoothing his hand over your thigh, “I can’t do that. Not to you. But just know this, if you try to run away from me again, I’ll figure something out, maybe plant something compromising on you,” he replied, pausing for a moment to plot something out on the spot, “maybe have you arrested and locked up, because that way I can be sure to keep you in one place forever.”

You tilted your head off to the side, catching a glimpse of his thinly concealed mania burning in the depths of his eyes. “You wouldn’t go through that much, would you? You’re not that insane…”

Kenjaku however just shrugged, finding the calm conversation to be amusing, knowing that by even humouring him to this extent, you had already given up. “Just keep it in mind, will you? If it ever did come down to that, then guess who’s going to be the one to get you out to begin with?”

He let the implication hang in the air for a moment longer, before pushing you back further into the seat and finally letting go. “Anyway, rest up, will you? You have a lot of apologising left to do when we’re there and I fully accept you to be awake and alert for everything I have in store for you.”

You gulped, but you did as you were told, finally broken down enough to listen to him at long, long last.

[moons-among-distant-stars]

gonna scream and cry actually

also shoutout to this iterator playlist for going so hard and being the thing i loop for hours on end

(more in the tags cause i'm a coward)

[thinemoonshine]

LECHE OF THE SIRENS;THE MASTERLIST

corrupt!enhypen x siren!reader content(s): enhypen being corrupted nobles, (y/n) is a siren, enha are obsessive and possessive, dark romance, mature themes, warnings will be specified at each chapter type: mini series (3 parts)

this could be perfection—or venom dripping in your mouth. singing like a siren, love me while your wrists are bound. you’ve been seeing me in your dreams but, i’ll be there when your reality drowns… i’ll be there when your reality drowns

warning(s): the boys being downright disgusting, enha are pathetic, lecherous nobles, reverse harem, mature themes, obsessive and possessive behaviours, (y/n) is manipulative and puts them in their place, unconventional 'love'

word count: 10.4k

synopsis: seven nobles who are corrupt—embracing the worldly pleasures of venereal activities and greed without caring for anyone nor anything they’ve exploited. seven nobles who know nothing of hardship and the slightest of goodwill as if they’ve been birthed from the fires of hell themselves, meets a girl akin to a celestial being. little do they know, that the maiden is anything but—as she is the bane to all abominable man, a siren.

𝓟𝓐𝓡𝓣 1

warning(s): those stated in the first chapter, jay is a two-faced ‘gentleman,’ he sleeps with (y/n), members are sexually frustrated, sunoo is growing more obsessed with (y/n) by the second, riki and jungwon make their appearance, (y/n) feeds to the nobles’ delusions to get what she wants, heeseung grovels

word count: 8.9k

synopsis: (y/n)’s created a rift between them. she has sunoo wrapped around her finger and she who controls the puppeteer, controls the puppets—but she needs more. time is of the essence and she needs more influence on her side to effectively immobilize the nobles to her every whim within the limited period. so, what better left to do than to subjugate the real genius behind the genius?

𝓟𝓐𝓡𝓣 2

warning(s): those stated in the first chapter, enhypen are all going insane—sunoo especially, betrayal, death and violence, (y/n) treats the boys like puppets on strings, suggestive themes, the boys sufffer and finally get what they deserve...and more

word count: 17.2k

synopsis: jungwon and riki are now smitten which means that (y/n)'s plan is near perfection. all the nobles have been perfectly strung to be her perfect puppets. now, all that's left is to draw the red curtains open and let the show unfold—finally bestowing upon them the 'reward' that they deserve. a truly picturesque ending is about to befall them... well, at least to (y/n), it is.

𝓟𝓐𝓡𝓣 3

(those in pink bolded cannot be tagged) taglist for this series is closed—thank you for supporting ♡

@angelicyouth @lilyuwon @sakanelli-afc @lakoya @clara12o @heeseung-min @inkpot-winters @lilikisuki @randomanothercreature @laylasbunbunny @hveanlyanqelic @loumin908 @eun1c3e @sunwonsgf @theothernads @microwavedstrawberr1es @jiyeons-closet @riribelle @azfa23

copyright © 2024 thinemoonshine all rights reserved

[lalunanymph]

𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐔𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐁𝐄𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐔𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐃 — sylus

୨୧ meeting him meant the end of your innocence and ignorance

✧.* warnings: suggestive, hunter/prey dynamic, sylus has issues™, mentions of death, mentions of blood, making out, finger sucking, just sylus being a tease

✧.* this my chemical romance edgelord looking ass evil man has got me by the cl!t </3 i cant stop the sylus brainrot help

The sole of your mud-splattered boot splashes into a puddle of filthy water, soaking the hem of your Hunters’ pants. 

Hot breaths spill from your parted lips, and you glance back, full of panic, trying and failing to catch the barest hint of a shadowy figure spilling closer towards you.

Nothing.

But, that doesn’t mean you’re out of the woods yet. 

Doubling your speed, you tighten your grip on your gun, feeling the hard handle slipping between your clammy hands. 

“Damn it,” cursing under your breath, you make a sharp turn, and find yourself face-to-face with a wall. Using your Resonance, you feel for the potential threat, breaths rising and falling sharply as your watch beeps your coordinates back to your anxious teammates.

The second your whereabouts were exposed, you feared what the repercussions would be for allowing yourself to be drawn into such a risky mission. 

Captain Jenna has already warned you not once but twice for going after Onychinus on your own. 

Defying her once again, you fear it would be the last time you would ever hear her sharp words or firm tone. 

A crunch of leaves overhead startles you, and you swivel with your gun raised, eyes darting everywhere in the vicinity. The smell of rubbish burns through your nose, and coupled with the sharp sting of your sweat, it nearly makes you sick with nausea. 

Panic infuses through you, rendering you mute and unable to move when you hear a slow, dark chuckle emanating from the shadows.

He appears, dressed in all black, strands of silvery hair falling right into his deep eyes; your worst nightmare coming to life. 

“There you are,” he seems to purr, deep baritone dragging through each syllable; hammering in how defenseless and trapped you were. “I never thought I’d ever see a day when a Hunter finally becomes the hunted.”

Sylus—head of Onychinus—approaches you with a slow smile spreading across his striking face. His tall stature and fitted clothes, in every shade of black you can imagine, is exacerbated by the crow perched right on his shoulder, its blood-red pupils widening at the scent of your fear. Despite the dangerous aura surrounding him, he could easily pass as a gentleman walking down the streets of Linkon City—eccentric and grinning. 

“You’ll never get away with this.” 

Your words, meant to be a threat, only serves to amuse him further. 

“Oh? Isn’t that what every good guy says?” Approaching you closer, he doesn’t pay any mind to the nozzle of your gun digging right into his chest. He knows you can’t shoot him; you still need your answers. “And then, inevitably, they all turn out to be wrong.”

A flash of red. Your arm seizes and goes limp, the gun in your hands tumbling to the ground; pained cries reverberating across the alleyway. The crow on his shoulder caws, flapping its wings in excitement. 

He grabs your face, digging his nails into the fat of your cheeks. “Pretty little hunter,” Sylus coos again, and this time, pushes you to your feet, controlling your movements with his Evol so you have no choice but to be the puppet at the end of his strings. 

Your legs spread without your consent, and your back meets the wall. 

Sylus watches, those sharp eyes ever mysterious and waiting. He doesn’t lunge or immediately savor your helplessness; letting you stew in your panic and loss of control. 

“Wh-wait,” you splutter. “Don’t do this—”

“Is this not what you were hungering for, my little hunter?” As he speaks, he advances towards you, every heavy footfall spiking fear in your chest. “You knew what you were getting yourself into when you tried to pursue me. So,” he stops in front of you, bending down close enough for his breath to touch your cheek. “Why the hesitation now?” 

“How do you know about my heart condition?” you demand, referring to the encrypted video he sent you a few days ago meant to lure you out into the open. “No one else knows that besides my grandmother.”

Sylus arches one dark brow, cocking his head to the side to truly study the mutiny on your face.

“And how are you so sure your grandmother was the only one with such classified information?” 

This asshole. He was never going to give you a straight answer. You had walked right into his trap.

Trying to move your limbs was futile. You were fully under his mercy. 

The stench of your entire situation grows harder to ignore. You replay every single moment which led you right in this situation. 

A shady video sent straight to your Hunter’s Watch. The dark background and the modulated voice whispering how you can get your answers if you meet him right at the docks at exactly one in the morning. Ignoring Xavier’s concern and Jenna’s suggestion for you to take a partner. Nero, who usually supported your crazy ideas, was for once hesitant when he inspected the video. They never expected you to take this on by yourself—for you to act this recklessly.

And tonight, you would die without any of them knowing the truth.

You want to shout, to tell the entire world that the leader of Onychinus is right in front of you. But, you cannot find  your voice. 

Sylus is close enough for the sharpness of his cologne to fill your nostrils. You can barely move your hand to press the alert button on your watch; your movements are restricted by this dangerous Evol you don’t think you’ve ever encountered.

“Tell me, why do you seek such answers when you do not know the magnitude of their implications?” 

His voice is saccharine sweet, condescending to a fault. 

Scoffing, you turn your face away, unable to look him in the eyes long enough.

“I guess… I want to know why my grandmother and Caleb had to die.”

The admission feels like a punch to your gut. To anyone else, your voice remains steady and firm. But, it took a special sort of psychopath to hear the tremble at the tailend of your sentence and yet, choose to laugh.

“Ah. Yes. I can answer that one for you—Onychinus did not cause the death of your grandmother and friend.” Nothing about tonight’s encounter could prepare you for what he has to say next. 

“You might want to look a little closer to home.”

Closer to… home? 

The confusion in your eyes is his aphrodisiac, and his nostrils flare; getting off on your distress.

“The Hunters,” he clarifies; tone like a teacher speaking down to a toddler. “Don’t you think it strange that they never investigated what happened to your family? Or, did a postmortem on your grandmother’s remains?” 

He’s speaking circles around you, intentionally messing with your mind. 

And yet, a seed of doubt begins to take root. You have to physically clench down on your fists to stop from lashing out at him; Jenna’s sympathetic expression, the doctors who told you that there was no feasible way they could glean what happened to your grandmother and Caleb without at least 85% of the body intact.

An accident. An anomaly. That was how they classified your family’s demise.

You weren’t even allowed to have a closed coffin funeral for them. 

His thumbs touch your cheek, swiping the tears away in a gesture far too intimate for a man who was meeting you for the first time tonight.

“Ever since I first saw you, you’ve done nothing but invade my thoughts.”

Your back melts off the wall and meets the ground, his entire weight pressed on top of you. He has you right under him with nowhere to go, and you can’t even call for help, those long, elegant fingers sliding right into your mouth, forcing you to suck on them.

“My pretty little stubborn Hunter,” he whispers. 

You know the look in his eye; the one men would get when they’re crossing the threshold of claiming the object they’ve been seeking for years. It’s the same look in Xavier’s eyes whenever you accidentally graze his thigh, or how Zayne’s expression visibly darkens when you call him ‘doctor’. It’s the same look Rafayel gives you when you say you want nothing more than to be by his side forever.

Desire.

And fear. 

Sylus swallows hard, and you’re surprised to find his touch faltering. Those magnetically dark eyes could engulf you whole, growing closer and closer until you’re forced to close your own eyes; his lips the first spark that sets your entire world ablaze.

Devouring you like you were oxygen in a deprived world, Sylus kisses are brutal and hard, nipping at your lips, forcing his tongue into your mouth so you have no choice but to choke on your own spit. A dark shadow flits overhead, its caws filling the night air with rampant euphoria. 

He is too forward… this is going much too fast…

“Do you not like it when intentions are made known to you?” He tugs at your bottom lip, smirking at your faltering expression when you realize you’ve spoken those words aloud.

You struggle against him, trying to turn your face away, but Sylus will not relent his grip on your cheeks. 

“Why?” you gasp. “Why are you treating me like this when we both are on different sides?” Struggling to push him away, you’re overtaken once again by his mouth moving down your jaw, caressing your pulse point and traversing down the column of your throat. Kisses which feel more like a possessive mark.  

“Who said we were any different?” He murmurs, and you have no choice but to voice out your disbelief.

“I’m a Hunter. You’re an illegal weapons seller. My job is to stop you—oh.” 

He kneads your hip roughly with one hand, expression open with want. You can’t formulate a single coherent thought, your vision purely dominated by the halo of his silver hair and those deep, impenetrable dark eyes. 

“No,” his deep voice intones, sending shivers up your spine. “You have no idea. We are more similar than you think.” 

Holding secrets you weren’t aware of, Sylus didn’t know where to start; how to make you believe him.

So, he settles for pinning you against the ground, your wrists held above your head and your body trapped under his bigger build.

“Heed my words, little Hunter,” he whispers, and there’s a look in his eye, an unfathomable emotion you wanted to unravel but it was gone the second you dared to look closer. “Do not trust what you think is the truth.”

Before your eyes, he dissipates to smoke, small flecks of blood landing on your cheeks and parted mouth. His raven caterwauls, inducing goosebumps across your entire body as it spirals into the night sky, disappearing from view.

You turn onto your hands and knees, spitting out the blood, wiping it off your cheeks with frantic swipes. 

Someone calls your name, and you don’t realize how badly you’re shivering until a warm embrace engulfs you.

“Oh, Y/N,” Xavier exhales, bringing you closer to the streetlamp light so he can scrutinize your face. “Are you alright? Are you hurt?” 

Thumbing the blood from your face, you nod, murmuring, “This isn’t mine.”

 Xavier opens his mouth, about to ask you what exactly happened when your Hunter Watch went off the grid when Jenna pushes through the alley, her gun at the ready, mouth set into a grim line.

“Y/N. You’re safe.” 

Accepting Xavier’s outstretched hand, you stood up with his help. Jenna shines a flashlight on your face, momentarily blinding you.

“Is that your blood?” she demands, sounding like she was a second away from giving you the lecture of a lifetime. 

You grimace, and Xavier tightens his grip around your waist.

“Captain, we should take her back for an inspection—”

“Agreed,” Jenna cuts him off, then narrows her eyes as she leans closer. “Is that… a mark on your neck? And your lips—they’re quite swollen.”

Slapping a hand to your mouth, you shake your head, hoping your wide, pleading eyes will get them to drop this. Next to you, Xavier stiffens, those blue eyes going glacial as he sweeps them all over your disheveled frame. It’s unavoidable that he comes to such assumptions based on your appearance. 

But, rather than lashing out in jealousy, he reels it in, choosing to steer you back towards safety.

“Whatever happened, you can tell us later. We need to get you checked up.”

His grip digs into your skin, and you don’t know what to say once the inevitable interrogation comes up.

How could you divulge all that Sylus had said without putting Xavier in a predicament between trusting you or being loyal to an organization he serves well? 

If what the Onychinus leader said was true, you couldn’t trust Captain Jenna either. 

And Tara…

Everything dear in your world begins to blur, infecting the foundations of your love for the people you trust; making them crack and crumble. 

Xavier, Jenna, Tara, Nero… did they all know what happened to your family but refused to tell you the truth? 

You had no idea how to react; you couldn’t wrap your head around such a betrayal if the truth were to come to light.

You think you could probably destroy the entire Organization with your bare hands if what Sylus said was true. 

Abovehead, somewhere in the trees, a raven caws—a harbinger of worse things to come.

a/n. save me emo edgelord crow boy save me .... reblogs and feedback are appreciated !!

©️ all works belong to lalunaymph. do not copy, repost, translate or share across any other platform

[aviiarie]

⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ TO BE LOST. dazai, ranpo, chuuya, akutagawa & reader !

synopsis. how do they handle losing you? contents. written as platonic but could be read as romantic if you squint. warning for death (ofc). gn!reader. angst, no comfort. 750 words. notes. @rainswept ehe

⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ DAZAI — doesn't know what to do with himself. For a long time after your heart stopped beating, he continues to clutch your hand; rubbing his thumb along the side to stave off any wandering chill. The coldness doesn't register in his mind, he's too busy focusing on the faint sound of a heartbeat rattling in his ears.

(It's his own, but for a moment he closes his eyes and pretends it isn't.)

Death has a cruel sense of humour, cutting the strings of his lifeline while keeping him painfully alive, but life was no kinder. It taunted him with every day he spent still breathing; a walking corpse, damned to keep living even as he begins to rot and decay. The pain is agonizing, but he swallows it down without a word; he doesn't deserve to be soothed, to be comforted.

You were gone, and he was still there, and he would never forgive himself for it.

-----

⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ RANPO — can't accept it. He doesn't want to think about the possibility of a day where he doesn't get to see your face, when he has no one to share sweets between one sugar-covered hand to the next. The idea isn't fathomable; it felt like in one moment your laughter sang to his ears, and the next your lungs were cresting their final gulp of air.

In the end, he doesn't accept it. His open cases are swept aside, in favour of poring over every detail of your death. Natural causes? You were far too young for that, he isn't buying it. An accident? He would be a fool to give up that easily, of course he isn't ruling out foul play. Every piece of 'evidence' is analysed and evaluated, until the image of your lifeless body is burned into his vision.

In the end, it is him alone in the office after all the other detectives have left. Condolences are whispered, offers of help refused. He sits at his desk far more rigidly than usual, tearing open the packet of yet another desert made for two. He eats in silence, the sweet taste burning bitterly on his tongue.

-----

⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ CHUUYA — is angry, first and foremost. Not at you (never at you) but at the memory of holding you close as you stumble your way in and out of consciousness. He is angry at himself for not being able to protect you, at the world for daring to keep moving forward even when you don't.

