#darkness is a lack of light but light is not a lack of darkness

[whore4mattsturniolo]

Introducing...Inexperienced!Matt

It was Friday night. Matt was in his room, trying to pretend he was interested in the hundredth Instagram reel he had scrolled past as he leaned against his headboard, the glow of his purple LED lights reflecting against his soft, pale skin.

He tried to ignore it. The insistent squeaking of your mattress, the sound of your loud moans through your shared wall after bringing home yet another guy. The sound of you stumbling back into the apartment, hushed, drunken whispers as you guide your latest victim into your room.

"I have a roommate so we have to be quiet," you'd always say, attempting to keep your voice down, failing to repress your giggles.

Sighing, Matt rolled his eyes as your exaggerated moans grew louder. He slams his phone down on the mattress, losing it in the mess of blankets and stuffed animals. He throws his pillow over his head, trying to drown out the noise happening just on the other side of your shared wall.

He couldn't be mad at you. You were a great roommate. Always paid your part of the rent on time, always cleaned up after yourself, you even offered to take up more of the household chores whenever Matt was too swamped with the hours of grueling homework. He could never be mad. In fact, he envied you.

He envied how free you were, how confident you were. You spent your weekends partying, drinking, sleeping around. Whatever you wanted to do, you did it—with no one stopping you, no inhibitions nagging in your ear. He wanted that more than anything.

Matt was a virgin when it came to...well, everything. Sure, he'd had girlfriends before, but that was in high school. He'd never been seen in that way by anyone, and he wasn't sure if he ever would be. He was always more focused on school, his job, doing better for himself. He never went out, preferring the solitude of his dark, quiet bedroom. He didn't think he was horribly unattractive. His thick, brown hair was messy and in need of a haircut, and his stubble was grown out. His clothes were baggy and hung off his arms,barely covering his tattooed arm. He was intelligent, caring, funny. It shouldn't be hard for him to pull a girl. But for Matt, it felt impossible.

As his thoughts of introspection raced, his mind didn't seem to register that the squeaking mattress had stopped, your moans had grown quiet. There was no more hushed whispers or laughter on the other side of the wall. His eyes threatened to shut, heavy from carrying the weight of the day on his lashes, as he listened to the noises of the apartment—the sound of you moving around the kitchen, bumping into furniture, stumbling around—until he heard a knock on his door.

He debated pretending to be asleep, not in the mood to hear the details of your latest sexual encounter. But, another part of him, the shy, inexperienced part of him, was morbidly curious as to what happened. Matt clears his throat, his voice hoarse from lack of use. "Come in," he said. You enter the dark room as your eyes adjust to the dim lighting, sinking into the soft mattress. You huff as you run your hands under your face, looking over at Matt’s tired figure.

“What happened to you?” Matt chuckles, sitting up against his headboard and rubbing his eyes. “Sounded like you guys were havin’ fun,” he teases.

You let out a dry laugh, though it sounded like more of a scoff, filled with annoyance and embarrassment. “Matt, he came after three strokes. And when he tried to kiss me on the forehead, he ended up headbutting me.”

Matt laughed hard. Too hard. Clutching-his-stomach-and-burying-his-face-in-his-pillow kind of laughter. Disgruntled, you tossed a pillow toward his face as he continued laughing.

“It’s not funny, Matt!” You say, suppressing your own giggles as you watch him almost fall off the bed in a fit of cackles.

“It’s not. Not even a little.” Matt sighs in an attempt to catch his own breath, still clutching his stomach as he holds back the wave of laughs still deep in his chest. He sits up straight. He holds his hands up in mock surrender. "M'not laughing anymore. Promise." he grins. You raise a brow, but the smile tugging at your lips betrays your skepticism.

"Reminded me of when I lost my virginity," you say, giggling lowly. "Gosh, he was so bad." Matt’s grin fades slightly, his eyes lingering on your face like he’s memorizing something.

"C'mon. He couldn't have been that bad," He says, a smirk still resting on his face, gently punching your arm. "Maybe he got stage fright."

You scoff and roll your eyes at his encouraging words. "Yeah maybe." Matt glances over at you, the smirk still on his lips but softer now, almost like he was admiring you.

The conversation fades, swallowed by the soft hum of cars passing outside the window and the gentle whoosh of the air conditioner kicking on again. You don't say anything, and neither does he. Your words linger, sitting heavy in the quiet, until another thought dawns on you.

Matt never really talked about his sex life. Not when you did your usual post-hookup debriefs, not when you teased him about the dry spell you're convinced he’s in, not even when you came home plastered and oversharing like it was an Olympic sport. He never brought anyone home, never dropped names, never even hints. You always figured he was just good at keeping secrets, maybe just old-school about privacy, so you never pushed. He let you ramble, let you joke, let you be messy and vulnerable and loud about your experiences. But when it came to him? Nothing.

"What was your first time like?" You ask, your voice cutting through the dull noise of the night.

Matt's breath hitches at the question, sharp and audible, his eyes widen just slightly. He stirs under the blankets, tugging the sleeves of his cherry-red sweater nervously. It’s subtle, something you would’ve missed if you weren’t paying attention, but you were. His gaze flickers, not meeting yours, instead staring hard at the foot of the bed, as if the answer was there, lying deep in the worn out carpet of his floor. The silence stretches, thickening, as he tries to find his words, or maybe find a way out of the question entirely.

"Dunno," he shrugs, his voice barely above a mumble. "Was fine...I guess..." he trails off.

You raise an eyebrow at his meek response, your gaze drilling into his. He was tense and anxious, as if the mere idea of it freaked him out.

"Just fine? Not gonna tell me more?" You press, scooting closer, noticing the way his jaw tightens as you inch toward him. His fingers twitch at his sides, but he keeps them firmly planted, almost like he’s trying to hold himself together.

Matt keeps his eyes on his lap, picking at his nails as a chill goes down his spine. He refuses to meet your gaze, knowing it would only make the situation worse. All he wanted to do was go to bed. Why didn't he just pretend to be asleep? He merely nods at your remark, silently begging for you to drop the conversation altogether. "Mhm. Not memorable, really," he continues his lie. Of course it wasn't memorable. It never happened in the first place.

You can see right through him. You both know it.

"Matt," you say, your gaze never wavering. "Are you lying to me?" You hide the smirk on your face, watching as Matt rubs his hands over his eyes, almost hiding from you.

"Just leave it alone, alright?" Matt's cheeks start to flush a deep red, his heartrate quickening as his palms begin to sweat. His head starts to swirl with deep, mean thoughts.

Were you doing this on purpose? Were you trying to make fun of him? Were you setting him up?

Obviously he knew you wouldn't do that to him. You were a great friend, a great person. But, the idea of baring his soul to you, confessing one of his biggest insecurities, still sent chills down his spine.

You watch him grow more nervous as the conversation goes on, the way he picked at the loose thread of his sweater, the way he was deliberately avoiding eye contact. He looks around his room, reading every word on the posters stuck on each wall, naming each collectible on every shelf, distracting himself from you. Sulking, still burdened with you in his room, he throws his pillow over his face.

You let out a low hum as you tried to wiggle as much information out of him as possible. "Y'know. The more you stay quiet, the more obvious your answer is," you say in a cocky voice.

He mumbles under his breath, "shut up. It's not even a big deal.

"You're making it a bigger deal by not answering." you continue to poke the sleeping bear that was Matt sitting next to you. His anxiety grows into aggravation as he realizes you're not giving up until he answers your stupid, annoying question. He huffs, praying you'll go away once he pulls the pillow away from his face. But lo and behold, there you are, a slight grin plastered across your face.

"So what if I am—was—" His eyes widen at his slip-up, almost giving himself away. "Was...Why do you care?"

You giggle at his choice of words. "Because we're friends. And you know I'm not gonna let up until you answer... But if you don't answer you're kind of already answering—"

"Alright, alright!" Matt cuts off your insistent blabbering, though his shorts outburst quickly transforms into small, weak phrases. "I never did it. With anyone. Ever." He winces, his cheeks still flushed. He waits for you to laugh, to make fun of him for being 21 and never feeling the touch of a woman.

But you don't.

You stay quiet, pursing your lips together and furrowing your brows. "Really?" You ask, your voice barely above a whisper. You hadn’t expected him to actually answer—just trying to see how far you could push him. But when he nods, your heart skips a beat. Your mind races, the quiet between you thickening with unspoken questions.

"Yes, really," he sighs, looking away from you and down at his lap.

"How come you never told me?"