If his missions are carried out with a touch more violence than is strictly necessary, none of his subordinates have the courage to point it out. His strikes land fast and true, hitting his opponents with all the fury that has built up inside him spilling out and into his blows. The dust settles, the anger fades, and he is left with a lifeless body at his feet.

(For a moment, the sight reminds him of you—sprawled across the ground like a puppet with their strings cut. His heart lurches, but the image disappears with a blink.)

It changes nothing, in the end. When he downs another glass of wine at the bar, tasting your name on his tongue, there is no one to occupy the seat beside him.

-----

⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ AKUTAGAWA — can barely feel anything except a dull ache in his chest. It presses down on his lungs, with twice the pain as usual. The feeling is subtle, barely there at all. (It hurts anyway.)

The numb pain follows him with every step he takes, all throughout his day. There isn't a single tear that sheds, even as he replays every memory of you over and over in his mind like a well-loved VHS tape.

He thinks about your smile, the gentle warmth putting him at ease even in his recollection. Play.

The sight of your tears, tracking shiny streaks down your face. Fast-forward.

The tender rise and fall of your chest, growing slower and slower. Stop. Rewind.

The memories are a double-edged sword; soothing the pain in his chest one moment, and pressing down on the wound in the next. It's only when he is alone that he allows himself to play the final memory he has—holding your cold hand in his own, pressing two fingers to desperately find a pulse. It's only then that his blank expression begins to crack, and slow, bitter tears start to fall.

© aviiarie 2024. do not copy, repost, translate or use my work to train ai.

[43qh]

if i was honest (m)

quinn hughes x fem!reader

genre: angst, smut, fluff

warnings: unprotected sex, reminiscing, slow burn

word count: 5.1k

summary: it’s been over a year since you last saw quinn. why does it all still ache?

you huff, looking up to the sign of your previously favorite coffee shop. how could it be that one singular person could ruin a spot for you? your favorite spot, at that. it doesn’t take long before your feet rush inside, the aroma of coffee and the warmth enveloping you like it once did a year ago.

you look around, eyes spotting the booth you usually sat. your heart speeds up when you remember that someone normally sat across you in that exact booth.

quinn hughes.

his name alone makes you shiver. you make note that that shouldn’t happen to you anymore. it’s been over a year, his name had to mean nothing to you.

except it was hard when his name was plastered all over vancouver.

you had no bad memories with him, and you guessed why it all hurt as bad as it did.

“this is going to be hard,” quinn sighs, looking at you with sparkling eyes. he had guilt ridden all over his face. you wanted to wash it away.

“no, it’s not, quinn.” you were lying. you were lying for him, and maybe even for yourself. “your decision is hockey.”

quinn purses his lips together, “i- well, no not-”

“quinn,” you stop him with a smile while grabbing his hands, “this is not up for debate. you’re gonna do so great out there. i mean, you have been. the traveling has gotten to the both of us. it’s okay to accept that we weren’t ready for this.”

you stare at him, eyes tearing up with a bright smile on your face. quinn hated this. he didn’t want his relationship to end with you just because his career was getting in the way. but, this was how it was. he had to make a strong realization that he didn’t exactly have a lot of time now that he had become captain of the Canucks. it didn’t mean his heart didn’t ache at the thought of letting you go over it.

you squeeze his hands, tilting your head up at him to bring him back to reality, “i’ll support you. i’ll love you forever.”

sitting in the booth now, alone, feels quiet. the seat is colder than you remember. coffee more bitter than you remember. seat across you more empty than you want it to be.

you sigh, clutching your coffee in your hands. a guilty part of you wishes you could hate him. but, even if you did, you would most likely still love him anyway. you wanted to hate him for the fact that you could no longer wear blue without being reminded of his eyes that shined into yours. you wanted to hate him for the fact that you rotted so deeply in your apartment for months. you wanted to hate him for all the sleepless nights. but you couldn’t.

no, you really couldn’t.

he was out living his dream, creating his life. you couldn’t hate him for doing what was best for him. what is best for him.

that didn’t stop you from knocking twice on the wooden table for good luck before leaving though, just like you and quinn once used to do. together.

maybe quinn has forgotten about you. it has been over a year now.

you hope he’s safe.

“it’s a mistletoe, quinn.” you deadpan, looking at him as you hang it up in your hallway. quinn scrunches his nose. he always found those things a bit cringe. maybe cheesy traditions weren’t his thing, but they were yours. and he’d be willing to swallow his pride for you.

“now we kiss,” your smile is contagious, and quinn chuckles under his breath at your statement. his heart was being pulled by strings like he was a puppet you controlled as he walked towards you. your arms wrap around his neck.

quinn bares himself before actually kissing you. he has to admire the way you look under the christmas lights in the small hallway. he has to admire your smile and completely feel your touch before he can give in.

quinn has to sink himself into your world before he kisses you.

when his lips touch yours, he swears sparks erupt in his stomach. he can’t contain himself and he feels like he has to hold himself steady by gripping your waist with a soft touch. he’s not on earth anymore. at least, it doesn’t feel like it anymore. and you’re way up in the clouds yourself when you hear him sigh against your lips.

your eyes sparkle when you pull away, “not a bad tradition, huh?”

quinn laughs, shaking his head as he watches you with close eyes, “guess not.”

your hands put back the mistletoe. christmas is rolling around, and when you pull out old decorations, your mind wanders. you’re not sure if you want to cry or not. the memory was nothing to be sad about.

maybe it was just his absence during a holiday the two of you always spent together.

you sit on your couch, leaning your head back and staring up at the ceiling. this wasn’t the same place you made so many memories with quinn in. the ceiling was higher, the hallway was longer, and the rooms were bigger. you got your dream job, lived a little more in quinn’s absence. you moved somewhere you knew you wouldn’t catch quinn around.

changes weren’t easy. that doesn’t mean all of them were bad, though.

your sigh echoes and bounces off the walls. it’s empty and cold and quiet. something you had to become used to when you moved here. something you had to accept when you realized quinn’s laugh wouldn’t erupt in your ears anymore.

you had forgotten what he sounds like.

you were too afraid to look at interviews, his games, anything of the likes. you didn’t listen to his old voicemails, despite keeping them. and you never tried to talk to him.

his touch no longer lingered and his smell wasn’t around.

it was almost as if quinn never existed in your world.

but that wasn’t true. never could be.

he’d always live in your heart, no matter where you went.

you had wishful thinking.

for months, you would wait for a knock on your door, a ring of your phone, even a letter in your mailbox. when all of the hope stopped, that’s when things stopped reminding you of quinn. that’s when you decided to move. that’s when you isolated yourself from the thought of him.

your wishful thinking only made you delusional, so you had to leave the only place you knew quinn hughes in.

some memories flutter back to times when the two of you would laugh on the same bed you slept in, but the room didn’t have the same acoustics. his laugh was foreign and it wouldn’t have sounded the same in the new apartment.

even after a year, you couldn’t say you were fully over him. how could you ever get over someone you were sure was your soulmate?

maybe it was right person, wrong timing.

whatever it was, you knew it would continue to consume you in some way.

it’s like you know quinn tastes like mint, a cool mint that gets mixed with fruity flavors sometimes. but you can’t taste it anymore. can’t get a grip on it.

quinn still lives within you.

quinn still haunts you.

it’s all irreversable. not saying you would turn back time and never be with quinn, but you certainly would have been more cautious with your feelings.

your sighs seem to fill the empty room of your apartment more than you liked. tears no longer fall, but the ache in your chest and stomach still linger. your sheets don’t smell like him anymore. your bed isn’t as warm as it was with quinn in it.

“why are we doing this?” quinn’s eyes are glossy. you’re not used to seeing him like this. it was such a desperate plea. almost like he was the voice of a beggar. he held no shame as he gripped your waist, holding you tightly to try and remember the feeling of you.

you shake your head, “quinn,” you look at him like the stars align with him. it makes this hurt even more for him. how could you walk away? how was he supposed to walk away? “your new life will bring you happiness.” your hand lingers on his cheek, “i wish no pain.”

“this is painful.” quinn was quick, tears threatening to fall down his red cheeks. “will i ever see you again?”

if you were honest, you would have said no. “maybe.”

quinn looks past you for a moment, “we’ll find each other.” he states, “we did before, we will again.”

we did before, we will again.

coming home from work, you’re greeted by the empty walls of your apartment again.

oh, how you wished that were true.

“you’re saying you wouldn’t walk the aisle in my jersey?” quinn quirks an eyebrow, a small smile creeping on his lips.

you scoff, “no, quinn.” you smile back despite the huff in your answer. “if it matters that much, though, i’ll get a tattoo of your number or something.”

quinn smiles at you, full teeth showing, “you’d do that?”

you hand him a dish to place in the dishwasher, the last one, “for you? anything.” even if you had never believed in tattooing things on your body to remind you of people close to you, you would do it for quinn. did this make him different from the rest in your life? maybe. all you knew now, was that you were in love.

“i’d honestly just want you as my wife as soon as possible.” quinn looks sincerely as you both dry your hands after washing them. “i’d marry you now.”

you drape the rag around the handle of your oven, looking at him with a serious gaze, “wait a bit, loverboy. we’re still young.” you chuckle to yourself. quinn leans in to place a soft kiss.

“for you? anything.”

does he think about you the same time you think about him?

are his thoughts as clouded as yours are when the night turns cold on you? when the bed feels empty? when the air feels strict?

does he try to grasp for the feeling of you the same way you do for him?

quinn’s absence taught you how to be alone. how to deal with being lonely. you no longer wanted this fate.

the fate you both had picked for one another.

how was it fair?

to act as strangers when your wedding was talked about?

to act as if you never exchanged looks of love?

to act like nothing mattered anymore?

you clench your jaw, looking up at the coffee shop sign again. you feel rage all the way down to your feet as you wonder why this had been your fate.

life doesn’t play you like chess pawns, though.

you chose this.

when you walk into the aroma of coffee, your body stills when you smell a scent you hadn’t in over a year. it was like your body was registering the fact that your familiarity towards quinn hughes had never gone away, it had just been pushed back.

your booth. he’s sitting at your booth.

when he looks over, it’s like the two of you felt a string that once was snapped apart, snap back together. the natural attraction wasn’t new, but it had been over a year since you’ve felt it. since you’ve seen his face. his hair looked fuller, his face more scruffy, his eyes a little more dull.

you couldn’t stop the way your feet dragged towards the booth. your eyes not leaving his. the ache is indescribable. the pain shooting through your bones, down your spine, to your feet.

you sit across him, just like you used to.

quinn breaks the long silence first.

“i knew you weren’t being honest when you said ‘maybe’.” he confesses. your spit feels lodged in your throat as he continues, “but i was being honest when i said we would find each other again.”

tears prick your eyes. if you had been honest, maybe he would have moved on. even while knowing your dishonesty, though, he held hope for you. quinn wasn’t someone who gave up, even when being deceived.

you lick your lips, “i know.”

“someone told me they saw you here,” he clarifies why he was there, “no one had heard from you since we broke up. everyone said it was like you shut the whole world out.”

“i got a steady job.” you try to rectify your actions. “new apartment.”

quinn leans back, eyes studying your position, “somewhere not too close to me, i’m guessing.”

you look away, before nodding your head, “i think i dealt with it all too wrong.”

“no,” quinn says. “you did it your way. the only way you knew how.” he pauses, “so did i.”

you look at him, a tight breath in your chest. his gaze was strong, but you could still feel the softness behind his eyes. you wanted to fold, forget you ever left him. but you knew that wasn’t possible. you both left. you both let go.

“i never forgot you,” your confession lingers.

“me neither.”

how could either of you forget one another?

“i’m going to leave my number,” quinn states, slipping you a note that was pre-written already for your viewing, “i don’t expect to hear from you. but, knowing you have it, will bring me peace.”

those were his last words before he walked out the shop. you watched his stride, a lot more confident than back then. his complexion more pale. his shoulders more broad.

you look down at the number.

quinn made it your decision.

your final decision.

two weeks, two days.

it’s been two weeks and two days since you’ve last seen him. since he gave you his number. it’s also been two weeks and two days since you last spoke to him. your anxiety rides up your stomach every time you look at the digits on the paper made just for you. the paper taunts you as you lie to it, saying you don’t want it.

you managed to occupy yourself with work in the hours you could. but once your back hit your bed, everything comes back full force. the memory of quinn’s eyes boaring into your own. the memory of how scratchy his voice sounded. the memory of how you could still detect his cologne and shampoo through the coffee accents in the room.

it’s all too much, really.

you thought it wouldn’t ache like this anymore.

it’s been a year, afterall. how could it all ache the same way when you both departed? how could he feel so familiar and unfamiliar at the same time? how could his presence alone cause so many sleepless nights?

the obsession over a paper with numbers on it became unhealthy. you were scared to contact him. what if it was all different? you weren’t ready to see how different his life had become without you. you could already see some physical differences, but those eyes he carries never changed how he looked at you. you saw a sparkle when his eyes came into contact with yours. you saw the way he watched with diligence.

you were sure quinn wanted to approach you slowly, with care. you were sure quinn didn’t plan on giving you his number the second he saw you. but you also know that when he sees you, his emotions consume him first. he wasn’t at fault for that.

his heart was too big for you.

you always managed to be logical when it came to quinn. you thought letting him go was the right, logical thing to do. you know it burned the both of you straight through hell, but you only knew how to make logical decisions.

that’s why his number sat so long on your kitchen island.

if you call him, your love was no longer logical.

who were you if you weren’t logical? who were you, if not who you’ve always been?

your eyes flutter shut as you lay in bed, eyes watering as you torture yourself further.

maybe being logical didn’t fit in this situation any longer.

three weeks, 6 days.

you sigh as you press the elevator button to your apartment floor. work was your escape right now. and it seemed to please your boss with the way you stayed a little extra longer each night. your coworkers were worried, though. your eyes were drawing foreign bags, your hands more shaky than they used to be.

when you hear the ding of your floor, you walk slowly out the metal doors. you turn right, dragging your feet in the heels that were starting to ache. you drew in a breath of shock when you see a silhouette of a man you knew all too well. you pout, walking towards your door and seeing the way his eyes drew to the sound of your heels.

he leans against the wall beside your apartment door, eyes looking at you like you’re what he’s been looking for all his life.

“are you stalking me now?” your voice sounded tired, trying to make a joke.

quinn pushes off the wall, “you never called.”

“so you decide to come to my apartment?” you raise an eyebrow, reaching into your purse for your keys.

quinn rubs his hands together in an anxious manner, “you may not need me anymore,” he’s wrong, “but i need you.”

you pause after you twist the key into your lock, the unlocked door now taunting you. begging you to let him in.

against all judgement, you do.

“come in,” you walk inside first, letting the door linger open for him to follow. and he does, hastily collecting himself as he enters the room.

you were right. this was a new apartment. maybe too new. it looked nothing like your previous one, and he assumed it was because you needed a big change after him. he wondered just how much of you remained the same. he was sure you wondered the same thing about him.

quinn can smell the familiarity of your perfume, your favorite candle lingering in the air. he can even smell your shampoo and conditioner. it was all too familiar, and he wasn’t sure if it was suffocating or comforting.

he spots the couch in the living room, the same couch that was in your old apartment. it made his heart ache. he remembers just how many times the two of you accidentally fell asleep there, exhaustion consuming the both of you.

“yeah, i never had the heart to get rid of it.” you break the silence, placing your heels in the shoe rack by your door. “held too many memories.”

quinn nods his head, eyes locking with yours as he tears away from the couch. “i wouldn’t be able to either.”

you’re so close. he could touch you if he really wanted to. if he reached a hand out for yours, he could hold it. but he resorts to placing his hands into his pockets that itch for the comfort of your soft hands in his.

“why did you come here? it can’t be just because i never called,” you look at him with furrowed brows, reading him too clearly.

quinn shuffles where he stands, your gaze piercing right through him, “you still know me too well, huh?”

you look away for just a split second, “it’s not like i could shut it off if i wanted to. i know you know me too.”

you weren’t wrong. “you may not want me back. and i know that you still think you’re doing the right thing. but what is love if not fighting for it?” quinn’s words linger in your ears. “i’m not good with words, you know that. but when i saw you in the coffee shop, i felt like there was so much i could have said. so much i maybe should have said.”

you look at him and cross your arms, unable to say anything as he rambles back on.

“love is letting myself love someone, even though i’m still scared. it’s such a heavy thing we all carry,” quinn was never this deep. never really searched for the right words before this. “but i have to let it carry me as much as i carry it. and if i can’t carry you along with me, i think i’ll be holding out for love forever.”

you swallow, eyes tearing up despite your better judgement. you wanted to have a mind not carried by emotions. you worked so hard for it. but when it came to quinn, you knew he would win. every single time, he would win first.

“when did you become so poetic?” you sniffle out a joke, trying to lighten up the heavy mood. it doesn’t really work as you feel the weight of his words hold you down.

“when you left. when i left.”

quinn’s eyes search yours, he can see the tears brimming your wonderfully beautiful eyes. he hates to be the one to cause you so much pain, but he needed you to hear the words he’s been holding down his throat for too long.

you reach out a hand, and quinn is quick to take his hands out his pockets to reach for you. your hand is warm, while his are cold. the contrast between the two of you makes you both flinch a bit. the touch was electric, though. something you hadn’t felt in such a long time. something you knew would only be made from quinn.

you drag him closer to you, and his feet drag to you like a lost puppy. he was willing to receive anything you give him. anything.

you can smell the familiar cool mint, figuring he had previously chewed a piece of gum before seeing you. he was so close, making your body burn in its place.