"S'not exact something I go around advertising," he mumbles, his cheeks still stained red with embarrassment as he tries to ignore you, listening to the faint noises from outside. A bigger smile creeps across your face as you shift closer to him, your hand moving to rest on his thigh.

"I think it's okay. To be a virgin, I mean," You say. Matt's eyes soften as he looks up at you, then at the placement of your hand, then back up. His breathing is still heavy, but he looks slightly more at ease than he was a few seconds ago.

"You do?"

You nod, watching his facial expression shift. Your eyes trace over his face, the dark circles under his low eyes he's had since you first started living together. His cheeks, still flushed pink from the conversation. His lips, soft and pouty. It was a given that Matt was incredibly attractive, but you never saw him in that way. Not until now.

"I mean I—I've kissed girls before—I'm not that inept..." He starts to trail off, the words getting caught in his throat.

"You any good?" You say, your voice low, almost teasing. Your gaze flickers back down to his lips as you imagine how they would feel on your own.

Matt’s breath hitches again, his pulse quickening as his body instinctively inches closer to yours. You can feel the tremor in his hand as it lightly grazes your wrist. His eyes dart away, and you can almost hear the thumping of his heartbeat. He thinks back to the one time he had kissed someone—he couldn't have been older than 16.

The kiss was alright. She didn't have any complaints. None that were vocalized at least.

"I'd like to say I'm—I'm alright..." He stutters, his gaze barely faltering.

You think to yourself for a moment, your thoughts racing wildly. Kissing him wouldn't be that bad. Nothing could happen from it, right? And besides, it'd probably be better than the night you'd already had. You chew at your bottom lip, silently debating if you should go further, or leave the conversation alone and let the two of you go your separate ways. But you choose the former. You were having way too much fun with this.

The words fall easily off your tongue. "Then prove it."

Matt's eyes widen at your statement, his entire body heating up in an anxious frenzy. His heart starts to beat fast, his mind tousling with the idea of kissing you. His eyes immediately shoot back down at his lap, his fingers still twiddling at the strings of his sweater as a red flush creeps up his neck to his face. He can almost hear his heart drumming in his ears as you lean in close, feeling the warmth of Matt's breath against your skin, the faint smell of his body wash mixing with the soft scent of his hair.

The sudden closeness sends Matt reeling. "I mean—I wouldn't be opposed to it but—M'not that good—" Before he can finish, your lips meet his, soft and warm, and for a moment, everything goes still. The room feels charged, like the world outside has blurred, and all that exists is the pressure of your lips on his. He sinks back into the pillows behind him, letting out a soft gasp into your mouth, tasting the stain of alcohol on your tongue.

Matt shifts uncomfortably, his leg bumping against yours as his hands hover in the air, uncertain where to rest. Gently, you shift your body, moving to straddle his hips, your legs on either side of his body, as you deepen the kiss. Your tongue swipes his bottom lip, gently asking for permission to enter. The air in the room is thick, unbreathable. You're too close, yet not close enough. His fingers twitch, almost like he wants to touch you more, but he holds back.

With trembling hands, Matt reaches for any part of your body, desperate to feel you, preserve the memory and make sure this was really happening to him. Slowly, he rests his shaky hands just above your hips, his fingers gripping onto your waist for support, fiddling with the fabric of your oversized shirt as his lips move eagerly against yours. His fingers dig into your sides, like he's scared you'll vanish.

Your hands trail up to his cheeks, holding them softly, before breaking from the kiss. A low groan escapes Matt’s chest as you pull back, still longing, aching for the feeling of you. He almost chases your lips, before throwing his head back against the headboard, a small wince escaping as he holds back the impact. His eyes meet yours, hazy and full of desire, his glasses fogged from your shared breath. He tries to speak, but no words come out.

"Not bad." You smirk, caressing his cheeks and feeling scratchy, grown out stubble on his face. "Better than I thought you'd be, actually."

His ears perk up, a shy smile tugging at his lips. He knew he wasn’t bad at kissing, but for you to say he was better than expected? He could barely contain his excitement. "Really?"

"Really." You nod, before moving off his lap, back to your designated place next to him on his bed.

"Thank—Thank you..." Matt says, silently mourning the loss of the feeling of you on his hips. He pulls the cover up high, following each of your movements with his eyes, praying you wouldn't notice the growing tension in his pajama pants.

You stand, taking one last glance at him, your lips curling into a mischievous smile. "You might even give some of the guys I’ve kissed a run for their money." You adjust your shirt with a deliberate, slow motion, the teasing glint in your eyes unmistakable.

Matt's breath catches in his chest, and his face flushes deeper. He tries to keep his composure, but it’s clear he’s struggling. His mouth opens again, but the words still refuse to come to him.

"Speechless?" you tease, stepping closer again. "That’s a first."

He stammers, flustered. "I just—I wasn’t… expecting...that."

"Clearly." You laugh softly, your voice dripping with playful dominance. "Maybe next time, you won’t be so nervous."

Before he can respond, you flash him a quick, teasing grin and start toward the door. You sway your hips just enough to leave him mesmerized.

With that, you slip out of the room, leaving him in stunned silence. His mind races, but his body hasn’t caught up yet.

All he knew was that there would definitely be a next time.

[nellasbookplanet]

I'm hardly the first to make this observation, but the problem with many self-proclaimed cozy stories is that they're so scared to take risks, scared to do anything that could make the reader even slightly uncomfortable, because being uncomfortable isn’t very cozy. Characters lack in flaws and messiness; conflict is lackluster or quickly resolved or avoided altogether; a darker moment must always be followed by a peptalk, never lingered on; moral ambiguity is eschewed, because anything else would be problematic and messy. If a main character has flaws it’s always those of the good victim, someone who needs to heal and be validated but not grow and be challenged. Challenge, of character or reader, is anathema.

As I'm playing Stray, I'm struck by the thought that this is quite possibly the coziest piece of media I've ever experienced. You're playing as a little kitty cat. You’re carrying around a tiny robot companion in a backpack. Your enemies are tiny white blobs called zorks. There are game mechanics to meow and scratch up people's walls and furniture and knock paint cans off shelves and take naps. The pacing rarely rushes you, rather actively encourages you to slow down. You can stop and listen to a guy play guitar, or look for flowers to gift someone, or take a nap on a cushion while beautiful scenery full of plants and fairy lights roll by.

But it’s also a game set in the ruins of a near dead world. The cute blobs will eat you alive. The robot you're carrying is an uploaded mind earnestly struggling through an existential crisis and mourning an entire species. Under the plants and the fairy lights is garbage and rust and buildings falling apart. There’s no sunlight. There are creepy eyes watching you in the sewers. There’s classism and oppression and the downfall of man.

And through it all, the robots who inherited the world are working so hard to find pockets of hope and happiness. They paint and play music and play games and dance and grow plants and create cozy little homes for themselves. They resist for the sake of freedom and autonomy, they create an entire language, they dream of a world most think they'll never see.

This dichotomy of dark and light is something I see often in (better) cozy media. Dungeon Meshi is a fun cozy adventure where they make delicious food and talk about self-care. It's also about grief and the inevitability of death and the impacts of social inequalities. The Long Way to a Small Angry Planet is a cozy found family road trip in space; it’s also about the difficulties of understanding each other across cultural barriers and the massive ramifications when we refuse to do so. Legends and Lattes is basically a dnd coffeshop au; it’s also about struggling to find happiness and purpose and self-worth after a life of violence, not knowing if you're able to successfully achieve anything but bloodshed. And All the Stars is full of found family and pastries and characters just hanging out; all of this happens as they're hiding and fleeing from invading aliens who see them as nothing but a resurce to be used. One of my favorite episodes of critical role is the beach episode of c2, where they basically just hang out; this happens soon after they buried their friend who died trying to save them, as they're trying to figure out who they are and what they want after his loss.

And that’s the thing, isn't it? Any story that is uniformly the same thing all the way through ends up as bland. A grimdark story that never offers respite or moments of hope will numb you to the horrors, removing their bite. A cozy story that offers nothing to be struggled against, nothing for which cozy moments and aesthetics is a break, lacks impact. A story needs ups and downs, a rhythm of misery and hope.

[blackmoonoracle]

What abt you is being reflected back into the world around you?

PILE I

An elevated status or sense of authority, perhaps people are listening to you more- maybe even when they shouldn’t be. I think you are very detached & in return the world seems difficult to grasp. Could be Pisces or Aquarius energy here, it’s as if you are so far detached that you feel as if you cannot be perceived.