“we should stop hurting one another,” you state.

“then let’s stop.” quinn leans closer to you, looking into your eyes, pleading with you.

you don’t say anything. the both of you quiet, the room an eery silence that sends shivers down your spine. you can feel quinn inching closer. and you can feel the way you don’t stop him.

when quinn’s nose brushes against yours, he takes a deep breath. you part your lips in a way that catches quinn’s eye. he expected you to push him back, say something that will be the definite end for the both of you. but when you just flutter your eyes shut in anticipation, he doesn’t miss the chance to kiss you.

and, god, do you ascend back to heaven.

your arms wrap around his neck, his hands finding purchase on your waist. he rubs soothing circles with his thumbs, making you hum into the kiss. it was slow, deep. something that held a certain type of ache that only the two of you could ever feel. it was a burning passion of hope. it was a kiss of forgotten hurt.

quinn swears he could stay like this forever. the feeling of your soft lips back on his after a year without it, nothing compares. the feeling of your fingers loosely gripping his hair. the feeling of your body pressing against his own. he could feel the goosebumps creeping up on his skin, despite the warm feeling in his chest.

you couldn’t find it in yourself to hold away anymore. his touch was heaven. his scent was your home. his presence was where you wanted to be. needed to be. you could deny just how much you needed him for the rest of your life, but you knew you would be lying.

if you were honest, this was where you belonged most.

quinn was patient. he’d call you when he couldn’t come see you, come see you any chance he could. and quinn made no advances that weren’t initiated by you first. there were a few kisses after the first in a long time, and it still felt the same as it always did. like you were being sent to heaven, despite the sins you may have commit.

a month passes, and quinn was slowly becoming part of your daily routine like he used to be. he was all too familiar, and yet unfamiliar all at the same time. there were some changes about quinn, but it was mostly either physical or with the way he loved you. quinn’s love always ran deep. but, this time, it seemed like he was willing to hide it all a bit better just not to scare you off. the thought makes you feel guilty. he knows you’re still walking on eggshells, and so he does too.

he responds to you perfectly. always saying what you need to hear. always being at a distance that makes you most comfortable.

tonight felt different, though.

you needed him closer.

when you kissed him this time, it felt feverish. it felt needy. quinn responded back with a scratchy groan, sending a shock through your system as you tugged him closer. he had only just walked through your front door before you were latching onto him, making him stumble a bit but catching his ground just as quick. he could feel the way one of your hands clutched tightly to his shirt. he could taste the chapstick on your lips, eagerly kissing you back like you needed.

quinn doesn’t take it a step further, despite your whines in his mouth. he can feel himself harden at the sound, but opts for just clutching onto your hips a little tighter to hold himself back.

“please, quinn,” you breathe as you barely give the boy some space between the two of you. not that he’d ever complain. “i need you.”

quinn’s hands find purchase beneath your shirt, feeling the way your skin burns just for him, “are you sure? we can wait a lifetime if you need to.”

“no, i’m so tired of waiting.” you kiss his jaw, making him hum. “made us both wait too long.”

you knew it was only a matter of time before you became full putty in the hands of quinn hughes. and you knew he would take care of you, no matter the circumstances. so, he agrees. nodding his head and kissing you slowly this time, almost selfishly agreeing to your terms.

when he makes way to your bedroom, he lets himself be consumed by everything you. when he looms over you, your back pressed into the mattress, you feel loved again. quinn takes his time taking off both of your clothes, letting room for you to stop and say no. but you never do, not even when you’re fully naked and looking more beautiful under the moonlight that glooms your bedroom.

quinn’s dick is just as you remember, but you can’t say you remember what it really felt like to have him inside you. you bite your lip in anticipation, looking up at him with innocent eyes that make him shudder.

“we can stop-”

“please, quinn.” you reach up, running a hand along the scruff of his cheek, “i love you.”

you were honest.

quinn doesn’t seem to need more than that as he quickly makes way towards your entrance, “i love you, too.” he kisses your temple as he easily slides into you, “forever.”

you can hear the strangle in his voice as he bottoms out, making you gasp and do your best to adjust to his size. you haven’t given yourself to a man since he left, making you squeeze your eyes shut with belated breaths and soft whines as you feel him fill up every corner of your cunt.

“so good,” quinn whispers in your ear, making you clench involuntarily. he groans at the sensation, “so tight, so wet, so warm.”

when he finally begins to move, you swear up and down that this was the best you’ve ever felt. your moans are uncoverable, loud and bouncing off your walls in a melody that quinn never wants to forget.

“f-feels so good,” you mutter out in a broken string of moans, stroking his ego just a little bit.

quinn nods, “fuck, yeah.” his voice was deeper, more hushed.

the movement of his hips pick up when he feels you start to clench more, delving into you in almost a selfish pace. he makes sure to check your facial expressions every now and then, making sure you’re still comfortable. when he feels your nails claw his back and your legs wrap around his waist, he no longer feels doubt. it’s all pure bliss for the both of you.

this was love.

“want to make you cum for me,” he huffs, “cum on my cock.”

quinn’s words hit straight through your gut, and you’re so close to your pent up release. quinn would be lying if he wasn’t, too.

quinn’s thrusts become a bit sloppier, but deeper, triggering a strong release within you suddenly. your pussy clenches as tight as possible around him, making him grunt as he follows with you, spilling his white, hot cum inside you. the feeling sends shivers down your spine, feeling more connected to him at the action.

when your breaths slow, you release your tight hold on him. quinn places a chaste kiss on your lips before going to grab a washcloth, cleaning the both of you.

“stay the night,” you look at him, and he can see the way your eyes drift with a nervous intent.

quinn only smiles, placing his boxers back on and grabbing you a fresh set of clothes, “of course.”

sleeping in his arms was home.

and it continued that way for such a long time. the two of you going just a few more months without labels needed. but it all felt like he had never left. like you had never left either.

the ache of your past still comes back every now and then, but quinn is right there by your side any time you start to doubt yourself.

“how do i deserve you?” you question, and quinn just shakes his head.

“how do i deserve you?”

old memories became washed out with new ones.

when quinn finally asked you to try again, all you could do was grin. your kiss sealed the deal, and the both of you swore to never be scared like that again.

to let love be.

this was you finally being honest.

[mikoyamisheadcanonblog]

Doflaming, Cora (Rosinante) and Law protecting Fem!Reader from an abusive Ex

Warning: Physical abuse, mention of verbal abuse, and hinted manipulation

🦩Doflamingo🦩

Word Count:394

He was watching, for a bit she was new to the “family,” and she had brought an idiot lover with her as he made the offer for her to join his family. She had refused unless her lover was with her joining his family. Doflamingo frowned when she had asked and made the offer to her.

He watched the man she wanted to invite reeking of alcohol as he wrapped his arms around her waist pushing her closer into his arms and smirking. He was like a leech as he stuck to her side, aware that without her he would have nothing.

“That sounds fine,” Doflamingo said, he needed her talent and if that man took one step outline he would rid of him. By then she would be deep in Doflamingo’s clutches anyway. Or that was the plan. “One wrong move and he is out,” she agreed to the terms.

Unfortunately, the man had managed to stay longer than Doflamingo had hoped. He turned on the charm in front of everyone, his lack of talent in the battlefield or even member of the family went unnoticed for a while as he tried to weasel his way around each member.

But the day came when he lost the charming smile, the family was celebrating their victory again. How easy it was to fool the marines, how they were in Doflamingo’s hand and being manipulated like puppets on a string. After a few drinks did his charming smile disappear after she dropped her cup onto his lap.

He started shouting at her cursing her out. The table watched before he lifted his arm ready to slap her but couldn’t move, his hands held back by Doflamingo strings. The blond man in a large pink suit smiled seeing the horror on the other man’s face, “I warned you one wrong move and you are out,” he flicked his finger sending the man flying to the ocean.

He let the man off too easy, but he didn’t want to spoil the mood of the party by spraying blood everywhere, instead, he took a seat by her. She turned to Doflamingo and smiled thanking him before he pushed her into a kiss. She thankfully kissed him back before he deepend it. He knew the perfect place to end this celebration with her in his room, in his bed.

💖Corazon (Rosinante)💖

Word Count: 338

She was a new recruit working under him as he showed her the ropes and what was to be expected in the Marines, from mopping the hallway to even fighting off a pirate invasion. She was good and diligent in taking notes and asking the correct questions.

 It was almost sad when their time together training was done but fortunately, she was under him and he would run into her often, when out in the hallway. And sometimes he would time his walks or exits just to see her and greet her with a soft smile and invite her to lunch.

But one lunch was too much to handle when she invited her boyfriend. The boy took a seat next to her not much taller than her and ordered her to get his lunch while he talked to Rosinante hoping to woo the older marine.

The conversation with the guy was simple, talking about his accomplishments and such and himself. Whenever Cora changed to the subject on the woman, he would soon get reminded that they weren’t alone, and he was there to talk about what he liked to do and throw orders at his girlfriend. A few lunch dates went on like this for a while Cora getting angrier but couldn’t say anything after all she seemed happy till she finally spoke up.

She finally had enough of him talking about himself she wanted to talk to Rosinante the jerk glared at the woman he was dating before lifting his hand ready to strike, Rosinante quickly stopped his hand from touching her cheek.

“YOU ARE A MARINE,” He nearly shouted, “Your job is to protect,” he pushed the jerk down to the floor as he glanced at the tall marine surprised before scrabbling off leaving Rosinante alone with his crush. “You should break up with him,” he told her.

“I plan too,” she smiled and took his hand and kissed his cheek, “thank you for saving me,” she said,

A few days later Rosinante would ask her out.

🐅Law🐅

Word Count: 395

Law had noticed the marks on her skin when she came for checkups, she lied saying such obvious likes like falling down the stairs or hitting the door when opening it. He was annoyed how easily she liked protecting the asshole, but he couldn’t do much about that after all she was a stranger, but it didn’t stop him from whispering in her ears his advice on how to leave him.

She would stare at him wide eye feeling his lips brush against her ear, his bread brushing against her skin. She blushed a bit and stared at him, her heart hammering harder in her chest as she stared at the handsome doctor with the golden eyes staring at her before her eyes flickered to her boyfriend who was waiting by the door.

“Please….save me,” she whispered. He knew better than to say anything right now as both men stared down at one another. The weaker of the male eager to leave. He stared at the woman with fantastic eyes and such and her eyes closed to tears. He would listen to her wishes.

He needed to protect her. He enjoyed the small conversations he had with her when her boyfriend wasn’t around, and he didn’t want to put her in danger anymore. He waited as the man walked towards him; he tried being charming tried talking to Law in a calm manner but it was easy to see he was getting angry.

“She is my girlfriend,” he finally said, “I think you should let go of her,” he was running towards Law and the girl ready to attack her.

“I think she is over you,” he held his hand up, “ROOM, SHAMBLES,” he cut the man into two pieces before picking up the young woman's bridal style. “Get near her again and you won’t live to see another day.

The girl wrapped her arms around Law’s neck and whispered words of thanks as he took her to his ship where he could have a full examination of her.

It took a while till she felt comfortable around Law as she adjusted to the Heart Crew but in the private room in the middle of the examination did, she share a private kiss with him. Thanking him for saving her but most of all for reminding her that she was also deserving of love and safety.

[mika-no-sekai-blog]

Part I

Word count: 3600+

Warnings: mentions of blood, body remains; reader is from Hewn city (I believe that says enough about what to expect here)

Note: I'm posting this just because I'm curious if there would be anyone interested in this story. There won't be next chapter any time soon, not until the rest of Heal me is up. Hopefully I won't need to pretend it's oneshot😮‍💨

Declaration: I hate dancing and have zero knowledge about it, so excuse the lack of description or any vagueness in that part. I tried to look things up, I swear, but the unstoppable rolling of my eyes made it hard to focus🤷

Dividers by amazing @tsunami-of-tears

Part II

A male slowly stepped out of the darkness, the pale face lifted up. His amber eyes found yours, gazing straight into them with hate, all-consuming fire blazing in his irises. His unbounded long red hair flew around him, dancing in the air as flames. He was scary but handsome. Then his mouth twisted into a sadistic grin came in focus and you cried out in fear. His white teeth were covered in blood, streams of it running down his chin, dripping on the front of his shirt.

Blood was dripping even from his long fingers with sharp nails of predator. Down at his feet lay remains of a body, pile of flesh and broken bones, burned so badly that nobody could recognize the person whom it belonged to.

His grin widened and he suddenly dashed forward towards you, his hand reaching for your throat.

You jolted up in dimly lit carriage, cold sweat covering your body. Thankfully, you were all alone and nobody saw you or heard you. This nightmare haunted you almost every time you closed your eyes ever since you were told that you would marry a new High Lord of Autumn Court.

You were born and raised in Hewn city, the cruellest place known to fae world where it was lucky to be born as a male. Unfortunately, you were a female which meant that you were a toy in hands of your father who was just as brutal as that whole place.

You'd spent most of your life in your room without windows, allowed to come out only when you were called or needed. You'd never seen a daylight until this day. Growing up you were often punished whether you did something wrong or not, because you were just a weak female, a possession that could be sold if the offer was high enough. That's how you ended up betrothed to the Heir of Autumn Court on the first place.

You didn't know why you were chosen. You had never spoken with him nor met him in person. You saw him only from afar when he came to Hewn city to negotiate with Keir and later at a ball organized by your High Lord where he danced with one of the High Lady's sisters. It was quite an interesting show and he seemed to be smitten by her.

You watched that all from your dark alcove where you were exposed for the chosen ones but otherwise hidden from prying eyes of others. You weren't allowed to participate directly. You weren't even allowed to talk with other guests. The ball was a market and you were the goods.

However, the horrific rumours about the Heir got to your ears nevertheless. You heard all stories about his cruelty and punishments that he loved to deliver, and later even the stories about how he killed his father and became a High Lord. None of them was a good one, but he wasn't judged here. In Hewn city, he was admired for his rigour. Every male wanted to be like him, every female either feared she would catch his eye or longed for that.

You, for sure, didn't belong to the second group. You didn't want to get married at all. All you dreamt about, was freedom, the possibility to go and do whatever you wanted, but that was out of question for you. You were just a puppet that danced only when a male pulled the strings. Now you were a property of your father who had planned to sell you for the highest offer from the day you were born, and soon enough you would became a property of your husband. You were nothing, you didn't count.

You were aware of the offers that piled on your father's desk. They started coming when you turned 15, but your father had waited. You didn't know what he did or who he spoke to, when suddenly a marriage proposal came from Autumn Court soon after your 18th birthdays. He didn't hesitate this time and immediately accepted. He couldn't get any higher offer than from the future High Lord himself, could he.

If you thought your life was a torture before, after that it became a hell. Whole year you spent learning all kinds of manners that wife of male with such high position had to know. They taught you what your place in the court and in the private would be, what you had to do to keep it, they beat it into you, breaking you again and again until there were no errors and you were perfectly submissive.

You also had to become an outstanding dancer because your future husband seemed to have a special interest in dance. Even now your toes were still bleeding into your shoes as your last lesson ended right before the departure.

In every aspect you had to be perfect and worthy of High Lord of Autumn. Lady of Autumn Court, your future husband's mother, was given to you as a model of such a perfect wife. Quiet, obedient, representative, beautiful.

Perfect doll to be ruined by her husband when no one was looking.

You feared the future but you had no choice.

You slightly moved the curtain to look out and see the bits of the country behind the window. Because of the nap you lost track of time. Your heart squeezed in dread when you found out you were already in a forest full of red and yellow and golden brown leaves. You had never seen an autumn foliage with your own eyes, but even you with your limited knowledge knew that these were colours of Autumn. You were getting closer to your final ordeal.

It took another hour or two and carriage stopped. Before you could reach for the doorknob, the door flew open and your father's always angry face came to view.

"Get out now," he ordered. He seemed to be in quite a good mood today.

You immediately moved closer to the door and get off. Your heels clicked on the sandstone in the courtyard of a beautiful castle, but you had no time to look around as father shoved you to the entrance. Bowing your head, you submitted.

At the gate you were welcomed by High Lord's advisor, a male with rather a cool demeanour, and some maids who took you to the chamber where you were supposed to get ready and wait until the ceremony began. You didn't bother to even try to lift your gaze, you were too scared to look at people directly. Whenever you dared to look at someone, most of them had no face in your eyes, only an empty mask. You distinguished people mainly by their voices.

You felt your father staring after you coldly as you silently followed the maids, his gaze felt like a sharp knife poking into your back. You were scared he would follow you because you were his priced ticket to wealth now, but soon he turned around and walked away with the advisor in the opposite direction.

Maids were quiet and quick as they helped you to bath and dress. They skilfully braided your long hair into a complicated hairstyle, attached the veil to it, letting it fall down and cover your face. When they were done, with a slight bow they left.

You let out a breath that you didn't even know you'd been holding the entire time they were hopping around you. Nobody bothered to inform you how much time you had left, but it didn't matter anyway. You couldn't run away from your fate.

You were sitting at the vanity table where they left you, looking at the ground as you were taught, your mind empty. You couldn't even mourn the life that you never had and never would have. They successfully turned you into a puppet, a blank canvas ready for your husband to paint on.

Soft knock sounded on the doors and a female's voice called that it's time. You slowly stood up with bowed head and stepped out from the chamber. Small maid led you through corridors and halls to a chapel.