You are a person who gives and receives Good Will & blessings because these are the things you give in silence- people may not be aware of your charitable nature, the things you do to consider others or help those that society has deemed as unfit are almost a elevating you in a sense. I see that you are not afraid of the “weirdos”, you may be very charitable to those who are swept under the rug by society without batting an eye.

You listen & you care, and I feel that this is going to be reflected back to you or IS reflected back to you through gifts and blessings… BUT

It’s so weird- because it seems like there’s an inversion where you don’t give this same love to yourself- and so that same love you pour into the world will begin to come into you.

This message is a little sad, but your lack of self love reflects into the world around you as well. Your self hatred or self loathing, this may be why others seemingly loathe you as well. You are being taught a very hard lesson, and that lesson is self love. You may not have been loved properly as a child, or you were loved under specific conditions.

This lack of self love is being reflected to you through the disinterest, detachment, or avoidance of others.

The more you avoid yourself the more others will too.

Hope this helps pile 1, if you guys enjoyed this reading def hit me up for an in depth on this topic for 25$ 🥰

PILE II

Your creative abundance, your uniqueness- you may attract a lot of unique opportunities or cool experiences because of how you carry yourself. Life is art to you, and therefore life brings you artful experiences. Perhaps sometimes you feel as if life is confusing & difficult to conceptualize but this is okay-

That is part of the beauty, I sense water a very watery energy- there is so much love in this pile. A love for life, an inner light that bursts through the darkness with glee. You desire to free yourself from the confines and constraints of a world that does not encourage authenticity.

Sometimes it may rub people the wrong way, sometimes it has forced you to walk away from people, places, and things that you truly wanted- maybe you even convinced yourself you fumbled what was meant for you.

What is meant for you is to choose yourself, I feel like you have turned your life and your existence into a piece of art and that is what is being reflected into the world around you.

It brings you many experiences, lessons, and new ideas so that you may bring them to life.

You are a creator, and you are meant to bring to life the divine sparks that will occasionally flow through you.

For those who are single or struggling in love: You may feel as if nothing is permanent in love & as if you struggle to be still-

But I sense limerance, you miss someone- or you’ve yet to forgive someone. Love is there for you, there is someone. I promise 🥰 choosing yourself was the right option.

Hope this helps pile 2, if you guys enjoyed this reading hmu for an in depth on this topic for 25$ 🥰

PILE III

You may feel like you’re alone, or like others don’t take the lead. You could feel as if you don’t get the same breaks as other people do- like you have to work yourself to the bone and work a million times harder than others.

This isn’t to punish you, but this is because it’s your god given gift. You are a self starter, and you can absolutely rely on your spirit team for more assistance. Ancestral veneration Is very important for this pile- some of you need to be working with your ancestors or relying more on your spirit guides.

All of the inner healing, inner work, inner action youve been taking is reflecting into the world around you.

You may not see it yet, but the wind is catching your sails- and while there may be some unexpected detours but they will lead you in the right direction. You are an incredibly powerful soul, some of you may have been drawn to pile one. This feels like an evolved version of the second half of pile one.

You have finally chosen yourself, you are existing as the most honest hardworking version of yourself and the spirits are pleased. Your spirits may even be rejoicing because you are trying so hard.

As you show more interest in your dreams, more opportunities will come to you. Don’t be afraid of the coming change, for once the only thing you’ll lose is the old version of you.

A new beginning that is occurring within you is creating a new beginning in your physical life. 🥰

Hope this helps pile 3, if you guys enjoyed this reading msg me for an in depth on this topic for 25$ 🥰

[jaysbaefie]

sanctuary | psh

synopsis: in which a prison escapee breaks in for shelter, but finds something he wants to keep and ruin.

genre: prison escapee au

pairing: escapee!sunghoon x afab!reader

warnings: yandre!sunghoon, possesive!sunghoon, reader is held hostage, non-con, lots of threatening, forced submission, oral (m.rec), slapping, choking, hair pulling, manhandling, fingering, gagging, spanking ass + pussy, light male masterbation, some blood. i think that’s it ��

wc: 10.4k

a/n: a bit of a darker fic.. so please do take warnings seriously. my first time trying to write a yandre character so if it’s a bit meh i’m sorry!! ‘bullshit’ won the poll so stay tuned for that fic it’ll b out by the end of the month (hopefully) as well as the first chapter of ‘double trouble’. notes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated. enjoy!!

𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃

the sound of what you assume is your window shattering wakes you up from your sleep. still half asleep, you sit up on your bed—your heart racing as you look around your room with sleepy eyes.

"what the-" your murmur, eyes shooting to your window which was still in tact. a part of you wanted to get up and search the rest of your home, but the tired side of you convinces you to stay in bed. it was probably just the neighbour's cat again.

you had finally finished your finals, the lack of sleep and energy outweighing the thought of searching your home.

grumbling, you allow yourself to shut your eyes and fall back into your bed. the warmth of your blanket and sheets surrounding you as you sign in bliss—the thought of possibly being a victim to a break and enter slipping your mind.

you hear rustling outside your room, however choose to over look it.

not a good idea..

you shift under the blanket, tugging it higher over your shoulders with a sleepy sigh. the rustling sound outside your room grows louder for a moment, then stills. your mind barely registers it—dismissing it as the wind, or maybe the pipes, or maybe just your imagination playing tricks on you in the haze of half-sleep.

the room is quiet again.

too quiet.

but your body, still tense beneath the comfort of the sheets, eventually relaxes. the softness of your bed lulls you back into that cozy liminal space between dreams and awareness.

until a sound has your eyes snapping wide open.

click.

a door hinge.

your bedroom door.

you freeze in position, a chill creeping across your spine as your eyes widened in horror—looking up at your ceiling in fear.

that wasn't your imagination.

you sit up again, slower this time, heart pounding loud in your ears. the door is cracked open now. you know you closed it when you came to bed. you always do.

your voice catches in your throat.

"hello?" you call out weakly, trying to sound firm. "is someone there?"

no answer.

just more rustling. closer this time.

your hand reaches for your phone on the nightstand—but it's not there. your fingers scramble across the empty surface, your panic now matching the erratic rhythm of your heartbeat.

it's gone.

the silence presses in, thick and suffocating.

and then—you feel it. the weight.

a presence. in the room.

you whip your head toward the corner, breath catching in your lungs. a figure is standing there, shadowed and still. you can barely make out the sharp outline of him—tall, lean, covered in darkness like it's part of his skin.

the stranger steps forward, and the dim light from your bedside lamp finally catches his face.

a familiar face comes into view, thick prominent eyebrows, a sharp face, plump lips and midnight black locks. as if his usual appearance wasn't enough to send you off into panic he was covered in blood and dirt. his hair disheveled and wild, accompanied with glassy eyes.

it takes only a second for recognition to hit you like a punch to the gut.

park sunghoon.

your legs move before your mind does, kicking your blanket away as you lunge out of bed—only to be shoved back down hard.

his hand clamps around your wrist, and in a terrifying blur of strength and precision, he's on top of you—pinning you to the mattress with one knee between your legs, the other hand already pulling something from his back pocket.

"stop fighting," he grits out, voice low and breathless, like he's already on the edge. "i'm not here to hurt you. just need you to shut up and stay still."

you struggle harder, panic flaring hot and raw—but he's stronger. faster.

the zip-ties are around your wrists before you can scream. the sound of them tightening feels louder than your own heartbeat.

he pulls the covers off you completely, checking your legs, then curses under his breath. "should've grabbed more ties..."

you scream.

or try to.

but he's already pushing something between your lips—a shirt, wadded up and shoved into your mouth. it tastes like cotton and salt and tears. his hand presses it deeper, muffling the sound of your screams completely.

he stares down at you for a moment, chest heaving. then, slowly, he lifts his hand away from your mouth.

your eyes are wide. blown with terror.

he doesn't look angry. just tired.

"i wasn't supposed to pick a house that had anyone in it," he mutters, more to himself than to you. "just needed a place. just needed time."

you try to kick him. scream. thrash beneath him.

his hands pin your legs down with an easy shift of his weight, and his voice turns sharp again.

"don't," he warns. "i really don't want to hurt you. but i will."

the words hang in the air like smoke—thick, heavy, dangerous.

you stop moving.

and for a moment, the room is silent again.

sunghoon runs a hand down his face, eyes fluttering shut for a second as he tries to calm the adrenaline surging through him. when he opens them again, his gaze is locked on yours.