You'd like to look around, wanting to see at least something of your wedding day worth of memorising it, but your father was already waiting for you, angrily tapping his foot.

"Good for nothing as usual," he grunted. "How long do you think we have to wait for you?"

"I'm sorry, father," you said in a small voice.

"Speak properly! You are like your mother, useless. Thankfully from now on, you will be your husband's burden."

He offered you an arm and you immediately took it not wanting to make him any more angry. Together you got ready at the threshold and as music started to play you stepped inside.

The chapel seemed to be quite spacious, full of warm light and crowded with guests. As you walked to the altar you caught glimpses of gold, yellow and white decorations. Your father halted, a pair of shiny black boots stepped closer. Out of the corner of your eye you saw that your father was smiling kindly. You were shocked. It was the first time you saw such expression on his cruel face.

Your father said something to that male and he answered. Your heart was beating so fast and loudly that you hardly heard the music. Father took your hand and offered it to the male who surprisingly gently accepted it. Fingers that wrapped around yours were pale and long just as in that nightmare, but instead of icy cold you felt warmth seeping into your skin. Your father stepped away, leaving you with this male. The transaction was apparently successful.

"Can we?"

A deep voice spoke lowly, snapping you out of the new kind of darkness that began to pull you into its void. You inhaled sharply. It wasn't that deadly voice that haunted you in sleep but a quite pleasant, rich one that felt like a warm blanket, a liquid honey flowing into your ears that were used to only harsh words. Rich aroma of spicy cinnamon and apples roasted on fire filled your nose.

You nodded, still not daring to look up. He led you to the altar where a priestess was waiting for you. As you stood before her, he turned to you one more time. His fingers touched the edge of the veil, lifting it up. You kept your eyes down as you were taught.

"Look at me," he commanded softly.

Carefully, inch by inch you raised your eyes, taking in first his trousers in cream colour, then his elegant tailored moss jacket with gold details that hugged his chest perfectly. He didn't look like a mass of muscles as the general of Night Court did even though before he had the same rank. Your soon-to-be husband seemed to be rather lean, but definitely a warrior with muscles on right places. And so tall, impossibly tall, that you hardly reached up to his shoulders.

It felt like forever until your gaze finally reached his face. Like in the nightmares it was pale with bright amber eyes and high cheekbones, his nose was straight and lips full. He wasn't smiling, yet corners of his mouth seemed to be twisted in a permanent smirk. In golden rays of sun penetrating through a round window behind the altar, his red hair had a warm shade, and looked so silky that you had to wonder how it would feel to touch them. Now cut much shorter than the last time you saw him, he just casually combed them back, a few unruly strands falling on his forehead.

His eyes roamed over your face, brows lightly furrowed, then one corner of his lips lifted in a half smile. He was handsome, attractive, there was no doubt about it. You expected him to have the cool, cruel aura you noticed before and he didn't disappoint, but as you were watching him for a while, in his eyes there was something you'd never seen before. Perhaps it was kindness, but what did you know. It was just a foreign word to you, something you never experienced.

It was confusing.

He didn't say if he liked what he saw, his expression gave nothing away. He just turned to priestess, signalling her with a nod of the head to begin the ceremony. You allowed your eyes to linger and watch his profile a little longer before your gaze again slid down to the floor. Hardly perceiving priestess's words, you returned to that quiet place in your mind where you felt safe from the world.

When the ceremony was over, Eris leaned down, gazing at you. This was the part when the groom should kiss the bride. You stayed still, expecting him to move, but he was just waiting. You looked up with silent question in eyes. As soon as your full attention was on him, he moved forward and his lips sealed over yours in a tender kiss. Your eyes widened in surprise, breath caught in your throat. You expected anything from him except of this. He didn't close his eyes either, closely watching your reaction.

Eris tasted like honey and some alcohol. It was a strange combination, but not unpleasant. His lips slightly moved against yours, testing the waters and then it was over.

As if nothing had happened he straightened up and turned to the crowd, offering you an arm. You exhaled shakily, internally shouting at your body to move. You couldn't keep him waiting. Your fingers gripped on his sleeve. Still weak in your knees you could only wish that you wouldn't fall down.

His other hand went up to yours on his arm, adjusting it. Holding it firmly he tugged you closer and led you to the ballroom where the party would take a place.

Why did he behave like this? Did he genuinely care? Or did he notice your state and wanted to just prevent an embarrassing incident? He was supposed to be cruel. Everyone said that about him. Was it just some kind of masquerade and later he would make you pay for your mistakes? You were so confused and nervous.

The celebration program was simple. The ceremony was to be followed by a banquet and finally a party. When you came into the impressive ballroom decorated in the same colours as the chapel, the tables were already bending under the amount of deliciously looking food.

Eris led you to the table in the centre, a bit higher than the rest. He held a chair for you and then took a seat on your right. The other chairs were gradually filled as the guests were coming. Your father was seated at the table on your left, giving you a cold stare. Shiver ran down your spine and your heart started to beat faster. You knew that face. Whatever you had done he was very displeased right now.

Your husband inconspicuously leaned closer.

"Is everything alright?" he asked lowly, eyeing still coming guests. Did he hear your heartbeat even over this noise?

"Of course, my lord," you blushed, focusing on your hands folded on your skirt under the table.

Eris's eyes narrowed on you and then his gaze moved behind you to your father. He immediately stopped frowning at you and instead he conjured a pleasant smile at his new son-in-law. Eris made a small displeased noise and looked away.

When everyone took their seats Eris stood up to give a short speech and a toast. You took a goblet with wine but didn't drink. Could not. You weren't allowed to drink alcohol.

After your husband a dark haired male stood up to toast to newly wed couple. As he spoke you recognized the voice of your High Lord.

Nervously you swallowed.

It was unexpected, but not incomprehensible. Of course he was here. A member of his Court married his ally. This wedding was an important political event. There were certainly also other allied High Lords between the guests. The most powerful beings of this country had eyes on you. And your husband? He was one of them. Not an ordinary High Fae or some aristocrat. A High Lord.

Sudden realisation hit you hard and you felt a growing nausea, heart throbbing in your throat.

When everyone was done toasting, silent servants appeared seemingly from nowhere and started to serve the food to the plates. Not remembering when you had eaten for the last time was your last concern. You were too nervous and frightened to even think about the food right now.

Eris seemed to notice that you were just poking the vegetables with a fork around the plate, pretending you were eating as everyone around.

"Isn't the meal to your taste?" he asked with raised brows quietly.

Under the table you clenched fingers into the skirt of your dress. This male could turn you into a pile of ash if he wanted.

"Everything is delicious, my lord," swallowing hard you answered in a small shaky voice.

He just huffed and after a while returned to his plate and the conversation he had before. You bit on your lower lip. Did you offend him? Would he punish you later? You were on the verge of crying. From the other side of the table you could feel your father's angry gaze. Breathing raggedly you willed the tears back and put down the fork. Your trembling hand reached for a glass of water. Focussing on not spilling it's content, you brought it to your red painted lips and took a sip. You needed to pull yourself together, to overcome it. The show wasn't over yet.

By the time the clattering of cutlery has died down, you managed to calm down a bit. Music that played whole the time, got louder and some of the guests moved to the parquet.

Eris turned to you once again, his eyes lingering on your face. He seemed to think about something. For a brief moment his lips pursed into a thin line.

"We have to dance the first dance. It's a tradition," he spoke coldly.

"Yes, my lord."

You already knew that and you were more than ready even though your healing toes still hurt. This wouldn't be the first time you had to suppress the pain and pretend everything was okay. You could do this.

Despite the too high expectations of your teachers and father, you loved dance. It was the only quite funny activity you were ever allowed to do.

High Lord helped you to stand up and led you to the centre of the parquet. The guests created a circle around you.

Eris's warm hand heavily landed on your waist, holding you firmly, his fingers leaving marks on your skin through the corset. The sudden roughness surprised you and you slightly winced. Thankfully nobody seemed to notice it, not even your husband. Taking your other hand into his, you two took a position and started to move at the exactly same time to the rhythm of the song in a small circles. Eyes pinned to his strong chest right in front of you, you performed your best.

You moved gracefully as you were taught, small sparks in your veins slowly becoming a fire, consuming you. After the first rather stiff steps, your body relaxed and you blended in with the melody, becoming the music. The long skirt of your dress was sweeping the floor with every your step, looking like a flowing mountain stream. You loved that feeling. Eris spun you and you made a perfect pirouette so fast that you whirled two times. Someone in the watching crowd gasped in amazement, several others applauded.

If you dared to look up, you would see the fire in your husband's eyes and a wide smile. He was enjoying this, too, more than he was willing to admit.

The two of you started dancing in bigger and bigger circles, your every move faster than the last one. The crowd around had turned into a blurry smudge, but none of you minded. Eris decided to test you by changing the steps and adding figures, and you responded to every change with ease, without a mistake.

As the song was coming to its end, your husband decided to end the dance with a pretty deep dip. Your back arched under his fingers and suddenly you came face to face with him, your noses almost touching. Your eyes widened in surprise.

Two blazing amber eyes were piercing you with genuine interest, wolfish grin on his lips. His usual merciless expression was replaced by something wild, beautiful and kind of dangerous. He was mesmerising. You were definitely playing with a fire when you reached up, tips of your fingers lightly touching his jaw. Eris blinked and it was gone.

He straightened up and you followed, once again scared that you possibly made a fatal error when you touched his face.

Now all the guests were applauding. Looking around his cold gaze jumped from face to face. He didn't say anything as he bowed to you, kissing the back of your hand and then escorted you back to the table. Both of you were still heaving as you took your seats. He grabbed your glass of water and handed it to you. You thanked him to which he just responded with a nod. Then he took his empty goblet and held it out for the servant to fill it with wine. He drummed with fingers as he waited. As soon as the servant stepped back, he emptied the goblet again.

The musicians started to play another song and parquet filled with dancing pairs. When it seemed that nobody paid you attention any longer, without even looking in your direction Eris reached out under tha table, his fingers lightly brushing your arm from elbow down to your wrist. Finding your hand rested on your lap, he clasped it in his much bigger one and held it for the rest of the evening.

[romanarose]

Puppet

Boston!Joel Miller x fem!Reader

Read on ao3 : TLOU masterlist

Summery: Unable to bear the pain of life without Sarah, Joel burries it and himself inside his favorite doll. His fingers dance along your skin, controlling every move of his precious puppet

or

Something, something, no strings attached?

Warnings: I cannot give a comprehensive list of warnings. Wile no non con or dub con is employed, consider this fic to be open to dark themes including but not limited too mentions of Sarah's death and illusions to Joel suicide attempt, as well as Joel depression and anxiety. Hurt, some comfort??

Sexual content: (again, not comprehensive) Roughish sex but mutual consent to everything. Consider it some free use, he doesnt ask for permission but they have an arrangement. Vaginal fisting, manhandling, rough, sloppy upside down blowjob. throat fucking, gagging, lots of talk about kinda gross stuff like sweat and drool and musk. Ass eating (i know exactly the girlies this is for.) Lots of objectification about reader being a doll/puppet and Joel going a little off the rocker at the end there but I promise reader is having a great time, 10/10

2.5k Words

Told in Joel's POV, still a reader story. Bit of a different story telling mode for me, because it's literally just Joel's inner monologue. He doesn't say anything to you bc he's emotional closed off, but consider anything in italics what he wants to say.

Lil bit of latino Joel <3

It wasn’t love. It couldn’t be. Not when I can’t look you in the eye after bending your sweet body every which way, folding you and molding you into my perfect little creation. It was too dirty, cheap, nasty. We were using each other. That was the arrangement. Still, it was more than a quick fuck. 

It certainly wasn’t quick.

I like you wrecked, drenched, absolutely filthy to look at and so wrapped in pleasure you can’t walk right.

That’s not to say there hasn’t been those moments, times where I shoved you against an alleyway and slammed into your core, times where I know you tastedblood and brick and dirt as you clenched around me and I left you with nothing but scratches on your face and cum dripping down your legs. There have been days you don’t even see my face, only my familiar musk and grunts and warmth signaling you didn’t need to scream when I shove down your pants.

But there are nights like these I much prefer. I can’t say there is much for talking, certainly little for romancing. I’ll feed you if you’re hungry, which is a lot but not always. But you aren’t here for food, are you? You’re here to let go control, to allow yourself to be given over fully to another so that we can, for an hour or two, forget we were living in hell. Forget we were fighting every single fucking day to live. Forget we watched our loved ones die, children in our arms as we scream at God to take us instead.

I can forget when I’m inside you. 

You’re wet, warm, and you don’t ask much of me. You don’t ask for love or companionship, although I’m sure you’d take either if I offered, But I won’t. It’s not personal, it’s not about you. I just can’t give what I don’t have the capacity for anymore.

Still, despite the few words spoken between us I find you at my doorway again and again, begging to be filled by me, begging for it any way I want. You stopped asking me how I wanted you a long time ago, simply getting on the bed after stirpping without much fanfare. I can tell you try to add a little striptease here and there, and I let it slide despite not being a part of directions as long as you don’t get too cocky with it. I don’t need cocky. I need my cute little doll ready for me to play with, ready to take my cock in whatever hole I shove it in, waiting patiently and still for me to wind her up tight.

You looked like a doll too. Your puckered, pretty lips. Your large eyes gazing up at me. Your body so perfectly sculpted to my liking as if you were a dolly spin off of build-a-bear. In another time, I would have dated you, woo’d you, romanced your and waited weeks before sliding inside. I might have said I love you or even put a ring on your finger before I wrecked you, but that wasn’t the Joel I am now. Something inside me died on September 26th, something tha broke my ability to be the kind of man you deserved.

It didn’t stop me from making you gag.

Such a pretty play thing for me. Fuck doll, my favorite toy.

You know I don’t like your hands on me when you suck my dick.

It’s so disconnected I don’t know if I can even call it dick sucking or a blow job, through no fault of your own. You’re enthusiastic, and sometimes I can even see you smiling despite the stretch. No, this is on me. This is how I like it. I fuck your throat as your head hangs off the bed, watching as your body jolts in time to the constrictions of your throat, trying to get air through your nose as you struggle to breath because my balls keep slapping your face and plugging the only other option from oxygen… the undone flannel still covering my arms must tickle your skin. But you never push me off, never tap out, not even when I’m so deep in your lips are buried in the hair at the base of me, not even when I see the tip of my cock prod out your throat, and not when I wrap my hands around your pretty, dolly neck and use you to jerk off like a lifeless fleshlight. 

I pound myself into you, fucking your mouth like I do your sweet, tight pussy, the wet sounds of your saliva spilling out your mouth fill the room, mixed in with the russell of sheets from your writhing body. I like knowing I can make you move like this. You feel like home, you feel like forgetting, you feel like a comfort I can’t get from Oxy or booze or anything other than the sweet release of death. But I can’t take that route, not when I have Tommy to care for. 

If you put your hand on my thigh right now I might cry.

I release from you seconds before cumming, your body heaving to breathe again and I watch the drool run down your face and pool on the floor. I think about shoving your face in the slime and bile as I fuck your ass but that’s not what I need right now, and it’s not what you need either. I’m not selfish. Well, I am, but not with you. I’m cold, I’m mean, but I’m not cruel. I like you too, I like knowing I’m still good for something, that my hands are for more than killing, more than dumbly attempting to stop bleeding from bullet wounds. I like knowing they can be used for the pleasure of a pretty woman.

I don’t tell you where to go, I simply pick you up and throw you fully on the bed, watching as you bounce and shuck off flannel, making quick work of my white, sweat stained shirt. I haven’t showered. You havn’t given me the chance, jumping my bones like a whore begging for a fuck to pay for a meal. I think you like it, honestly. I see the way you look at me when we’re on a work sight together. You like walking away smelling like me, don't you? You like that my sweat had been rubbed all over you like an animal scenting his mate, my cum stuffed inside, my spit still glistening on your puffy pussy. Marking my territory.

You are mine, even if I can’t be yours. Even if I can’t give to you, I’ve taken all you are. If another man touches you, I’ll cut off his dick.

I grab your legs, yanking you so hard you fall backwards on the bed and your legs dangle off the edge..

I can’t tell you how pretty you are, spread out for me like this, awaiting for me to manipulate your body into my desires, mold you like I molded your insides to my cock, split you so fucking open every other limp-dicked lover that manages to stumble his way inside you feels empty. I can’t give you sweet nothings whispered in your ear or dirty encouragement, but I let you know how beautiful I find you as I lick and suck and bite my way down your body. I can’t kiss you, I can’t give you false pretense of what this is. I can’t take care of you after because I can’t look at you. Call it post-nut clarity, but I can’t face you anymore after I’ve destroyed you. Once we're done, the guilt sinks in. I swear to myself I won’t do this again, I won’t break a perfectly nice woman down into pieces when I can’t stomach putting her together again. 

I can’t play with my toys if I can’t fix them.

But soon enough you come knocking, or you’ll make fuck me eyes before slipping into an alley, and I’m ripping you open again. I’m drawn to you like a moth to a flame, hating myself and taking my shame out on you. You are the only thing that can distract me from the guilt of watching her die, and nothing can make me give up that sweet reprieve, even if that horror floods my body like a breaking damn as soon as the orgasm subsides. I’ll drown myself in you until I can’t breathe anymore.

Two fingers slip in easily by now. Three is a little more but you take it well. You always do. Four fingers was the most you’d ever taken, and when I add the pinky I hear you choke out a moan, your limbs moving when my hands do. I love how thoroughly I’ve wrecked you, dolly. I love how I can shove all three of my knuckles inside and feel that warmth on my frostbite damaged hands, noting all the details of your flesh on the burned pads of my fingers. 

You move so pretty for me, dolly.

My middle finger curls and your right fist clenches as your gasp. I spread my digits out and your head drops back. I swirl my thumb over your clit I spit on and your toes curl, crying my name. Hell, I move a pinky and your legs spread wider. It’s like I can control you from the inside.

You aren’t a doll after all. You’re a puppet.

My little hand puppet.

I take it further, sliding out my hand enough and reinserting it carefully with my thumb included. You scream my name, gripping the sheets as you bear the pain; I suckle on the sensitive swell between your folds. A promise that the pain will melt into pleasure.

I’ll take care of you, dolly, mi muñequita, mi marioneta, my perfect puppet dancing around for me on the stage of my sheets, twirling, whirling, swirling around in sin and sweat and screams.

A promise fulfilled, you begin whimpering the whiney, filthy needy thing that you are. Dirty puppet at my command, ready to fuck away all my pain burried in your tight cunt. You were burning on the inside, pulsing and drenching my arm as I fisted your hole, creating a fullness no one could give you. Me. Only me. No one could ever turn you into such a slobbering whore and make you look so pretty doing it. I want to leave my imprint, give as much as you could take and not a centimeter less, permanently burning my face in the plush of your thighs to hide the smile at your sounds reaching a fever pitch. The whole apartment knew who you belonged to, that the pretty woman banging on his door at all hours of the day was being fist fucked by the local drug dealer, that the dirt covered worker at the fires would have her face washed clean of soot with her own drool gagging on my cock.

When you come, I feel you in a way I’ve never felt you before. It was like you were swallowing me up, begging for more, dragging me inside. You come hard, legs shaking and I’m sure you’re eyes would be rolled back if they weren't clenched so damn tight. I continue to play you like my guitar, just to see what noises I can pull out of you.

Qué sonidos tan hermosos haces, marioneta

Your body prone and limp, I maneuver your dead weight closer to me. You let me climb on your body, know full well what I’m doing. I see a little smile on your sweet doll face, lying there so compliant and ready for me, your submissive body simple allowing me to degrade you further. I on your face, allowing you full, unfiltered access to my ass that you eagerly devour, the musk and sweat of manhood, of masculinity. Me. I feel your tongue at my entrance, prodding like the good little sex toy you are, always doing what you were made to, controlled by the strings of your hair being pulled down the bed cushion by knees. 

I take your hands, lying obediently at your sides and just like the docile puppet you are, you allow me to control your limbs. I take your wrists, guiding your hands over your gorgeous body. You’re sweet, too sweet, too petty. Dulzura. I pretend I’m painting your skin, a handmade marionette made just to dance for me, to fulfill your purpose of being mine, of bringing mutual pleasure to us both, to feel your master's hand inside you controlling your body and your mind made live at his creation and only meant to think thoughts of me. I let you caressed your breasts, feeling your body, appreciating it as I do.

I cum on your stomach, not even remembering when my right hand dropped yours in favor of my cock. Your body is painted in white and I have the indescribable urge to spread it, to massage it into your skin until it’s as much a part of you as the traumas we’ve both endured. I sit up and off your face in time that a few spurts of my seed tumbles onto your face, and as much as I want to see it, I can’t.

As much as I want to touch your body, I can’t. The high has ended and horrors have begun to creep in, the lurking shadows swirling and dancing on the walls, waiting for me to fall in, waiting for them to take me again, waiting for me to not miss this time. I feel my skin crawl, and I barely have it in to toss my flannel in your direction. Handing you something to clean the firth off you while I dig at my own skin is the least I can do and the most I can manage. 

I turn away from you, digging into my draws in a hurry to pull something on, to cover my shame and hatred in myself while you dress and leave in silence. I usually don’t even hear the door close, a vague reminder in my head that I have to go to lock my door before my stash of oxys and other substances get stolen being the only thing to pull me away from staring at the wall.

My chest feels tight, but this isn’t a new feeling. It’s not a heart attack, not this time. I feel sick to my stomach, guilt for feeling any sort of pleasure, and joy at all is felt in every nerves of my skin, hyper aware of the drafts in his home, the splintered wood of the floor at his feet. In another life, I’d bother sanding it, varshing it, or redoing it all together. Nothing was worth it anymore. My eyes burned. I hope you were gone, fucked full and smiling from a world bending orgasm and not feeling the sickness I feel in myself.

I only realize you’re still there when I feel your sticky skin press up against mine, your bare chest to my back. 

How perfectly your body fits so perfectly to mine, dolly, from every angle.

I turn around, and like a child in a thunderstorm, I hold my doll while I cry.

THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU!!!

I hope you liked the lil switcharoo ;-; and I know Joel is kinda ooc but i liked it!

I been listening to a lot of erotic audios lately and maybe this is where i get it from lolololol

If you like the doll/puppet kinda vibes but wished I went more into it, @missannwinchester has a great great great series called Plaything !!!!!! Joel is a lil freak and we love that for him!!!! one of those joels that stay in your mind for weeks, you know?

thank you to Alica for helping with the spanish!

tagging those who asked to be tagged and who i thought may enjoy!!!!!!!!! NO PRESSURE AT ALL i know we all got you know. real lives lol.

@pedge-page @not-a-unique-snowflake-blog @strang3lov3 @alwaysmicado @hornystan @toxicanonymity @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin @justagalwhowrites @femmeanonymelives

[just-a-creep-babe]

A Demon’s Ache — Part 17

Eyeless Jack x Reader

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14 Part 15 Part 16

Commissioned by @cookiereblogss — thank you infinitely for your support 🫶 💗💞💗

Requests are closed but commissions are open!

Masterlist: x

As soon as he gets back, he ends up at your door

It’s instincts—it’s hormones and longing and obsession—like he’s just a mere puppet on the strings of your whims

His heart’s pounding in his chest as he waits there, in front of the familiar well-worn wood of your door, and for a minute, he almost wonders if you’re going to answer

His fingers drum against his thigh while his mind races back to the most recent list of events that happened between the both of you

You agreed to let Hoodie watch in order to help Jack out of the favor, rejected his kiss not too long after that, and then you sent him nudes, of all things, while he was away

Trying to sort through the complications of mixed messages and tangled feelings leads him to two plausible conclusions

One; you really aren’t interested in anything but sex with him, and every time he inadvertently pushes for more, it forces you to pull away

Two; you’re secretly just as madly in love with him as he is with you, but for some cosmic reasoning beyond his understanding, something’s stopping you from being with him

Despite how much he wishes the latter was true, he knows the former is the more likely scenario

It’s been that way since the very beginning, but he’s too much of a lovesick puppy to hold himself back from always trying for more

He needs better impulse control

Even now, as he waits for you to answer, he wonders if he’s pushing things yet again

He’s just here for sex, he reminds himself, he’s been away for a while and now he’s needy, and you probably are too, and even though it’d be better for him to wait for you to come to him, he’s just too fucking eager

And if you, for some reason, outright reject him yet again, he figures he can use the opportunity to sit down and establish better ground rules with you

He’s waited long enough to figure out what you want—you might as well just tell him at this point

When you open the door, he almost doesn’t know what to expect—he never does

But it’s like as soon as you see him, you just know

You let him in without a word, and as soon as the door clicks shut behind him, his mind goes blank

He forgets all about the two conclusions he reached, forgets about his worries about being pushy, forgets about wanting to establish an agreement—he forgets everything

All he can focus on is your lips busying themselves against his, your body in his hands and the scent of your lust and adrenaline filing the room

The whole thing is familiar

The taste of your tongue, the warmth of your skin, the way your breath stutters and your pulse jumps every time he squeezes you just a tad harder than he meant to—he’s lucky enough to have experienced it all before

But even despite the familiarity of it, it doesn't stop the pure rush of heat traveling to his groin

It's like it's just never enough

He's desperate for your touch, desperate for anything and everything you have to offer

The way your smaller body clings to his, the way your hands mimic his own eagerness—fuck, he's missed you

You release something like a quiet whimper against him and a growl tears through his chest before he can stop it

He yanks on the loops of your jeans, forcing you to grind against his hard-on, and when you whimper again, he almost rips your clothes off right then and there

You reach up to tug him closer into you, your fingers scratching at his scalp, pulling at the dark strands of his hair as if the few inches between you are too much to bear

It's like you want him pressing harder into you, like you're as insatiable for him as he is for you

In the heat of the moment, nothing else matters

The on-and-off signals, the ever-indecipherable code of mixed messages that he can never fully crack—right now, with your body held so tightly up against his own, he doesn't care about any of it

All he cares about is touching you, gripping and groping at your soft, malleable flesh to coax those perfect little sounds from your lips

More

He wants more

You weigh practically nothing as he picks you up, and it brings him a special kind of satisfaction when you yelp and wrap your legs around his hips for support

He's the only thing you can cling on to

He has all the power right now

Hands on your thighs, he bounces you up and down his form, using your own weight as leverage to rub you against his bulge

The friction is heady, already bordering on euphoric, and he hasn't even gotten you naked yet

When he snaps his hips up in tandem, the yelp you release grants him the perfect opportunity to force his tongue down your throat

Your taste is divine

He swears you were made for him, he swears your body was meant to be his

He loses track of his thoughts yet again, unable to focus or think about anything else except you

Your hands mimic his excitement and impatience as you pull and tug at him, trying to scratch lines into him like you're trying to mark him

It should be him trying to mark you

Amidst all the pulling and tugging, somewhere at the back of his mind, it registers that his mask slips off and falls to the floor with a heavy thunk, but he's too lost in your pleasure to care

Instead, he walks forward, secures you against him with a hand on your lower back, and then he lowers you to the bed, caging you between his body and the mattress beneath you

You're trapped, with nowhere to evade him

He could basically do anything he wants to you; you're completely at his mercy

At the mercy of a demon

Your clothes come off quickly and easily, his deft fingers impatient to get you bare already

And fuck, the sight of you naked is never something he could get used to

You're glowing; skin wonderfully soft, chest heaving up and down with panted breaths, your bruised lips parted with that perfectly desperate look in your eyes

He wants to ruin you

He's going to ruin you

He yanks his own shirt off his head, pops the buttons of his jeans open, then kicks his pants and boxers all the way off

He doesn't miss the way you greedily drink up the sight of him as you lay there, need clear in your eyes with the scent of your arousal filling the room

He teases a hand along his shaft, and his cock twitches in response

"Like what you're looking at, little morsel?~"

You whine his name at the taunt, and he nearly snarls as another fresh wave of your arousal perfumes the air

He wraps a hand around your ankle, yanks you toward him, then splits your legs apart to fit between them

You're a mess of slick

You're practically dripping

It's coating your inner thighs, glistening wet against your skin, and if he wasn't so impatient right now, he'd take the time to taste you

He'd eat you out all night long if he could

But right now, his dick's throbbing and you keep squirming and whimpering, and all he wants is to push himself balls-deep into your perfectly inviting little cunt

He presses the tip of his drooling cock to your entrance, gliding it up and down your perfect slit, and then he’s slowly thrusting all the way in

It’s almost too much

Your walls tighten around him, trying to swallow him in deeper, and when he shifts slightly, trying to get used to the way you're milking him, you gasp, reaching up to dig your nails into his skin, and he realizes he's already hit your most sensitive spot

He releases a low breath, trying to steady himself, trying to clear the haze of his instincts threatening to overtake him

You're a trembling, squirming wreck beneath him, and if he didn't know any better, he'd think you keep trying to grind him into your G-spot

He reaches up, resting one hand next to your head to support himself, and with his other hand, he grips the flesh of your thighs to force you still

He needs to adjust

He needs to adjust to how wet you are, how you keep clenching and pulsing around him or he's going to fucking lose it

But as if you just can't help it, it doesn't stop you from squirming, doesn't stop you from moaning his name like you're just begging for him to snap

An involuntary push of his hips forward, and you cry out, back arching as your hands fly up to rake down his back

Your thighs cinch around his waist, effectively trapping him inside you, and he honestly doesn't know how much longer he can hold back anymore

Slowly

He needs to do this slowly or he will lose it

In and out, in and out, he drags the length of his cock through your velvety walls

He can feel every inch of you, every perfect detail of your body molding and wrapping around him like it was made for him

He groans out your name, dick throbbing inside you, and the way you beg for more has him burying his face into the crook of your neck to muffle yet another groan

Your body's too perfect

You're too perfect

He's never hungered so deeply for someone like this before

He feels like a ravenous dog

He pulls out, inch by inch, your gummy walls tightening, and when he tries to say your name again, all that comes out is a demonic snarl

"J-Jack!~ Need more��n-need you to breed me~"

He snaps

It's like what you said and the way you said it triggers him beyond his own comprehension of himself

He loses control of his hips, loses control of what little shreds of humanity he has left, and he lets loose

The bed creaks, headboard slamming into the wall as your smaller form bounces with every impact

Your eyes screw shut, brows furrowing as a silent scream escapes you

Your hands dig into his skin, and if he was still human, you’d undoubtedly be drawing blood

But all it does to his thick skin is merely tickle

Still, the idea that you’re so much weaker than him only fuels him even more

He loses track of the pace he set, loses track of your obscene moans and cries as one word repeats itself over and over again in his lust-drunk mind

Breed

Some other inhuman sound escapes him, followed by the sound of something ripping, and he realizes he’s clawing at the sheets so hard they’re tearing

You’re shaking and writhing beneath him, your skin soft and wonderfully malleable for him to bruise

The sound of your cries overwhelms the sound of skin slapping against skin, and you clench around him, cunt gushing, soaking him with your arousal

He thinks you might’ve squirted—you’re fucking drenched—but his head’s too foggy, too lost in the sheer bliss of your body to really know for certain

All he’s sure of is that you came, or maybe you’re still cuming, because your whole body’s shaking and your legs are wrapped so tightly around him that he doesn’t know if you’re trying to pull him in or push him out

But even despite your obvious overstimulation, he can’t stop

He can’t stop pounding into you, can’t stop the rapid, ravenous pace he’s fucking into you

You’re his

Instincts purely in control, he pushes your legs up, forcing you into a mating press, and the shift in angle has him throbbing in your velvety walls

You babble out a slew of incoherent sentences, your voice all whiny and desperate between choked sobs and broken whimpers

He doesn’t grant you the luxury of squirming; with your legs pressed up against your chest and your pretty little cunt all exposed to him, you’re completely at his mercy

He’s reduced you to just a fleshlite

“Jack—J-Jack, fuck!”

When he hears you cry out his name like that, it’s all it takes for him to snap all the way forwards, his cock twitching and throbbing, and with a low, dangerous snarl, he cums deep inside of you

“F-fuck!~”

You whimper out one final cuss, your head rolling back and eyes falling shut, and god, it’s basically like you’re just presenting yourself to him

His lips find purchase around your neck, tasting you, reveling in the way your throat feels against his tongue

You’re so perfect

One sloppy thrust after another has him pumping his cum as deep inside of you as he can fit it; he doesn’t want an ounce to go to waste

And then he stays there, fully sheathed inside you, before finally unlatching his lips from your throat

He’s still hard

If it were up to him, he’d go another round

Hell, he’d go for the whole night, if he could

But he knows that dazed look in your eyes means he’s completely fucked you out

He forces himself to be content with what he had, and then he’s pulling out, resisting the urge to split you open on his cock one last time just to make sure his cum really stays inside you

You snap your legs shut as soon as he pulls away, faint post-orgasm tremors still coursing through you in the aftermath of it all

He settles next to you, wrapping his arms around to pull you in, and you immediately nuzzle into him in response

It doesn’t take long for your breathing to slow, your poor little body utterly spent, and although he wants to stay awake so that he can watch over you, he finds himself dozing off without realizing it

Sunlight filters through the room the next morning

Jack blinks once, then twice, groggily pushing the fog of sleep from his mind

You’re as warm and soft as ever in his hold

You look so angelic—he swears you must be part angel

He reaches out, fingertips gently tracing over your delicate features

For a split second, he considers just biting the bullet and telling you that he loves you right then and there

You’re sleeping, so it’s not like you’d hear him or anything, and even if you did, you’d probably just dismiss it as a dream or something

He takes in a shaky breath, carefully absorbing every detail of your skin

And he’s about to say it, he really is, when suddenly, you shift slightly in your sleep, and that’s when he notices it

His heart drops

A knot curls in his stomach, stiff and heavy like a boulder, and cold hard dread fills his veins

No—no, there’s no way

There’s no way he did that

He holds his breath as he gently coaxes your head to the side to get a better view

Surely enough, it’s as clear as day

A dark bruise colors your neck, surrounded by the indents of his teeth like a flowery crown around it

He feels like he just might be sick

Repulsion lumps at the back of his throat

He doesn’t want to believe it, but the evidence is as clear as day before him

He marked you

[dogbites-puppylove]

Hello! I hope you're well.

Can you do a Damian Wayne x Male reader oneshot? Based on the song "Stacy's Brother" by Mad Tsai.

Damian finds out that Male reader is the little brother of [Big! Sister].

Then Damian decides to approach [Big! Sister], in jobs, projects, etc. All this to get closer to Male reader.

Maybe a sporty, extroverted and clumsy Male reader?

I can't get it out of my head that Male reader is somewhat nervous about being around Damian due to Damian's personality and the fact that he is taller than M!r doesn't help.

Also, Can I be anon 🛸?