"i'll let you go... eventually," he says. "but if you do anything stupid—I won't feel bad about tying you to this bed and gagging you all over again."

he reaches out slowly, brushing hair out of your face like he hasn't just shattered your entire sense of safety. his touch is oddly gentle. confusingly careful.

"i'm not the monster they say i am," he whispers, almost as if he was convincing himself.

but right now, lying beneath him, helpless and bound, you can't tell the difference.

he finally pulls himself off you, but not before trailing his eyes down your body again—slow, deliberate, lingering far too long on the way your chest rises and falls in uneven breaths.

suddenly, you regretted wearing your tiny sleep shorts and tank top to bed.

you want to yell at him. fight him. spit in his face. but your mouth is stuffed, your wrists burn, and your fear makes your limbs too heavy to move.

he walks across the room without urgency, opening your closet like he lives here. like this is his place now. he pulls out one of your hoodies, yanks it over his bloodstained shirt, then grabs a pair of your socks and wipes the dirt from his face.

he doesn't say a word.

you watch, helpless, as he rummages through your drawers. your shelves. your life.

he's looking for something.

eventually, he finds it—your phone charger.

"need to use your hotspot," he mutters, plugging your phone in and sitting on the edge of your bed like the act of invading your home and tying you up was just some minor inconvenience.

your body jerks when the mattress dips beneath his weight.

he doesn't look at you, but his voice lowers again.

"you're gonna stay quiet," he says. "you're gonna stay still. and you're not gonna do anything that'll make me regret sparing you."

you glare at him, muffled curses twisting behind the fabric stuffed in your mouth.

finally, he turns to you. cold eyes meeting yours.

and then he smiles.

a small, tired, fucked-up smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

"we'll get along just fine."

𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃

you wake up in the exact same position you passed out in.

arms aching. wrists burning. legs numb from being tied up too long. your mouth is dry, your lips cracked around the fabric still shoved between them. every part of your body feels used—like even your skin remembers the panic of last night.

you blink slowly.

the room is bathed in warm daylight, soft and almost cruel in how normal it looks. like nothing's wrong. like this isn't a crime scene waiting to happen.

your eyes drag toward the door when it creaks open.

and then he walks in.

park sunghoon.

your body freezes up in fear, you knew him and of his crimes.

you were half-asleep at the library, head buried in a textbook, highlighter in one hand and a lukewarm coffee in the other. finals week was already draining what little life you had left in you, and the last thing you cared about was whatever the old guy at the next table was watching on his phone at full volume.

but then you heard it.

"—escaped late last night during a prison transfer. armed, dangerous, do not approach—"

your eyes flicked up, annoyance flashing before curiosity took over. you caught a glimpse of the screen—blurry, low-res, but clear enough. a mugshot.

young. dark hair. sharp eyes, jaw clenched like he'd rather eat glass than be photographed.

park sunghoon, the name beneath it read.

the guy beside you muttered something about the justice system falling apart before going back to his crossword.

you hadn't thought much of it. just another headline. another manhunt. the world was full of danger you'd never come close to.

well, until last night.

he looked cleaner now. fresher. his hair is damp, like he's showered. one of your hoodies is draped over his frame, sleeves pushed up casually as he carries in a glass of water and a granola bar—like this is some sick sleepover and not a hostage situation.

he glances at you, expression unreadable. then smirks faintly.

"you're awake."

you glare at him, rage bubbling beneath the surface of your exhaustion.

he walks over, crouches beside the bed, and places the glass on your nightstand.

"you gonna be good?" he asks. "nod if you are. shake your head if you want that gag shoved deeper."

your jaw clenches. you hold his gaze.

then, slowly, you nod.

he watches you for a moment, eyes narrowed in suspicion—then reaches up and pulls the crumpled shirt from your mouth. your jaw aches instantly, tongue thick and raw.

you cough, your voice barely a whisper. "fuck you."

he chuckles, it would've been cute if he wasn't holding you hostage in your own home, "thought we were starting over."

you don't respond.

he stands, pacing your room slowly as he opens the granola bar and bites into it. "you're lucky it was me. anyone else who broke in would've done worse than tie you up and take a shower."

he says it so casually it makes your stomach turn.

and for a few moments, you just lie there. breathing through the pain, waiting for an opening.

when he turns his back—your chance comes.

you twist, rolling off the edge of the bed. it's sloppy. painful. you hit the floor hard, knees burning as you try to scramble to your feet, legs still partially bound. you hop, trip, catch yourself on the dresser and launch toward the window.

you don't think. you just scream.

loud. broken. bloody murder.

sunghoon is on you in seconds.

"no—fuck—stop!"

you scream again, louder.

he grabs you from behind, one hand over your mouth, the other wrenching you back against his chest. your heart is hammering. you're kicking, thrashing, desperate. but he's stronger. faster.

again.

he spins you and shoves you against the wall, arm across your chest as he digs something from his pocket.

a black gag.

fabric. straps. thick and menacing.

"you had one chance," he growls. "just one. and you blew it."

your scream is muffled the second he stuffs the gag between your lips and tightens it around the back of your head. it's snug. suffocating. humiliating.

he holds your jaw, tilting your head up, breathing heavy against your cheek.

"next time you open that mouth without permission—" he growls, voice low and venomous, "—i'll gag you with my dick. understood?"

your breath stutters. your eyes burn with tears.

he pulls back, studying you. watching how your chest rises and falls with uneven breaths. then, he lets go and takes a step back.

"new rules," he says calmly, like he hasn't just threatened to fuck your throat as punishment.

he raises a finger.

"one—no screaming. not once. i hear so much as a whimper out of you without my say-so, i'll make you regret it."

a second finger.

"two—you don't try to escape. you don't touch the door. you don't look at the window. you so much as think about running, i'll tie you up worse than before. i'll make it so you beg me not to leave you alone."

a third finger.

"three—you do what i say. when i say it. no attitude. no tricks. no more chances."

he steps forward again, slow and looming, until you feel his breath against your gagged mouth.

"break any of them," he whispers, "and next time, i'm not stopping at just words."

𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃

you don't speak.

you don't scream.

you sit perfectly still on the edge of your bed, wrists still raw from the zip ties, legs aching—but obedient.

sunghoon watches you from the doorway, leaning against the frame with a slow, unreadable expression on his face. then, finally, he moves.

he walks in with the glass of water and a granola bar again, this time crouching in front of you and reaching behind your head to undo the gag. it slips from your mouth, slick with your spit.

you gasp softly, jaw stiff and sore, but say nothing—his threats still fresh in your mind.

he offers the water first, and you drink—slow, cautious sips. then the granola bar. you take it with trembling fingers, never breaking eye contact.

"good girl," he murmurs, brushing your cheek with the back of his hand. you flinch at his touch, but he just smirks.

he leaves you untied this time.

your limbs are stiff, but you pretend not to notice. you chew slowly, swallow, nod when he tells you to stay put.

but your eyes are already moving. scanning. searching.

his phone is in his back pocket. but yours—your phone—is on the desk.

screen dark. unplugged. untouched.

you wait. bide your time. he leaves the room for a second. maybe to grab something. maybe just to test you.

you count your heartbeats. one. two. three—

you move.

you slide off the bed as quietly as possible, fingers creeping toward the desk. one foot in front of the other. your hand is just about to touch the edge of your phone when—

"what do you think you're doing?"

his voice is quiet. dangerously soft.

you freeze. your hand lingers over the phone, not daring to close the distance.

you turn slowly.

he's standing in the doorway again, arms crossed, jaw tight.

for a moment, you expect him to snap. to yell. to grab you by the hair and throw you back on the bed.

but he doesn't.

he smiles.

walks over slowly and picks the phone up himself, slipping it into his back pocket.

"strike one," he says calmly. "but i'll be nice. just this once."

he brushes past you, but there's tension in his movements now. less patience. more heat behind his stare.

you return to the bed, defeated but not broken. not yet.

and then—

ding-dong.

the doorbell.

you don't even think this time.

your body moves before your brain catches up. you run. toward the door, toward the one fucking hope you've had since this nightmare started.

you run down the stairs, your body trembling in fear and adrenaline as you make it to the last step—leaping for the door.

but he's faster.

he slams you against the wall with one arm across your chest, the other pressing tight around your throat.

you gasp—your feet nearly leave the floor as he holds you there.

his grip isn't bruising—yet—but it's tight enough to keep you from moving, from breathing too deep, from making a single sound.

you can hear the footsteps outside. then a knock.

sunghoon leans in, his lips brushing your ear.