Male! Reader x Damian

TW: description of yandere mentalities and actions (obsession, possessive tendencies, stalking, etc)

Tags: Yandere! Damian Wayne x Reader

Solitude is preferable to irritants for Damian, so to prove useful enough to be a contact of his is difficult. He’s an heir first and a human second,this is fact, every thought he has is spent towards a goal, and every goal to another's gain - this is the natural state of his operations. Much like a king's pristine puppet he is a glorified prize that must maintain itself. If he meets his darling through a sister or really any family member not of his own, the darling has no backing to stand. Simply and utterly he is beneath nothing to Damian - and maybe that's how he got trapped. 

Contacts from his mother provide lethal abilities, contacts from his father are useful and cut throat -expectation and criteria create his world brick by brick - everything has its place of necessity. A contact form outside this world is easy to push off - it's useless and creates nothing but problems for him - but his Darlings sister is needed and to maintain relations he must come to know Darling - so he takes to this as a bat. The Darling is a lesion, a bleeding pus addled wound in his world of rules and he must get you to heal - it's a clinical and medical perspective. He is his own greatest triumph and Darling are the termites that are picking at his puppet strings. 

Diagnosis comes from close observation- and he needs to be perfect to complete his tasks. You are stalked and detailed without mercy - without decorum, for the first few months you aren't even human. Damian takes a while stalking him, perching on the ceiling and staring through windows - devouring every image with curiosity. Like a dog lapping at its bleeding wounds - Damian tends to him with hypothesis and obsessiveness  - laving over him with his tongue until he’s all that he can taste. Every detail is crucial - every twitch of his muscle under his skin and every time his drops of drool on his pillow in the throes of the Darlings sleep. 

It begins with details and ends with praises and reverent prayers - what used to be details of something he needed to heal became the height of his worship. Damian slips from the king's grasp and becomes a tumbling mess of flash and singing blood  - the para social relationship nurses itself into an infection. 

Sporty? Good, keeping himself in shape is the least of the training that his Darling needs to do in order to stay safe in Damian’s own shadows. Not to say he’d ever let anything touch his darling but it's crucial to keep him in good shape. Paranoia runs in his blood - it's how survival is formed, it's passed on heirloom. 

Extroversion is hardly a trait he is foreign to - in fact it's perfect that his Darling seems to seek out others in social situations. As his other half, his humanity given flesh - it's obvious he would have the skills to express it. 

So what if he’s clumsy? It's simply the innocence of untarnished life showing through - Damian has none left - not even in the hollows of his bones - but his darling can make up for it. To him it's an even trade - like heaven and hell to the spirits that pass. 

After sufficiently gathering all he can from the window - it's only so long before he reaches in. He needs you - from the wound is born an infestation and Damian is sick with it - it fills his orifices and body and mind until Darling infect his brain. He won’t blame you for it - how could he - but you’ll have to take responsibility. 

Your sister is a means to an end - from the beginning of her contact to the time he uses her as a ticket into your life. He blows up her phone, her email, her everything - it's intensive and consuming and he won’t stop even if she answers. He needs you awfully, horribly to the point he might bleed out if he doesn't have his hand on your skin. She tries once to pull away - for her youngest brother's sake - she wakes up with a katana and a whispered warning to her ear. She does not try again. Sometimes you can see her eyeing you from the other side of the room with something like an apology on her face. 

Sharing a gender orientation gives him easier access to you - into bathrooms, locker rooms, and a sort of social intimacy that society gives leeway. It's not overly suspicious as he leaves an arm on you - seeks you out - it's what friends do. You're both boys so there's nothing to be shy about Darling. 

Of course he makes you nervous - ha can’t blame you - he's a trained assassin and you're all but a civilian but he’d never harm you. Never dream of it, even, to harm you would be his death. But it doesn't stop his eyes that are far too familiar for a stranger, nor the offsetting way he accommodates you so easily - as if he knows you better than yourself. As if he’s a worm in your brain and was wriggled so far it's made its home - a parasite. It sets you on edge - pulls at your skin until your organs and bones and he still needs to go deeper. 

Author's Note: Hi anon! I don’t actually have a cohesive list of anons but if you want to identify yourself with emojis i'm all for it :)). Also - my writing in general doesn’t incorporate gender a lot but I hope this is ok. 

[lets-try-some-writing]

Your "Forbidden Sight" fic is soon juicy ans gnarly. Like damn Primus didn't even have the empathy to at least turn Prime's pain receptors off. Since this was a one shot, what WAS the price that he paid? Primus was close to smiting or taking Bee. And what did it mean when Primus took someone? Does he string them up somewhere like Optimus too? Or worse?

*cue evil laughter*

Firstly, I am very glad you liked my creepy little one shot. I had so much fun working on it. The idea hit me in the middle of the day during a class and I had to write it. Now with that said, you ask about the price?

Well, what I imagined while writing the one shot is something like this. Bumblebee asked for knowledge to defeat the Fallen. In Primus's optics, the most efficient way to give Bumblebee what he wanted was to make him a Prime. See, when Primus takes a mech, he takes them into himself. They become one of his. Optimus gave up quite literally everything in exchange for power and knowledge. His life, his frame, his spark. All of it was offered in order to become Prime and obtain what he needed to save their burning world.

Bumblebee would have had to be taken and remade. Bumblebee would have been bound in the covenant of eternal servitude that every Prime endures if he had been taken to carry the Matrix. Hence why Optimus fought so bitterly against Primus in his attempts to take Bumblebee and make him anew.

Primus is a god who likes order. He thrives in it. And so to satisfy Primus, Optimus gave the only thing he had left in exchange for Bumblebee's continued freedom. And eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. Bumblebee kept his freedom and Optimus gave his free will. Up until that point, Optimus was still capable of making choices without Primus's consent if he so desired. They were small actions of course, but he had that ability. If he wanted to, he could still decide to die or to fight. But to keep Bumblebee safe, he willingly offered himself as a puppet to the god of all Cybertronians.

By the end of the one-shot, Optimus is very much alive, but Primus can and will take control of his actions without notice. Everytihng Optimus is now will be determined by his god. His thoughts, his choices, his disposition. All of it are no longer his to determine. Optimus belongs to Primus, and nothing can free him save for a sacrifice of equal grandeur. As Primus said, he is willing to make deals.

[agentmarcuspike]

frankie morales x dominatrix (+ ex!reader)

synopsis: after breaking up with you on a self sabotaging whim, frankie finds his way back into familiar arms to cope content warnings: mentions of drugs and addiction, sub!frankie, destructive and avoidant behavior, sex work, joi (jerk-off instructions), masturbation (m), degredation kink, vague descriptions of dissociation, dom's name is jessica (after my hero @hier--soir), cum, some pain and tears related to jerking off (stop if it hurts, guys!), military related trauma, very brief attempt at aftercare word count: ~ 2.7k a/n: my first frankie fic! thank you, han @swiftispunk, for proof reading af, for encouraging me to conquer my p0rn shame, and of course for writing such an inspiring sub!frankie. we love him (and u)

Frankie knew it wasn’t fair to you. He knew he’d cause you pain by ending things after twelve amazing, promising months. But compared to the inevitable pain he was doomed to bring everyone he loved and cared for, it was nothing. 

He’d been clean for a mere week when you met, and the rush you gave him had been enough to replace the rush of a high. For a while. But when the withdrawals and unrest returned, and the butterflies could no longer keep the cravings at bay, you’d held him through the tremors, wiped the cold sweat off his forehead, and at no point had you judged him for his past or his way of coping. You’d loved him. 

And you still did. 

Did he love you too? Most likely. Probably. Yes. Which was why he had done what he had. Because you deserved someone better for you. Someone without his history, his trauma, his wounds. No matter how much he loved you for tending to them, you shouldn’t have had to. And that’s why he’d left, on this gloomy Sunday evening, with no other explanation than, “I’m sorry.”

It’s also why Frankie finds himself roaming the chilly city, street lights blurry, all noises softened by a thick layer of apathy. He has no idea how long he’s been walking, no idea whether he’s tired or not. He feels like a shadow of himself, with no wants or needs, no ambition or goals. Just a body moving, constantly moving, to avoid having to think or feel. But as a bicycle quickly swooshes past him on the sidewalk, almost knocking him over, he stops in his tracks and looks around. 

He finds he’s made his way to the other side of town. The air is thicker here somehow, heavier with desperation than in the area he'd tricked himself into thinking he'd belonged in for the past couple years, amongst white picket fences and successful neighbors.

Here, the atmosphere is familiar. People seeking shelter between dumpsters, some asleep, some chasing relief in a fashion Frankie is all too acquainted with. A single buzz goes off in his head when the urge comes back to him. It would be so easy. He knows where to get it, knows how it works. Where to go, who to see, what to say. It would give him the energy to do whatever he could to keep this heartache away. 

So he sets his legs back in motion. At the end of the street, they make a conscious right, a left, and then his mind is wandering again, off in a different direction than his feet. And then his feet stop. He’s standing outside of a regal looking building. Off-white stone façade, adorned with French balconies and decorations, art deco mascarons staring down at him with empty eyes.

Two white columns frame the heavy front door he’s walked through so many, many times. Not since you, though. Frankie has not had the need to visit this place since you first locked eyes with him. 

Without a second thought, before he can change his mind, he rings the doorbell and he’s buzzed inside. With every heavy step up the marble stairs, echoing off the shiny walls, the lights in Frankie’s brain turn off one by one. As he reaches the fourth floor, he’s merely a shell of himself, a puppet on a pair of floppy strings, longing for someone to take control.

He stands still on the landing for a minute, breathing slowly, deliberately, waiting for his arm to rise and knock on its own. It doesn’t, so he orders his hand to place three quick raps on the door.

A few seconds later, a woman comes out. Her hair is tied up, haphazardly moved out of her face and neck with an elegant claw clip. The hand she’s not using to hold the door open is placed in front of her, fingers in a fist clutching the two sides of a silk robe together, careful not to expose more of herself than what’s already poking out from underneath the short covering.

“Frankie…?” she asks, brows raised in surprise. 

He gives her a nod and a weak, “Hi” in response, clearing his throat and repeating the greeting. “Jessica,” he mutters. 

The woman takes a step over the doorstep, pulling her robe tighter around herself.

“I didn’t expect you! We didn’t have an appointment today, did we?” Her voice is slightly panicked, worried she’s forgotten, her eyes darting quickly down to the non-existent watch on her wrist.

Frankie shakes his head. “No.” He shifts his weight from one leg to the other, opening and closing his fidgety hands. “I just…” His voice cracks, he swallows and tries again. 

“I just need two minutes.” 

Something in his core refuses to let him look at the woman in front of him. 

He knows her well, knows she’d never judge him. She’s seen him in much more vulnerable positions than this, and yet, something about being so emotionally affected in front of her has him staring at the floor.

She leans down, bending at the waist and tilting her head to find his eyes, making him look at her. When he does, his voice is weak, but assured. He knows what he needs. “Please.”

The plea is enough. Jessica gives him a subtle nod before stepping aside and letting Frankie in. 

He automatically kicks off his shoes and parks them by the door. Straightening back up, arms fixed by his sides, he awaits further instruction.  

“Clothes off, sweetie,” Jessica commands softly. “And wait right here for me. Be right back.” She disappears from the hallway and into the living room, leaving Frankie alone to undress. He makes quick work of it, not bothering with all the buttons, careless about whether they end up inside out or not. 

He sheds his clothes like he wants to shed his skin and grow a new one. A brand new layer, thicker than the one he has, one free of marks from your bruising touch.

On autopilot, he drops to his knees on the tiled hallway floor, hands clasped behind his back, easily and comfortably slipping back into the familiar cadence of compliance. 

The hard cold surface keeps him from crashing into the floor, from falling through it, by burrowing into his knees, stone against bone. He forces all of his attention to the sensation; the dull ache in his kneecaps, the strain in his thighs. The feeling of staying in position despite the discomfort fills him with a sense of pride and control only certain things can give him. One of them is playing the part of soldier, fighting on someone else’s behalf. The other is this; surrendering completely to someone else’s needs and wishes. 

Jessica is back a quick minute later. 

“Come in, Frankie.” 

Hands on the floor for support, he rises and follows her. 

The room isn’t new to him. He’s seen it before, but only in passing, on his way to her bedroom, to the bathroom and back again. But he’s never spent time there, or had the opportunity to really see her private space. It’s a stark contrast to her cold and minimal bedroom. The space isn’t big, so the green velvet couch placed in the middle of the room instead of against a wall is a bold choice. To the left and right of the sofa sit two small side tables, the floor space covered by a massive persian rug. 

Jessica gestures to this rug as she sits, legs crossed and arm thrown casually over the back of the sofa, causing her robe to cleave at the top, showing off her clavicles. 

Frankie finds his place in the middle of the carpet. He should feel vulnerable, fully naked in a new environment. But Jessica’s mild authority, untroubled by the situation, keeps him calm. 

“You just need two minutes, you said?” 

Frankie nods. 

“Very well, then. Two minutes is what you get,” she declares. And then, demanding:

“Kneel.”

And Frankie does. One knee at a time touches the soft carpet beneath him. His hands come down to support him before he sits back on his heels, head bowed, only looking up at her through his lashes when he hears her shuffle.

From the side table to her right, she picks up a round egg shaped gadget and turns the top and bottom halves in opposite directions. For a second he thinks it’s gonna vibrate, until he hears the ticking. Jessica puts the kitchen timer back down on the side table.

“Those are your precious seconds, big boy. You better start touching yourself.”

Frankie’s hand automatically shoots down to palm himself, already half hard from excitement, but seeing his hesitant movements, she clarifies.

“Two minutes to come for me, or you’re not gonna be allowed to come in a very…,” She drags out the pause between the words, “...Very long time. Understand?”

Frankie nods. 

“Use your words, baby.”

“Yes, ma’am.” His voice is hoarse with anticipation. “I understand, ma’am.”

“Good boy.” She gives him a wink. “Now go on, make yourself come for me.”

Her command, combined with the ticking sound of time passing, has him quickly tugging at himself, eroticizing anything and everything he can see around him to get there; Jessica’s toned and shiny calves, the way a stray piece of hair has escaped her claw clip and softly caresses her cheekbone. His hand is tight around his cock as he fists himself frantically. Precum starts to gather at his tip, glistening in the soft lighting, and he smears it over his length.

Jessica spreads her legs on the couch in front of him, making Frankie groan with impatience, but she quickly places a hand in her lap, blocking his view.

“Look at you. So needy, so whiny.”

Frankie moans, not meeting her gaze, the quick pumps of his wrist making him sore and frustrated and he can feel something building, but he’s not quite there yet.

“I haven’t even undressed and you’re all worked up.” Her voice is soft and obnoxiously affectionate. “How pathetic.” 

He finally looks up at her face, his sad eyes begging for more; Frankie wants her to look at him too. Wants her to see him. But she doesn’t pay him any mind, she’s only eyeing the ticking clock. 

“One minute now,” she tsks. “It’s all the time you deserve, to be honest.”

And now she looks at him. Her gaze is sharp and domineering, but there’s something round behind it. Something in the shape of worry. It quickly disappears when she speaks again.

“You’re not worth any more of my attention,” she continues. “A disgrace, that’s what you are. Just a dirty, filthy masturbator.” 

As she shifts slightly in her seat, her robe slips off of one of her shoulders, exposing more of her skin and chest. Frankie swallows harshly at the sight. 

Mouth agape, tongue poking out to wet his lips, he squeezes his eyes shut, focusing only on the command, his one objective: come. The soft hairs of the carpet are starting to feel like knives, boring into his skin, a welcome pain were it not distracting him from the task at hand. He shifts ever so slightly from side to side, relieving his knees from the hurt in turn.

Jessica must sense his discomfort, because she purrs, 

“You’re not gonna come all over my carpet, are you?”

Frankie shakes his head frantically and begins to walk on his knees towards the shiny hardwood floor. 

“I’d have to make you clean it up,” Jessica continues.

Tears are pushing behind Frankie’s eyes as he nears release. His toes curl, and he grits his teeth, trying to block out the timer’s insistent ticks. 

“10 seconds, now,” she informs him. He squeezes his cock even harder, pumping himself with short quick strokes. Blood rushes through his ears, muffling Jessica’s voice as she counts down.

“Five, four…”

He’s outside of his body. His breath hitches.

“Three, two–”

As the room fills with the shrill of the alarm, Frankie’s cock pulses in his hand, spurting thick ropes of hot cum onto the floor. He keeps going, using his own spend as lubrication, choking his hard length until he’s shuddering, hunched over, sweaty and teary eyed. 

Frankie’s body slants forward. He steadies himself with his hands on his thighs, blinking slowly as he concentrates on catching his breath, returning his body. Jessica is patient. She waits until his chest fills and empties itself of air at a reasonable pace, and then she stands up and walks towards him. 

His head shoots up when she reaches him, but she places herself behind him, a comforting hand on each of his shoulders, and bends down to kiss his head.

“Stay,” she whispers as she gets back up and moves to leave the room, Frankie left on the floor with his thoughts and his mess. He wonders if he should clean up–even if he had managed to avoid the carpet–but he doesn’t have time to do anything before Jessica is back. She’s carrying his things, his shirt hanging over her arm as she works to turn his other clothes right side out. 

Slowly, carefully, she helps him back into what he’d been wearing when he’d arrived. One hand through the sleeve. Then the other. Stepping into his underwear, then his jeans, one leg at a time. She saves his hat for last. Before placing it over his messy head of curls, she cups his face with the palm of her hand. 