"you make a sound," he hisses, "and i'll kill whoever is outside. right here."

snapping on the safety chain, sunghoon grabs a hold of the door knob. he opens it with a click before his hand reaches into his pocket—a gun. he makes sure that you can see it, raising his eyebrows as if to say 'don't test me.'

"oh! hey—sorry to bother you," a familiar voice says. "i'm looking for my cat again. little bastard slipped out last night. have you seen him?"

it's mr. han. your sweet old neighbor.

your eyes burn. your fingers twitch.

you try to speak, but sunghoon tightens his hand around your throat and leans his head out the door.

"hi," he says, perfectly pleasant. "i'm her boyfriend. she's in the shower right now, but i'll tell her you stopped by."

mr. han blinks in confusion, his soft smile slipping. "oh. i didn't know she had a boyfriend."

sunghoon glances at you over his shoulder, a smirk creeping across his face as he presses you harder into the wall.

"yeah, hasn't been to long. just moved in."

"well, good for her!" mr. han chuckles. "if you see a tabby, let me know, will you?"

"of course," sunghoon says, eyes squinting as he forces a smile. "have a good one."

sunghoon watches the elder man walk off the porch and zoom off of the lawn, he shuts the door.

locks it and turns to you slowly.

his grip around your throat doesn't loosen. it tightens.

"you just don't fucking learn." he slams you back against the wall hard enough to make the frame shake. your head knocks into the plaster, breath choking in your throat.

"you think i'm stupid? you think just 'cause you stayed quiet for a day that you could get bold?" his free hand moves, grabbing your chin roughly, forcing you to look at him. his eyes are dark. wild. no trace of the calm he faked a minute ago.

"what do i do to brats who don't listen?" he growls, voice low and threatening. "hmm? what did i promise i'd do?"

your heart drops in your chest.

his hand drops to your waist, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. he manhandles you away from the wall and drags you up the stairs and towards your bed again, shoving you face-first into the mattress.

sunghoon's eyes snap to your behind, the vulnerable position you were in leaving little to his imagination of what you hid underneath your flimsy shorts.

"you want attention so bad?" he snaps. "fine. i'll give you attention."

his hand presses between your shoulder blades, keeping you down, pinned like prey. his other hands smoothens over your behind, grabbing a hold of the fat on your ass making you whine into the sheets.

"but after this—" he breathes against your ear, "—you'll beg to follow the rules."

"you remember what i said i'd gag you with next time you pulled shit like that?"

his voice is low. dangerous. every word laced with venom and heat before he's griping your jaw, thumb dragging over your trembling lips.

your silence earns you nothing. he flips you around, pushing you down onto the bed with your back against your soft sheets.

he tilts your head back further, pressing your skull against the headboard now, his body wedged between your knees.

"oh, now you're quiet?" he mocks, fingers tightening around your face in a grip that you were sure would leave bruises. "no attitude now that you know what's coming?"

you try to speak, to plead maybe—but your mouth barely opens before he shoves two fingers past your lips, forcing them deep against your tongue.

sunghoon holds back a groan when he feels how warm and wet your mouth was around his digits, pressing down on your tongue making you gag.

"nah," he growls, "you don't get to talk. you had your chance."

he pulls his fingers out, dripping with spit, and pulls down his pants with ease without taking his eyes off you.

"since you can't keep your fucking mouth shut, i'll put it to better use."

he's straddling your waist, knees on either side of your body as his cock stands proud in front of you.

he fists your hair, yanking your head toward his cock, already thick and flushed with need. the first tap of it against your lips is sharp, mean.

"open."

you hesitate—so he slaps it against your cheek. hard.

"i said open."

your lips part automatically. it's instinct at this point—survival.

he doesn't ease in.

he shoves, thick and heavy, making you choke on the first thrust. both hands grip your head now, holding you exactly where he wants you, using your mouth like he promised.

"there you go. that's better. this is how i like you—stuffed full, not making a sound," sunghoon grunts out, basking in the way your warm mouth seemed to suck him in.

you gag as he pushes deeper, spit dripping from your chin as he rocks his hips, forcing you to take it all.

his voice stays in your ear, low and taunting.

"next time you scream? next time you run? i'll fuck your mouth so hard you won't even remember your own name."

your eyes water, throat stretched, his cock filling every inch. but he doesn't stop. doesn't let up. the tip of his length hits the back of your throat repeatedly as you try to push yourself away from his brutal thrusts. sunghoon sees this and his grip in your hair becomes stronger, stuffing his cock deeper so your nose touched his pelvis and your breathing stuttered.

"you like this, don't you? being punished. being used. my little brat who acts tough but melts the second i get my hands on her."

his pace quickens, brutal now, the sound of your wet gagging and his filthy growls echoing off the walls.

"better than screaming, isn't it?" he sneers. "go ahead—choke on it, since you couldn't behave."

your hands claw weakly at his thighs, but he just holds you there, hips snapping forward, using your mouth until your throat is raw.

"fuck. your mouth is so good when it's used right," he mutters lowly, feeling that familiar feeling tighten in his lower stomach as he watches your tear stained face take his cock over and over again.

with no warning, he shoots his load into your mouth—coating it white. you gag at the feeling, your eyes rolling back as the lack of oxygen begins to really get to you.

and only when he's satisfied—only when he's sure you won't be trying to run again—does he finally pull out, dragging his spit and cum covered cock over your lips.

"swallow," he demands.

afraid of what he'd do if you disobeyed, you obliged.

"look at you," he pants, gripping your chin. "fucking perfect like this."

he leans down, mouth against your ear.

"you make a sound again—and next time, it won't just be your mouth i use."

𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃

it's been days.

you don't know how many, exactly—time feels warped in here. sunlight comes and goes through the windows, but you're barely conscious enough to count the difference anymore.

you're weak. too weak.

he barely feeds you. you get enough to survive, some water, maybe crackers or a half-eaten bar—but not enough to fight back. not enough to scream through the gag still strapped tightly across your mouth.

your wrists are red, raw from how often he binds them. sometimes behind your back, sometimes above your head. your legs, too—he likes to keep you where he can see you, spread open and helpless, arms cinched tight and useless at your sides.

he doesn't talk much now. just watches you. moves you. like a thing he owns.

it was supposed to be temporary for him.

a place to hide. one night—maybe two. long enough to lay low, avoid the flashing lights and barking dogs. just long enough to scrape by without being seen.

he didn't expect the house to be so quiet.

so soft.

he didn't expect to hear the sound of slow breathing upstairs—the kind that came from deep sleep. vulnerable. defenseless.

and he definitely didn't expect you.

the first time he crept into your room and saw you lying there, curled beneath the sheets, skin glowing under moonlight, he nearly forgot to breathe. fuck, you were pretty. a cute little thing in a tank top and sleep shorts, completely unaware of the danger breathing over you.

it should've ended there. he should've turned around and used the basement or the attic or anywhere else.

but you shifted in your sleep—lips parting, a soft whimper slipping from your throat—and it hit him.

you didn't know he was there. you didn't know anything, he could do whatever he wanted.

and no one would stop him.

his chest tightened. not with guilt. not with hesitation.

with possibility.

he could make this place more than a hiding spot.

he could make you his.

his to keep. to touch. to break.

he had ruined your peaceful sleep when he knocked over a vase that you had placed on your vanity. he knew what he had to do from there.

he told himself he'd leave eventually. but the longer he stayed, the less he wanted to go.

he started to crave the way you looked at him—wide-eyed and shaking. he started to need the way your body recoiled, only to soften when he touched you gently. the way you flinched, but didn't fight—not right away at least.

he could mold you.

he could make you something new. something better.

his.

the house became his kingdom. and you—his prize.

he told himself you were safer this way.

he was safer this way.

because if he let you go—if he walked out and left you behind—there was no guarantee you wouldn't take something from him with you.

and if he had to be on the run... might as well have a pet to keep him company. one that couldn't run. one that knew who she belonged to.

you try not to look at him anymore.

but then—this time—it's different.

he walks in with that quiet menace, dragging a chair with one hand and a towel with the other.

you're curled in the corner of your bed, wrists tied, gag biting into your cheeks. your limbs shake with the effort of just staying upright. your skin feels oily, dirty, your scalp itchy from days without washing.

you've never wanted a bath more.

but not from him.

"you stink," he says flatly, his plump lips pulled into a thin line.

you look up, exhausted eyes narrowed.

he walks over, grabs your arm, and yanks you to your feet like you weigh nothing.

you stumble, legs buckling—but his grip stays locked around your bicep, dragging you down the hall and into the bathroom.

"don't fight me," he mutters. "you don't have the strength."

he's not wrong.

but your pride forces you to resist anyway—so he slams you against the sink.

you grunt, head hitting the mirror lightly. his hand presses between your shoulder blades, forcing you down.

you scream against the gag, but it's useless. muffled. pitiful.

he turns the faucet on in the tub, steam rising slowly. the water looks too warm—comforting, tempting—and it makes you hate him more.

you look up at him with pleading eyes, begging him to let you free so you could at the very least bathe yourself. his cold eyes remain the same, reaching down to grip the flimsy straps of your tank top.

he doesn't undress you gently. he yanks your shirt up over your head, roughly tugging it off your arms even with your wrists bound. your shorts follow. he doesn't avert his eyes—he drinks you in, every shiver, every twitch, every part of you exposed and vulnerable.

his eyes linger on your tits, sitting on your chest with your nipples hard from the cold air in the room. he swallows harshly, dragging his gaze down to instead linger on your thighs and your uncovered core.

you're trembling now, from weakness or humiliation or both.

he grabs your waist and lifts you into the tub like you're nothing but a doll. the hot water stings your skin at first, but you sink into it anyway—your body aching for warmth, for some kind of relief.

you expect him to leave, to have some mercy. he doesn't.

he kneels beside the tub and grabs a cup, filling it before dumping it over your head. your hair clings to your face, your gag soaked.

he works a bottle of shampoo into his hands and starts lathering it into your scalp. not gentle—but not cruel either. just firm. efficient. like this is just another task.

his hands roam as he scrubs. over your shoulders. down your back. between your thighs. you jerk when he gets there—more out of instinct than strength—but his hand tightens on your thigh.

"stay still."

his fingers drag along your inner thigh, slow, invasive. he doesn't go further, just lets you know he could if he really wanted to.

and you're forced to sit there, bound and gagged, water lapping at your chest while he washes the filth from your skin like you're some helpless pet.

"next time," he says lowly, rinsing your hair, "you listen. you don't fight. you don't run."

you can't even respond. all you can do is whimper beneath the wet gag, body trembling in his grasp. he finishes washing you, lifting you out of the tub, wrapping you in the towel like he cares.

but the second your feet hit the floor, he's gripping your arm again—dragging you back to the room.

you don't even resist.

you're too tired. too humiliated. too broken in.

he throws you on the bed, ties your wrists to the headboard again with a new set of restraints. this time tighter, less forgiving.

he fixes the gag and adjusts the straps. he brushes your wet hair back from your face with a mockingly sweet touch, his hands gentle as he looks down at you with affection.

"see?" he whispers, brushing his lips just above your ear. "i take care of what's mine."

he dries you off just enough so the sheets won't get soaked—then he tosses the towel aside like it means nothing and grabs your ankles, dragging your body up the bed like dead weight.

you try to squirm, but he slaps your thigh. hard.

"don't start."

you're still gagged. your wrists are already tied above your head. there's no room for rebellion here—and he knows it.

he climbs on top of you, straddling your hips with his knees. he's not naked, but you are. he doesn't need to be. the only thing that matters right now is you.

your body.

your obedience.

he cups your face with one hand, squeezing your cheeks roughly, pulling your gaze to meet his.

"look at you," he sneers. "a fucking mess. barely standing. can't talk. can't run. all that fire you had—where the fuck did it go?" you can't answer—not with the gag pressing your tongue down, soaking with your spit. you just blink up at him, chest heaving with shaky breaths.

"you wanted to be saved, didn't you?" he mocks, brushing his fingers over your cheek just to slap it again. "thought someone would come for you. knock on the door, maybe hear you screaming."

he laughs. bitter.

"they came. and you failed. just like everything else you've tried since i got here."

his hands start roaming again—gripping your breasts, digging into your ribs, sliding down to your stomach like he's taking inventory of every inch he owns.

"this body?" he mutters. "not yours anymore. it's mine. to touch. to punish. to fuck."

he grabs your thighs, spreading them roughly, pushing your knees apart like you don't even get a say.

"you're not a person right now," he breathes. "you're a hole. a toy. and you'll be whatever i say you are until i get bored."

you whimper against the gag, eyes starting to sting. but that only seems to turn him on more. he leans down, mouth at your ear again, voice sickeningly sweet.

"cry. beg. scream into that gag. it won't change a fucking thing. no one's going to save you."

his hand finds your core, pressing his fingers against you with no warning, no care. "already wet," he mutters, almost smug. "pathetic."

he drags his fingers up slowly, deliberately—just enough to make you flinch, to remind you how little control you have over yourself.

"you'll learn, baby. you'll learn. and when you do—when you stop fighting and just take it like the good little thing you are? it'll be easier."

he slaps between your legs. hard. you jolt.

"until then? i'll break you."

you don't know when the pain became pleasure. maybe it was the moment he touched you without hurting you. maybe it was how long it's been since you felt anything that wasn't fear or humiliation. or maybe it's just that your body's giving in, finally breaking, surrendering to him because it's the only option left.

sunghoon sees it. feels it.

his fingers slide over you again—slow this time, calculated. he presses two between your chubby folds, dragging them through your slick like he's proving a point. he presses hard on your clit before rubbing right circles, watching your face contort into one of discomfort and pleasure.

"look at this," he breathes out heavily, watching your body twitch with his every touch. "you like it."

you shake your head, gag muffling your protests—but your hips twitch forward without your permission.

his smile is cold. smug.

"no?" he mocks, rubbing lazy circles around your clit with the pads of his fingers. "then why are you so fucking wet? you're soaking my fingers, honey."

you squeeze your thighs together instinctively—but he shoves them apart again, gripping them wide open and holding them there in a bruising manner.

"don't hide from me. not after this."

his other hand slides up your body, fingers wrapping lightly around your throat, not squeezing—yet. just enough to make you feel it. make you still.

"you want to cum?" he asks, cocking his head—his dark locks falling over his forehead as his lips curl into a smirk. "is that what this is? you think i'll reward you after the shit you pulled? after how bad you've been, you think you deserve it? hm?"

his fingers slow down, barely touching now. feather-light. teasing. "maybe i should edge you until you break. over and over. never let you finish. see how long it takes before you're begging."

your breath stutters—every inch of you tense, desperate.

he sees it. loves it.

"or..."

he leans in close, lips brushing your ear.

"...maybe you can earn it."

you freeze.

his fingers start circling again, more firmly now, making your hips buck involuntarily as you chase your release desperately. your heart aches at the feeling, shame filling you.

"yeah. that's right. i'll let you cum—but only when you prove you're mine. when you stop fighting. when you're good."

he pulls the gag down, slow and wet with spit. your lips are trembling, red and swollen. sunghoon watches your lips twitch, your chest heave up and down as you struggle to keep in your lewd sounds.

"say it," he whispers.

you hesitate.

his hand leaves your throat, trailing back down your chest. he pinches your nipple hard, making you jolt in pain.

"say it."

your voice cracks when it comes out. weak. wrecked. ashamed.

"...i'm yours."

he grins. dark. dangerous.

"again."

"i'm... i'm yours, sunghoon," your voice coming out weak and strangled as he continues to tweak at your nipple and rub at your core.

his hand between your legs moves faster now, relentless, cruel in how perfectly it works your body—building that ache, that pressure, that need.

"you cum only when i say," he growls. "not before. not without permission."

you nod. frantically. desperate for a release, desperate for any other feeling besides pain and humiliation.

your thighs start to shake, breath stuttering, but just when you're about to fall over the edge—

he pulls away. completely.

you sob. instantly. broken, needy.

he leans down and presses a soft kiss to your inner thigh, mockingly sweet.

"not yet, baby. you're not there yet."

he strokes his cock lazily now, right in front of your face—watching you unravel. you hadn't noticed when he had pulled himself free from the restraints of his pants, watching him touch himself as he made you squirm and beg.

"you want to cum?"

you nod again, more desperate.

"then earn it. really earn it."

he slides two fingers back inside you—slow, deep, hitting exactly where he knows will make you cry.

"submit."

his fingers curl deep inside you again—slow, precise, knowing.

you arch, back bowing against the mattress involuntarily, your wrists straining in their binds. it feels too good, too dangerous. you bite your lip to keep from moaning, but it slips out anyway—a soft, shaky sound that betrays everything you want to hide.

he grins, "there she is."

you glare at him. breathing hard. eyes glassy, but still sharp. "fuck... you," you hiss.

he chuckles, low and unbothered, never stopping the rhythm of his hand.