She leans in, placing a delicate kiss to his cheek, lips barely brushing his skin. Frankie blinks. Accepting softness from Jessica isn’t new to him, but the words she gives him after take him by surprise.

“I’m proud of you, Frankie.” 

Her eyes are earnest, open, genuine. He almost finds it in him to believe her, and allows himself to lean into her touch, resting his heavy head on her palm for a second shorter than he’d like to, breaking away when the darkness behind his closed eyelids makes way for pictures of you holding him, him leaning back on you. 

He quickly reassesses, telling himself this is your job, that he’s a customer, that he hadn’t even made an appointment. He should tip you at least 200%. Shaky hands dig into the pockets of his jeans, pulling out no more than two twenties. 

Swearing under his breath, Frankie starts to panic. 

“I– I didn’t…” he begins. “It was so spontaneous–”

She shushes him. “Don’t worry about it.” Her smile is heartfelt, which embarasses him even more. “I’m just glad you came.”

Frankie shakes his head. “No, I wanna pay. I mean, speaking of coming, let me at least wipe my cum off your floor.” He gestures to the sticky mess slowly coagulating on her floorboards. 

Jessica snickers.

“Do you do the dishes when you’ve eaten out too?” She raises her brows, and he chuckles, shaking his head quietly. 

“It’s all part of the service, baby. Come on, let me walk you out.”

On the doorstep, he gives Jessica a quick kiss goodbye. He thanks her again, and she thanks him back, though for what he’s not sure. Visiting? Choosing her? The company? Either way, he takes her gratitude and shoves it in his pocket with the twenties. When he reaches the lobby, passing a wall full of mailboxes, he quickly locates hers, and swiftly shoves the two bills into the mouth of it. 

Frankie’s feet start moving down the street, and his head absentmindedly follows. His skull is no less heavy, the feelings just as painful, and pictures of you still project onto the insides of his eyelids every time he blinks. But a lightness now coats his mind. A sense of victory. He resisted the easy way out. He chose to stay sober, even though he could’ve so easily gone back to his old ways of burying any unwanted feelings in torrents of snow. 

And with that feeling of achievement, of growth and gain, he realizes where his feet are taking him. The tall buildings turn into houses, the shop windows into white picket fences. In the distance he makes out the house you’ve made a home together. He prays you’ll open the door. That you’ll give him some time. He just needs two minutes.

i have a feeling tumblr is limiting my posts or something, and i don't have a taglist, so here are some absolutely no pressure tags for people i think might enjoy this/who have liked my previous fics?? let me know if i'm wrong!!

@joelsversion @joelscruff @missredherring @iamasaddie @toxicrecs @eupheme @sweetercalypso @mrsmando @lunitareads @amanitacowboy @tieronecrush @psychedelic-ink @perotovar @thetriumphantpanda @joelsgreys @undercoverpena @pedgito @wannab-urs @gasolinerainbowpuddles @thelightsandtheroses

[small-sinclair]

Unfavored Cards

Whumptover 15: Childhood Trauma

Post Void!Gambit x Villian!reader

Tw: Gambit being a bit violent, blood, broken bones, sudden attack, being held down, Plot Twist Ending

Moment of Clarity

He hunted you down in the void like a rabid wolf looking for a squared meal. You were the reason why he got here in the first place, and it was your fault that he wasn’t home. He wasn’t sure if his cats were alright or know if Rogue was waiting for him. He longed for him more than he wanted to admit, but it was clear to everyone whenever he would wake up screaming out her name into the cold night air, flinging a card into the darkness to explode at nothing.

It was your fault.

All. Your. Fault.

So, hunting you down was like a little reward for him, and getting the satisfaction of watching the light leave your eyes was the most rewarding thing he’ll ever settle for in this wasteland. The moment he got a lead on you, he took it; no one was going to stop him no matter how hard they tried. Hell, even Johnny tried to stop him but ended on the ground with the business end of a charged bow staff. The glow in his red eyes screamed danger as they burned in bright embers and coal, making Johnny shuffling away from the ground to his feet. The anger that raised from Gambit’s blood to his stare was enough to warn off any creature, mutant and human alike. He was going to hunt you down without mercy, without thinking. He hated the way that you’re still breathing and not six-feet-under yet. For you, he’ll make it twelve feet.

You’re about to become a body that’ll never be found. Even in the land of the forgotten, no one will ever remember you. Show him a good time while he ends your life, though. It would be the cherry on top of his sundae.

So, when he found you at your makeshift campsite at the bottom of a haler, living your life as if you weren’t in danger, only brought more heat on his breath. How dare you hum a familiar tune. How dare you act as if you did nothing wrong! You were the main reason why he felt empty, felt hollow without his love! Whenever he closed his eyes, he would envision her in all her beauty, all her grace. Rogue was the true Mississippian Bell of the south, and he a fool of Louisiana with a heart of coal and swamp water. The more he thought of her laughter and her smile flashing in his memory, the more possessed he felt on putting you down. If he were a puppet right now for someone’s game, he only hops he was pulling the strings and breaking free from your grasp.

He gripped staff tightly and felt a few cards beginning to hover by his face, up by his eyes, and alongside of his free hand. Gambit wanted nothing more than to hurt you, break you until you were begging him to stop. This ends now; today! It may not bring back his love or free him, but it would bring him temporary comfort knowing you’re gone. With a flick of his wrist, his cards flew past him and hit you in the back. He earns a surprised yelp from you, but it wasn’t good enough. He towered over you from his spot, his shadow casting over your campfire with only his bright red eyes glowing in his darkness.

“You,” he snarled, his eyes narrowing down. “You took her from me!”

He saw you were about to open your mouth, but he silenced you with an ace card. It hit you in the chest and knocked you back, slamming you into a log. He didn’t give you time to get up as he slide down the little hill and slung another card at you, the charge stronger than the last. It knocked you to the ground within a snap, and he didn’t give you time to get back up on your feet; he pinned you to the forest floor, his legs on each side of you and a strong hand holding your hands above your head. He brought back his fist and landed it on your face, breaking your nose in the process.

With each hit from his gloved hand, each blow and broken bone under his touch, his thoughts flooded of Rogue in the sundress, the one with lime slices and honeysuckle. He heard his voice, singing sweetly and bright, as she stirred the pot for dinner. Everything he did, every he landed blow on your face and skin, felt like justice for himself. No matter how loud you screamed at him to stop, how many pleas and begs, he didn’t hear them Gambit knows what he wanted, and it burned his skin like wire over a flame. He wanted to free; he wanted to get out faster and sooner! Even if you can’t bring him back to his world and back to the swamplands, this will be the closest thing.

If anything, he was happy to see the blinking collar around your neck, showing that your mind powers were off and not tricking him. Where did you get it and who put it on you? He didn’t care. He won’t care.

He felt the strings around him break as his mind finally breaks into clarity. He wanted to see you bloodied and beaten under him. He held his fist over your head and watched as blood dripped from his knuckles; your blood never looked sweeter.

He quickly dug into his coat pocket and pulled out the Queen of Hearts. He felt all his energy, all the static around him, build into the card and charged it up with bright purple and red energy. He wanted you to fell the burn and the swiftness of his powers. He wanted you to see how fast and easy he could end you with this single card.

The cards always be in Gambit’s favor—

“Remy.”

As soon as the blood in his ears stopped roaring and his eyes were cleared from his anger, he looked down at the person beneath him. His heart nearly stopped as he looked at the woman looking back at him. His heart began to break, and his lungs filled with pained regret. Looking back at him with bright green eyes was Anna Maria, Rogue; his world. Her face swollen and bruised from his hits, eye swollen and too blue and purple for his stomach to handle, her throat with his mark, his handprint, that will forever be burned into her skin just under the blinking collar, shutting off her strength. The cut on her cheek bleed with the cut above her eye. The shattered look in her eyes only made his heart erupt in pieces. Her lips, beautiful and so soft, was plumped and bruised, cracked and bloody. The clothing he thought you were in turned into her green and yellow jumpsuit, and her hair a mess and matted from being held down for so long. He physically felt the string around his throat snap and break free from his skin, and he let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

She looked like an angel whose wings were torn off and left for the gators to finish off.

His charged card quickly stopped glowing, and he got off her. His touch made her flinch away as he scooped her into his arms. His emotions flooding his lungs as he cradled her in his arms, holding her tightly as if he was the duct tape trying to keep his world together. It all felt so real when he told Johnny to stay behind. It all felt real when he found your campsite. He was so sure that he was there beating you until your lungs stopped and he had your heart in his hands, but he wasn’t. The world he thought he was in wasn’t there at all; the void surrender him months ago and brought him back to Rogue, back to her arms.

He let her see the side of him he never wanted to show. How could he do this? How could he let himself—

You’re a good puppet, Gambit. Your voice began to echo in his head, causing him to look wildly around the forest clearing until he saw you standing in your shadows and cloak. Such a good tool for me to use.

“Get away from us,” he breathed, shielding Rogue with his bruised hands. His red on black eyes were sharp as he glared at you. “You get away from us!” As he raised his voice, Rogue flinched in his arms, curling into a ball. “Shh, mon chere. Gambit ne vous fera pas de mal. I won’t—”

He heard your cold, heartless laugh, which only made him growl. You’re a fun one, Remy LuBeau.

He growled as he felt his powers begin to build back into the cards in his coat. “Ya don’ getta say my name!” He snapped. When Rogue’s tears touched his skin, it felt like acid burning through his bones and his skin. Every cell in his body felt like it was dying. “Never say my name!”

Do you know how easy it is to shape your vision? How easy it was to make you believe you were attacking me? It’s almost as if you were mocking him as you swirled shadows around your finger. It was so careless and thoughtless; he hated it. You really thought that New Yorker was going to stop you? Gods, you’re so stupid.

“Get outta my head.” He took a card from the ground and charged it until it glowed bright and strong. “Laissez-nous!”

You smiled sweetly at him as you opened your lips, letting luna moths escape from your lips and flutter around him. “I’ll always find a way to hurt you, Cajun. Never forget me. Never.”

“I’ll make ya pay! Hear me clear—I swear!” Gambit held Rogue protectively as he readied his card. “Swear it t’ya. I’ll never stop until you’re dead!”

“Oh, Remy,” you said his name with empty emotion that it nearly made a vein pop in his neck. “I look forward to it.”

With a yell, he through his card and hurled it towards you with as much as he could muster, with all his energy and power.

The fireflies danced with the sound of your endless tango with Remy, and what a dance it’s become.

[sophieinthewaste]

I feel so late to the party, but it’s only been in my early 20s that I discovered the ~joys of fandom/fanfiction~; a past, snobby version of me would hate to say it, but it’s honestly been profound for me. I stumbled into AO3 when my chronic illness relapsed and I was bedridden; my brain was so addled with fatigue and brain fog that I couldn’t pick up a book, so I thought fanfiction might be a nice way to try to read again without having to trudge through longer works.

I could wax poetic for a long time about what I ended up discovering when I got into reading and writing fanfiction, but one of the most important things for me was seeing how fandom communities worked together to create a sort of multiverse of story. I timidly searched for fics for a TV show where my favorite character dies and his death had left me reeling with feelings that almost felt like real grief. But then, to my surprise, here on this site were hundreds of stories where this character was still alive, happy, well! Hundreds of storylines where death was not a necessity, not his destiny, where he got the life and happiness that he deserved. Suddenly, the storyline of the show didn’t have a suffocating grip around my throat; the show’s storyline is one version of the story, yes, but it does not have to have ultimate power over me. In one world that character dies, and in hundreds of others he doesn’t, at least not until he’s good and ready. There was space for all of these storylines, all of these possibilities, and I could gain something from as many of them as I wanted to explore.

This was not only comforting in terms of my relationship to story, but also healing in my own life. I felt utterly helpless in my illness, like a puppet on strings controlled by some biochemical reality in me that I couldn’t defy or even name. I felt like I was at the complete mercy of this storyline in my life, that illness had taken over the entire plot and I just had to lie there and take it.

Of course, fanfiction was no medical intervention. (If only.) But it did help me learn: you don’t have to be at the mercy of a story that kills you. You can change it. You can add to it. You can rewind, or go forward, jump to an AU. Say “yes and,” in that glorious way that fics all coexist under that expansive, inclusive umbrella of their fandom. You have that power over story just by your birthright of having an imagination. I couldn’t wave a magic wand at my failing body, but I could work to stop my brain from writing stories where I would never heal or be happy again. I could decide to tell the story that, instead of being a wretched good-for-nothing corpse, I was a person who was surviving, whose “best” just looked like taking the next breath and that was enough. I could see all the ugly of my circumstances but also open myself up to all the coexisting subplots of my life, that there was still beauty and light worth living for, even if it was just found in a smile or a laugh inspired by a great fic.

Fanfiction helped me learn that stories are ours, including (and especially) our own stories, and I will always be grateful. I’m sure a lot of my fellow fic readers/writers discovered this freedom and agency long ago in the trenches of middle school, but better late than never!!

[adore-laur]

HIM

— a flashback of the moment sawyer realized she was in love with harry 🩶

——

Sawyer, a devoted hopeless romantic and lover of stories intertwined with strings of fate, knew Harry was her lifelong companion in May of 1989.

In a way, she felt guilty about it. She was already in a relationship with Jordan, a man she settled for and could be comfortably mundane around. There weren't fireworks shooting off in her heart every time she was with her boyfriend, but she was enticed by his mellow demeanor and how he bragged about her beauty to his friends. At the end of the day, she was loyal to him over everyone else until a puppeteer called Fate played with the strings of Sawyer's life path and made things a bit complicated.

Enter: Harry. There was no need to retell the tale of how fate had brought the two of them together in the form of a volleyball. That day had just been the beginning of Sawyer's world tipping on its axis because with someone like Harry—charming, chivalrous, and exuberant—the more time she spent with him, the harder it became to vanquish certain feelings.

After almost two years of friendship, Sawyer began to experience funny little pulses of attraction toward him. They started in her heart—if he had simply walked into a room, hugged her hello, or smiled in her direction, it was as if someone was rapidly poking her heart while chanting, him, him, him. Then her gut joined the party. Giddy flutters and delicious swirls of temptation danced around whenever Harry touched her. Ever the gentleman, the touches were always innocent—a heavy palm on her shoulder, a teasing noogie on the top of her head, and sometimes a comforting kiss on her cheek when their otherwise lighthearted conversations turned serious.

It became dangerous when those sensations traveled even lower. When Sawyer started to feel pulses in places that should never be elicited by a friend, she knew she had to draw a boundary line and slap herself upside the head.

Yet in those vulnerable moments, a problematic thought circled her brain. Could she possibly be in love with two people at the same time? Was what she felt with Jordan even considered love? He never called her on the landline and talked to her for hours like Harry did. He never surprised her with trips to the mall or a movie night. He rarely asked her questions about herself. Had her idea of true love been skewed all along? Or was she a terrible person for liking Harry more than anyone else?

A single day in May had given her clarity. It all started with a sprained ankle and an almost-kiss in a hospital bed.

——

Sawyer was beginning to believe playing volleyball on Cocoa Beach was a cursed activity. Something always went awry when she stepped foot on the silky sand and ducked under the net to get in her designated setter position.

Maybe it was because the usual participants forwent the standard girls versus boys system and opted for teams based on nothing other than the order of arrival. It was two p.m. when Sawyer was dropped off at the beach by Harry before he headed to baseball practice. She was immediately placed on a team with four boys and one other girl around the same age. They were large men with linebacker shoulders and bulging biceps. Probably jocks, considering how they grunted and slapped each other's butts and heads whenever they scored.

Sometime during the second round, Sawyer prepared to set the volleyball for the man beside her to spike over the net. She bent her knees and elbows while watching the ball soar on a perfect path toward her. The man, without warning or team communication, flung his body into her to reach the ball first, just like any egotistical male playing a competitive game often did.

Suddenly off balance, Sawyer felt her left ankle twist in the wrong direction as the man finished his fall against her, knocking her to the ground. Their collective tumble was cushioned by soft grains of sand, but it still stunned her as the weight of a sweaty, six-foot body rolled off her.

"Sorry about that," he said, dusting his hands off and casually walking away like he hadn't body-slammed her into another dimension.

"Jerk," Sawyer mumbled. She inhaled shallow breaths and winced when she moved her ankle, the pain registering fully. The twinge was sharp, and she instantly knew she had done something to it. Or, rather, the man did. Was volleyball really that serious to him? Had he even noticed her standing there, ready to assist him like the good teammate she was? Ugh, boys and their lack of spatial awareness.

The girl on her team raced over, with a lifeguard following closely behind. "Are you hurt?" she asked in a Southern drawl.

Tears brimmed Sawyer's waterline. "I twisted my ankle," she said uneasily, reaching out to touch it. The skin was tender and swelling already.

The lifeguard kneeled and examined her with hooded blue eyes. He looked like a teenager, with lanky arms and a red whistle lying against his freckled chest. "Can you move it at all?"

"No," she whimpered, her voice thick with fear.

"Yikes. I'll send over an ambulance."

She shook her head vehemently. "That's very kind of you, but I think I'd feel more comfortable being driven by someone else." It wasn’t a total lie, but the actual reasoning behind her answer had to do with the fact that an ambulance ride was a cost she simply could not afford. The dent it would create in her unimpressive savings account made her nauseated.

"Sure," said the lifeguard. "Is there someone in particular we can call for you?"

Sawyer closed her eyes against the blinding sun. Harry. A rush of relief accompanied his name. She needed him. When she called, he always came. The pain would fade within a single second of basking in his sunshine.