"yeah?" he leans in, mouth dragging along your jaw. "you say that, but your pussy's soaking my fingers."

his thumb moves to your clit—just a light press, a tease—and your whole body flinches. you clench your teeth, swallowing a moan. he notices.

"still fighting," he murmurs. "i love that."

he stops stroking himself, his hand snaking up to your throat again, squeezing this time. firm enough to make your breath hitch.

"but it won't save you."

his pace picks up. fingers thrusting deeper, thumb rubbing tighter circles. the pressure builds fast—your body's too sensitive, too deprived—and you hate how close you are, how easily he has you trembling.

"don't you dare cum," he growls. "not until i say." the sound of wet smacking fills the room, you could hear yourself squelch against his fingers, your lower stomach tightening as you buck your hips against his hands.

you try. you really try.

but your hips keep rolling into his touch, your walls clenching around his fingers, the pleasure dragging you closer and closer to the edge. your moans break free, desperate, breathless, despite every part of you screaming not to give him the satisfaction.

he watches it happen with dark amusement. "look at you," he says. "trying so hard to hold out. you're pathetic."

you meet his eyes, defiant even through the haze.

"i'm not... yours," you whisper.

his hand stops.

your whole body seizes up with the sudden loss, a sob catching in your throat.

"no?" he murmurs.

he pulls his fingers out, slow and sticky, then slaps your inner thigh hard enough to sting.

"then you don't get to cum."

you cry out, body trembling. your thighs rub together, instinctively chasing friction, but he grabs your jaw hard and yanks your face toward his before landing a strong smack to your puffy cunt.

"say it again," he demands. "go on. tell me you're not mine."

you don't. not right away. he smirks.

"thought so."

he leans in, lips brushing yours—but not kissing. just hovering. "you'll break," he whispers. "piece by piece. you'll cum when i let you. breathe when i let you. and someday, you'll say it and mean it—i'm yours, sunghoon."

you spit in his face.

it lands right below his eye.

he pauses. then he laughs—low and deadly—and wipes it away with the back of his hand.

"good," he says, gripping your chin harder. "keep fighting. it makes owning you so much sweeter."

he shoves the gag back into your mouth, tight, unforgiving. your jaw begins to ache again, crying against the restraint.

"no more chances."

he ties your legs open, so you can't even squirm now. exposed. vulnerable. soaked.

"you'll cum when you beg. and mean it."

he slides his fingers back inside, slower now. torturous. your gummy walls welcome his fingers, stretching to accommodate the girth of his digits.

"let's see how long you last."

he thinks he has you right where he wants you.

tied, gagged, spread open—body sensitive, on edge, desperate. but he's predictable now. obsessive. careless in the way he touches you, in the way he lingers. like you're not just a hostage anymore—like you're something more.

and that? that's a weakness.

he's working you with his fingers again—slow, deep strokes meant to drag out the ache, to make you beg.

but this time, you don't squirm.

you start moaning for him.

soft at first—just breathy little sounds muffled through the gag—but enough to make his head tilt. enough to make his fingers pause for a second.

you moan again. louder this time. exaggerated. needy. you flutter your lashes, shift your hips just the way you know he likes.

his gaze flickers down to your face, suspicious. "what're you doing?" he mutters, voice low with suspicion.

you blink up at him—wide-eyed, innocent—then roll your hips into his hand with a soft, choked sound.

he curses under his breath.

you can feel it—the tension in him, the way his fingers falter for half a second. he likes this. too much. he likes seeing you like this. needy. soft. wanting him.

so you give it to him.

you moan into the gag again—arching your back a little, letting your thighs tremble, pretending to lose yourself.

his hand tightens on your leg. his breathing shifts as he curls his fingers in your cunt making you delirious.

"fuck," he mutters. "look at you. finally learning."

you nod. slow. deliberate.

then you hold his gaze. and you smirk. just a twitch of your lips—barely there. but he sees it and he freezes.

his eyes darken, narrowing, hand yanking back from between your legs like he's been burned.

you tilt your head, mockingly sweet.

"you think you're clever, huh?" he growls.

you nod again, smug, even through the gag. he grabs your throat—hard this time, his thumb pressing into the side just enough to make your vision pulse.

"you think you can manipulate me?"

your lashes flutter, but you don't stop smiling—not with your eyes. not with your body still glistening, still wanting.

you're challenging him. and he lives for it.

"fine," he breathes, voice shaking with something between rage and arousal. "you want to play that game? we'll play."

he rips the gag out of your mouth, shoving two fingers in right after, deep, gagging you all over again.

"suck."

you choke, but your lips wrap around them anyway—defiance still burning in your eyes, even as he uses your mouth like it's his.

he groans.

"you want to be in control?" he snarls, pulling his fingers out with a wet pop. "then earn it."

he flips you over onto your stomach, rough—palms pressing your face into the mattress.

"but don't forget who you belong to."

he grabs your hips, yanking you back until your ass is flush against him, his breath hot against your spine.

"mine," he growls. "you'll always be mine."

you're still face down when he lets go of your hips. your cheek's pressed to the mattress, wrists raw from the binds, your body trembling—but not just from exhaustion anymore.

you got to him.

you felt it—the hesitation, the way he gripped you too tightly, the way his voice shook when you moaned just the right way. he's not just trying to break you now. he's unraveling with you.

you breathe slowly, letting your body go limp—making him think he's won again.

he grabs your jaw, turns your face toward him. "what's that look for?" he mutters. your lips are swollen, spit-slick, and you part them just enough to whisper, "i thought you liked when i was good."

his jaw tightens. you can see it—how those words land somewhere deep, how they confuse him. punish him. "you're playing games."

you blink up at him, feigning innocence. "no, sunghoon. i'm just... learning how to please you."

he stares.

and in that pause—in that split-second hesitation—you win again.

he pulls back just a little, his hand still on your throat, but lighter. his thumb drags up the side of your neck, over your pulse. he can feel how fast your heart is racing—but he can't tell anymore if it's fear... or excitement.

"you think i'll go easy on you just because you moan a little and look pretty?" he growls, but the edge in his voice is starting to waver.

"no," you whisper. "but you liked it."

his eyes flicker down your body—bruised, bitten, wrecked. then back up to your lips, still curved into the faintest smirk.

"you don't get to control me," he says, but it's not as sharp as before. you lean forward slowly, as much as the binds will allow, lips brushing his ear.

"don't i already?"

he grabs your hair—rough, punishing—but it's reactionary now. desperate. his breathing's shallow, his cock pushing up against your ass, you feel how hard he is.

"you're mine," he snaps.

you hum, soft and sweet. "then make me feel like it."

it's the final push.

he curses, shoves you back onto your back, climbs on top of you again—but this time, something's changed. his hands are still rough, but they tremble. his eyes burn with hunger, but there's conflict behind it.

because now? you're not just a hostage anymore.

you're a temptation. a threat.

he kisses you—finally. messy, punishing. full of frustration and need and something deeper he doesn't want to name. and when he pulls back, his voice is strained.

"keep playing with fire," he says. "but don't forget—i'll burn you."

you smile, lips swollen, blood on your teeth.

"maybe i want to burn."

he stares at you like you just did the unthinkable.

because you did.

you made him want you—not just in the brutal, instinctive way he always has—but in that dangerous way. the way that makes him hesitate. that makes him feel.

your smile is slow. calculated. seductive in its smugness.

"what's wrong?" you whisper, still tied down, but holding all the power in your eyes. "can't handle someone else pulling the strings?"

sunghoon doesn't move at first.

he just breathes. shaky. tense.

you think you've done it—you've finally broken through. made him doubt himself.

but then—

his hand wraps around your throat and slams you into the mattress, pinning you so hard the air punches out of your lungs.

"you think this is a game?" he snarls, voice low and trembling with rage. "you think i don't see what you're doing?"

your legs kick instinctively, wrists pulling hard against the binds. your chest rises in shallow, panicked breaths beneath him.

he leans in—forehead pressed to yours, wild eyes burning into you as he stares at you with a crazed look.

"you almost had me," he says, like it's a confession. like it kills him to admit it. "but you're not the one in control."

his hand grabs your jaw—fingers digging in bruisingly tight.

"i gave you a taste," he growls. "a sliver of reward. and you thought you could twist it. twist me."

he shoves your thighs apart again, this time using his own knees to keep them there. immobilizing you completely.

you try to turn your face away—deny him the satisfaction—but he grabs your chin and forces you to look at him.