But when Sawyer's eyes opened, logic pounded her brain and took charge. "Jordan. Um, he's my boyfriend. I'd like to speak with him myself if that's possible."

The lifeguard shrugged. "I guess we can allow that. We'll have to carry you to the community center, though."

"That's fine."

The girl and the lifeguard lifted her carefully and walked toward the little brick building by the beach's parking lot. It was quite humiliating. In a private office area, they set her down on a metal chair. There was a bureaucratic desk with paperwork, nondescript folders, one too many succulent plants, and other miscellaneous office supplies scattered on the sleek mahogany surface. Unfortunately, the room smelled like mildew and rotten banana peels. The noisy air conditioning unit rattling in the corner made it waft around rather unpleasantly.

After offering her an ice pack and pointing at an outdated telephone system, the lifeguard lingered by the door. "You can hang in here until you get picked up." He smiled awkwardly. "Hope you feel better."

"Thanks."

The girl beside him cleared her throat and said, "The guy who knocked you down is my brother. I'll make sure to kick his ass later."

Sawyer only managed to laugh weakly before they both left her alone, the creaky door shutting behind them.

With an exaggerated groan, Sawyer picked up the phone and dialed Jordan's number. Hopefully, he had his Motorola on him, but an awful part of her secretly wished he wouldn't answer. She hoped she would have no choice but to try her second option. God, she hoped Harry would barge into the room, demand who caused her such pain, and then kiss her ankle better. And then he would kiss—

"Sawyerrrrr. Why're you bugging me?" The slurred greeting obnoxiously sounded against her ear. Lively chatter was muffled in the background, and a phantom smell of beer made her crinkle her nose. She had encouraged him to hang out with his friends from college. Apparently, day drinking was their idea of fun. Jordan had asked if she wanted to come with him, but she had said she’d rather be outside soaking up the May sun than inside a dark, stuffy bar. He didn't seem to care.

"Hey, Jordan. Are you able to pick me up from Cocoa Beach?"

"What, right now? I'm not even in Orlando, babe."

Rolling her eyes toward the ceiling, she asked, "Where are you?"

"Uh, I think we're in..." he trailed off before yelling, "Yo, Tanner! Where are we?" A few seconds of deep, unintelligible voices boomed before he said, "We're in Zellwood."

Great. He was over thirty minutes away. There was absolutely no way he would drive back to Orlando through early summer traffic. Plus, he sounded hammered. Double whammy.

"Okay," Sawyer whispered, knowing her voice would crack if she spoke any louder. "Never mind. Have fun."

Jordan tutted. "You miss me, dollface? Is that why you're calling?"

"You caught me," she lied, trying her best to sound lovesick. "But I'll see you tonight, right?"

"Maybe," he said distractedly. "We might go to Daniel's party later and crash at his place."

She racked her brain for any recollection of Daniel. Nope, nothing. "Sure, that's cool with me."

"Good," he replied, like her answer was the only one he would accept. "We're starting another round of beer pong, so I gotta bounce."

If Sawyer mentioned her ankle, there would be a pointless argument about the situation. She could practically predict it: You have to pay attention to your surroundings, Sawyer. Don't let men push you around, Sawyer.

So, she didn't. Slouching in the rigid chair, she released a long, anxious breath and said, "Bye, J."

"Adios!"

She rammed the phone into the cradle and pressed the heels of her palms against her forehead. She glared at the square buttons, her eyes darting around the numbers in the order of a phone number she knew by heart. There was no way she would bother him. There had to be another option, but regrettably, her parents worked an hour outside the city, and she honestly couldn't remember any of her friend's numbers off the top of her head.

Her ankle throbbed with agonizing heat, and the increased blood flow was circulating there with heavy pressure. Whimpering, she quickly picked up the phone again and pressed the ten digits. She had false hope that Harry would answer, considering he was occupied with practice and most likely didn't have his bag phone near him.

As Sawyer twisted the spiral cord around her pointer finger, the line rang monotonously. Three times, four times, five... When an automated voice directed her to leave a voicemail, she felt tears fall to her chin. She just wanted to go home, shower, crawl under cold sheets, and curl up next to Harry while he iced her ankle and played with her hair until she fell asleep in his embrace.

"What am I going to do?" she whispered to herself. The last resort was calling for an ambulance, but she really didn't want to sit in the back of a scary vehicle surrounded by strangers.

In a sudden moment of desperation, Sawyer searched the room for a phone book, all while hopping on one foot. After opening and shutting several filing cabinet drawers, she finally found one and flipped through the thin yellow pages until she landed on the "T" section. Her gaze slid down the directory before stopping at Tinker Field.

She dialed the venue's number and patiently waited while sitting down again, the cool metal of the chair washing over the back of her thighs. She was still in her bikini, and stray grains of sand were accumulating all over the floor. She was a hot mess.

"Hello, this is Kathy at the Tinker Field Ticket Office," said a cheerful voice on the other line. "How may I help you today?"

"Hi, my name is Sawyer Clemente. I was wondering if you could get Harry Styles on the phone, please. He pitches for the SunRays and is at practice right now on the field. He's my friend, and... I'm having a little emergency. I need his help."

"Oh, dear," Kathy replied with genuine concern. "Well, the team is quite busy practicing, but I can try my best to reach him. I can give you a call back and let you know. You said your name is Sawyer?"

"Yes. But if he's too busy, don't bother." She looked down at her ankle, grateful it still had all its bones intact. "Tell him it's not a matter of life or death."

"No problem, sweetheart. I'm going to put you on hold and then get back to you shortly."

"Thank you so much." Insufferable hold music played, adding more misery to the pain in her ankle. The skin was even more swollen, and a faint purple bruise stained her protruded ankle bone. The ice pack was barely numbing it.

Sawyer thought back to when her volleyball serve had knocked Harry to the ground two years ago. She had been so worried, but he’d taken it like a champ and dazzled her with the brightest smile she had ever seen. He had made her blush within five minutes of meeting him—it was an effect he had on every woman, but he always brushed their attention off like an insignificant piece of lint. No one could quite capture his attention for long enough, and she was unsure why he had chosen to stick with her in particular.

While Harry was easily distracted by the world around him, Sawyer never had to beg for his attention. Whenever they were together, he devoted his time and energy to their plans—relaxing beach days, goofing around at the local arcade, cracking up over episodes of Whose Line Is It Anyway?, and relishing whatever other random activities Harry hatched in that spontaneous brain of his.

Jordan, who’s on the other end of the personality spectrum, was too busy with work or partying to spend much one-on-one time with her. During the rare times they did, she was usually dragged along to some unfamiliar bar or frat house filled with strangers who reeked of alcohol. Despite being jaded by all the tagalongs, she dealt with it because it made Jordan happy. And, in a twisted way, it often meant she could see Harry the following day while Jordan recovered from a hangover that left him bedridden and chronically cranky.

Debilitating guilt consumed her whenever she compared the two men. There was a clear difference between the two—boyfriend and boy friend. If the line with Harry began to blur, she would have to...

Her cerebral spiral was thwarted when the hold music abruptly stopped mid-saxophone solo. Kathy's kind voice returned. "All right, I have your friend here on the—" Muffled static interfered, causing Sawyer to perk up in concern.

"Sawyer?" Harry interrupted, out of breath and panicked. She could picture him sweaty, tanned, and tired from practicing in the humid Florida air. "What's going on, angel? Tell me what's the matter."

Her face crumpled with sweet relief. Hearing her favorite voice made more pathetic tears trail down her cheeks as she said, "When I was playing volleyball, some guy bumped into me and knocked me over. I'm pretty sure I sprained my ankle." She combed her fingers through her frizzy, sun-warmed hair, finally able to breathe a little easier. "I need someone to drive me to the hospital." And the universe wants it to be you.

"Fuck, okay," he said frantically. "Where are you? I'll get you right now."

She sniffled. "Aren't you tied up with practice?"

"Sawyer, where are you?" he repeated more firmly. Her attempt at being reasonable died a quick death.

"Um, you know that dingy community center right on Cocoa Beach? I'm in an office room there."

"Isn't that place abandoned?" he asked. "Whatever, it doesn't matter. I'll be there in ten. Hang tight."

"Harry—" The line went dead, and Sawyer blankly stared at the wall covered with flyers and corkboards. As much as she felt culpable for stealing him from a cardinal moment in his new career, a small, grateful smile tugged at her lips.

Deep in her soul, she had known he would drop everything for her. He always did.

——

The door opened, revealing a curly head of hair and gentle, curious eyes that were the shade of sage in bloom. Harry slowly walked into the room and assessed her predicament. He wore a baseball uniform she hadn't seen him in yet—he had been recently drafted to Orlando’s rebranded minor league team. Blue and white striped pants and a jersey with matching colors tucked into the waistband caught Sawyer's attention first. The garments hugged his frame well. The body he maintained when he was nineteen had changed slightly, with thicker biceps straining against the sleeves of any shirt he wore due to strength training. Same with his thighs.

Get a grip! She mentally scolded herself before her imagination dove into treacherous waters.

"Sawyer," Harry whispered, solace rasping his voice. "Where's your towel? Aren't you freezing in here?"

She had been so stressed that the constant goosebumps rising across her skin went completely unnoticed by her. "I don't know," she whined. "Just get me out of here, please."

Harry reached his hand around the back of his neck and tugged his shirt off. Sawyer almost gasped but was relieved when she saw he had a white tank top underneath. She went to grab it, realizing her nipples were noticeably pebbled, but Harry insisted on pulling it over her head.

"Sorry it smells grody," he said, "but I'm not letting you walk into the hospital in just a bikini."

"It's okay. It smells better than whatever died in this room."

Harry grinned at her, his eyes sparkling like those of a captivated cartoon character. He laughed quietly before giving her a noogie and crouching to study her ankle. "Looks like someone took volleyball a little too seriously."

"It wasn't me," she said defensively. "You should've seen the dude—he was massive."

"Then you're lucky he didn't break twenty of your fragile bones." His expression turned serious. "Kathy had me worried when she said you were having an emergency."

"What did you think happened?"

"Well, my first instinct was that you left your curling iron plugged in and your house went up in flames."

"Really?"

"Yeah. But you getting hurt is somehow worse."

Sawyer pouted her lips, and Harry's rapt gaze briefly locked on them. Before she could figure out why her heart fluttered at the subtle motion, he lifted her in his arms and carried her out the door. The hem of his shirt draped down to her knees as she rested her cheek against the beautiful column of his neck, breathing in his natural masculine scent. Summer. Pines. Home. Instantly, a sense of safety covered her like a treasured childhood blanket.

Before long, she was gently set in the passenger seat of Harry's Audi. He settled behind the wheel and patted his lap. "You need to elevate your ankle," he said while starting the engine.

She awkwardly shifted and laid her ankle on his sturdy thigh. He repositioned the ice pack, which was stolen property now, and steadily looked over at her. "You okay?" he asked, his smooth palm curving around her shin.

She blinked back tears and murmured, "Yes. Thank you for getting me. I'm sorry for cutting your practice short, but I tried calling..." She clamped her mouth shut and shook her head dismissively.

"Who did you try calling?"

Sighing, Sawyer peered out the open window and watched the glimmering teal ocean become more distant. "Jordan, but he was busy."

A stretch of silence hung thickly in the car. Sawyer distracted herself by grabbing the small bag of potato chips in the glovebox and ripping it open. Harry always kept food stored in his car for both him and her. She munched on a few, waiting for a snide response. Jordan was always a sore subject, which was why she often refrained from bringing up his wrongdoings. Too late now.

"Yeah? Busy doing what?" Harry flipped the sunvisor down, his tongue poking the inside of his cheek. "Being too much of an asshole to care that his girlfriend is injured?" He muttered the last part bitterly, probably hoping the wind would carry his words away and sock Jordan right in the jaw.

"No, he... I told him he could hang out with his college friends today, so he's been bar-hopping since noon." Sawyer groaned, realizing defending him wasn't helping her case. "He's drunk, okay?"

And Harry left in the middle of his first minor league practice for you, she thought to herself. He was the one you thought of first when the lifeguard asked who to call.

Harry looked about two seconds away from blowing a gasket as his hand squeezed the steering wheel with a white-knuckled grip. "Interesting," he said in a flat tone that pushed her over the edge.

"Don't even start. Jordan had a valid excuse."

"Sure, but he didn't want to go to the beach with you? Why would he pass that up?"

"Stop." A burst of anger flared in her chest. 

"No, please tell me why your boyfriend chose to spend another one of his days off at a bar instead of with you. Entertain me, Sawyer. Is there something I'm missing? Because—"

"Knock it off!" Overwhelming emotions tightened her throat, and she took a moment to regain control of them. "You're better off pretending he doesn't exist when we're together."

Harry pressed on the brakes roughly, and Sawyer assumed he was going to pull over so they could both cool off. Instead, he accelerated to the speed limit again with nothing but a clenched jaw and a cold demeanor. She hadn't meant to dim his sunshine.

After a minute passed, he said, "Don't put that thought in my head" before turning on the radio.

The rest of the drive to the hospital was as tense as her sprained ligaments.

——

In the hospital bed, Sawyer drifted in and out of consciousness. The nurse had taken X-rays and wrapped her ankle with an elasticized bandage. The good news was that it was only a minor sprain with no tearing. A couple of weeks of resting and icing the area would help her fully recover.

Her ankle was propped on a stack of three pillows with a cold compress lying dormant on it. She was allowed to be discharged after ten more minutes of ice treatment. In the corner of the room, a basketball game was playing on the TV. The early evening sky was gloomy past the large windows—they were designed not to be opened, leaving her to inhale stuffy and sterile air.

Harry was sitting in a chair butted up right beside the bed with a metaphorical storm cloud looming above his head. The brief argument in the car had escalated far beyond normal. The discomfort she was feeling had caused her to get defensive. Harry, though, got accusatory for whatever reason. There was just something about Jordan that rubbed him the wrong way.

Sawyer would have felt weird gossiping about boyfriend problems with Harry—that was more reserved for girl talk. But time and time again, Jordan's name managed to slip into their conversations with no precedent. She was a failing mediator, and she hated feeling like the referee of an endless tug-of-war match, each boy vying for her heart. Platonic versus romantic, of course. No winner would be crowned.

"Harry, are you mad at me?"

His eyes tracked the fast-paced NBA game on the TV screen. "No," he said mildly.

"Okay." Sawyer twiddled her thumbs and sighed loudly. "Can we go home now?"

"No." The restless bounce of his leg contradicted his supposed nonchalance. "Five more minutes."

"Can I try to change your mind?"

"No."

She huffed and squirmed on the rock-hard mattress, dearly missing her comfy twin bed with its puffy pink duvet. "Can I have a hug?" she asked, softening her voice.

Harry finally glanced over at her, albeit suspiciously. "Do you really need one? Are you going to use your brown-eye sorcery to persuade me?"

She stretched his shirt over her bare knees and rested her chin between them. Purposefully widening her eyes, she said, "Yes to both."

He hummed, stood, and invaded her space with a warmth that temporarily soothed her pain. His arms wrapped around her as he snuggled close on the one-person bed. "Better?"

"Much." Sawyer placed her head on his shoulder and asked, "How was practice?"

"The whole hour I was there?" he replied teasingly. Sawyer grumbled in good nature, and he laughed fondly. "I'm kidding—it was great. I felt right at home."

"I'm proud of you, sunray."

With his brows furrowed, Harry smiled down at her. Those lovely dimples begged to be kissed. "Sunray? That's a first."

A bashful blush heated her cheeks. Sometimes she said things around him without thinking about their implications. "Well, you play for the SunRays now," she said quietly, her nose mere centimeters from his. "And... you make the dreary days a lot brighter."

Harry's lips parted, but no sound poured past them. Riveted eyes danced over her face, and his pupils dilated like a drop of black ink in water. "You're my best friend," he said, absentmindedly rubbing a golden strand of her hair between his fingertips. "I would do anything for you."

But would you kiss me if I asked you to?

Sawyer slid her palm up his chest and cupped his stubbled jaw. Their calm breaths mingled, and she let the sweet scent of bubblegum swirl around her hazy mind. She was sleepy, and her desire to capture and caress his pillowy bottom lip wasn't making any sense. Strange feelings blossomed in her stomach when she looked at him—a wild garden of serenity, obsession, and... love. But not the love she usually felt for him. This was a revelation made known by her rapid heartbeat and his strong, familiar body pressed against her.

The pad of her thumb pressed against the corner of his pretty mouth. One inch forward, and she could change the course of her life. What sensual sounds would he make? Would he sigh into the kiss, knowing it was wrong, or would he inhale her soul and ruin everyone else for her? Even entertaining her fantasies felt like cheating. They were just silly thoughts elicited by exhaustion and pain medication. She would never gamble with someone's heart while betraying another.

"Sawyer, I—"

"Miss Clemente? You're all set to go home now." A nurse appeared in the room, unknowingly interrupting their private moment.

Inhaling a tiny gasp, Sawyer decided to kiss Harry's cheek to eliminate any awkwardness, making it seem like that had been her plan all along. Just a chaste, friendly kiss on the cheek with no romantic intentions behind it at all. There was only a rousing physical response when she pulled away that she would suppress, like every other time she touched him.

When Harry carried her to his car again, she stared at his hand, which held her thighs up with a tight, protective grip. He took care of her without needing a reason to. He made her forget about the pain just by gracing her with his lucent presence. He was doing every tender thing her boyfriend should have done.

Sawyer yearned for Harry, and while exhilaration ignited in her veins at the fact, she knew she was in deep trouble.

It was him she was in love with.

——