"no more teasing. no more playing smart. you want to win? then earn it the way you were always meant to."

his fingers are back between your legs in seconds—this time rough, relentless. punishing. no teasing, no slow build.

you scream into the room, not out of fear—but at the overload. he's not holding back anymore.

you could feel every drag of his digits in your slick walls, your body convulsing as he hooks his fingers in you—pounding into your cunt.

he's reclaiming every ounce of control you tried to steal. "you cum when i say," he hisses, voice right against your lips. "you break when i decide."

you whimper beneath him, still resisting—still fighting with what little strength you have—but your body's traitorous. you're already dripping, already twitching under his touch.

he sees it. feels it.

and that's what snaps the last bit of restraint in him.

he presses his mouth to your ear, voice dark and ragged.

"i'll keep you right here until your body forgets what it was like to disobey."

his rhythm doesn't stop—not even when your legs start to shake, not even when your head thrashes side to side, overwhelmed.

"you want to manipulate me?" he pants. "go ahead. try. but every time you do..."

his fingers curl deep, making you scream.

"...i'll make you cum harder than you ever have in your life. and then i'll deny you again."

your tears spill. your hips jerk. your moans are breaking free even when you try to swallow them back.

and sunghoon smiles. wide. unhinged.

"you don't win, baby."

he leans in, kissing the corner of your mouth softly—mockingly.

"you submit."

you're gasping beneath him, body limp, sweat clinging to your skin, thighs still twitching from the assault he just dragged you through. your chest rises and falls in jagged, uneven breaths. your wrists ache from how hard you pulled and you taste blood from biting at you lip to contain yourself.

but your eyes? still burning.

sunghoon hovers over you—breathing heavy, watching the way your body trembles. there's pride in his gaze. possession. satisfaction.

he leans in again, brushing your lips with his, voice low and mocking.

"there she is," he breathes. "my good girl."

you pause—breathing, blinking, letting the silence hang.

then you smile.

bloody lip, tear-stained cheeks, body ruined...

you still fucking smile.

"you're pathetic," you whisper, voice hoarse and cracked but sharp like a blade. "all that, just to prove you're in charge."

his jaw tightens. the grip on your face hardens again, but you don't flinch. not this time.

"i made you lose control," you rasp. "again."

his nostrils flare.

you lean forward, barely—just enough for your lips to graze his cheek.

"and you'll keep doing it," you breathe. "because you need me more than i'll ever need you. you sick fuck."

for a second, just a second—his whole body stills.

and you know. you got to him again.

your words linger in the air like smoke—thick, suffocating, taunting. and sunghoon just stares at you.

quiet. too quiet.

you feel the shift in the room immediately—like the oxygen's been sucked out, like the world itself is holding its breath.

his hand slides from your jaw to your throat.

slow. calm. dangerous.

his gaze never leaves yours.

"say it again," he murmurs. dead calm. deadly.

you blink—swallowing hard, but refusing to look away.

and that's what makes him snap.

his hand slams you into the mattress again—choking, bruising, cutting off your breath as he straddles your body with renewed fury.

"you think this is about need?" he hisses, low and shaking. "you think i'm the one that's weak?"

his free hand grabs your wrists, rips the bindings tighter, yanking your arms above your head so hard your shoulders strain.

"look at you," he sneers. "lying here soaked, shaking, moaning for me like a fucking whore—" his voice cracks. "—and you think you have control?"

you try to twist your body, to squirm away—but there's nowhere to go. his grip on your throat tightens.

your lips part in a gasping cry—but he's already reaching for the gag again.

"you want to talk?" he growls. "you lost that right."

he stuffs it in rougher this time—no care, no softness—pressing it deep into your mouth before tying it so tight behind your head your jaw aches.

he doesn't give you time to breathe. doesn't give you space to recover.

he flips you again, stomach down—your body limp, wrists still bound tight above your head, legs spread.

he grabs your hair, pulls your head back so you're arched beneath him.

"you want to twist me around your finger?" he breathes against your ear, his voice shaking with pure rage. "then i'll fucking break every single bone in your body until there's nothing left to twist."

his hand slides back between your thighs—rougher now, punishing.

no more rhythm. just control.

you scream into the gag—muffled, helpless, as your hips buck and shake without your permission.

"no more pretending," he growls. "no more teasing, no more games."

he grabs your ass, slapping it hard, again and again, until the skin stings raw beneath his palm.

your legs kick, your body trembles, your sobs spill out in broken little whimpers.

but it only excites him more.

"you want to be smart?" he snarls, pressing his body down over yours, fully covering you. caging you. "then learn something, baby."

he thrusts his fingers back in, curling them cruelly until your entire body jerks beneath him.

"you don't win," he hisses. "you submit. you obey. and if you don't..."

his mouth trails down your spine, hot breath against your skin.

"...i'll make you beg for mercy."

your body's shaking beneath him. raw. used. aching in ways you didn't know were possible.

your jaw throbs from the gag, your throat burns from choked sobs, your wrists are nearly numb from how tight he's bound you. your skin stings where he slapped you, and your thighs are soaked, muscles twitching from overstimulation.

you're a mess. his mess.

he kneels behind you, breath heavy, chest rising and falling like a man who just won a war.

but when he grabs your hair again and yanks your face up from the mattress—

he sees it.

that look.

that tiny, fucking spark that shouldn't be there.

he growls, yanks the gag down—ripped so fast it leaves a burn around your mouth—and grabs your jaw.

"go on," he hisses. "say something smart. i fucking dare you."

you cough, breathless and wrecked, lips parted, face smeared with sweat and tears. you look at him—eyes glassy but locked onto his.

then—

you smile.

small. crooked. blood at the corner of your mouth.

but it's a smile.

"...that all you got?"

he stares at you like you just set the whole world on fire. his chest heaves. fists clenched. he doesn't know if he wants to destroy you or worship you.

and that's what makes you laugh. soft. strained. broken, but alive. you spit the blood from your mouth onto the mattress.

"you can break my body all you want, sunghoon," you whisper, voice rasped raw. "but you'll never be more than the scared little boy who needed rope and violence just to keep a girl in his bed."

his hand flies.

your head jerks to the side, cheek stinging, but you don't cry out. instead—you turn your face back slowly, looking up at him through swollen eyes.

smiling again.

"you're pathetic," you breathe.

sunghoon's whole body tenses. you can see it. feel it. his eyes darken. his hands shake.

but for the first time, there's hesitation. you've planted the seed. and now? he doesn't just want to dominate you. he wants to own you. fully. mind, body, soul.

and that means breaking what's left of your fire.

completely.

𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃

the days blend like bruises—fading into one another, painful, discolored, ugly reminders of time passed. your body is thin now, your limbs weak, skin pale from lack of sunlight. everything smells like sweat and confinement. the bindings around your wrists and ankles chafe more with each passing hour, and even when he unties them briefly—to "care" for you, to feed or bathe you—you never forget what they're there for.

sunghoon has shifted. less violent now, more possessive. frighteningly tender, like the calm after a storm that knows it'll return.

"you're mine now," he whispers as he brushes your hair, the back of his knuckles grazing your cheek. "you stopped screaming. that means you understand."

you don't answer. you haven't in a while.

he likes it that way. but that doesn't mean your mind has gone silent.

you're just... waiting.

and on this morning, as sunlight spills across the floor and he leaves the room to scavenge the kitchen, you push yourself off the bed. legs wobble beneath you, almost giving out. your mouth is dry, lips cracked. your arms are sore from the way they've been pulled above your head for hours.

but you stand.

bare feet drag across the hardwood toward the cracked-open window. you lean against it, arms limp over the sill, eyes half-lidded.

and then—

movement outside.

him.

mr. han, the older man from next door, wearing his usual cap and jacket, walking past with a leash in hand and no cat at the end of it. he's scanning the street.

your breath catches. you shift—just barely. the curtain twitches with you.

he glances up.

and freezes.

his mouth opens slightly, confused. then worried.

your fingers curl around the edge of the window frame.

a second passes. he squints. takes a step closer.

and you nod. the smallest movement. a desperate one.

his eyes widen.

he takes off down the street—fast, but not frantic, trying not to draw attention. your legs give out, and you slump to the floor just as the front door clicks open again.

"where are you?" sunghoon calls out.

panic races through you, but your limbs won't move fast enough.

he appears in the doorway a second later.

eyes drop to you.

your body crumpled by the window.

and that's all it takes.

he lunges.

his hands are on you instantly—grabbing your arms, dragging you up with no care for your trembling body. he spins you toward the bed, but you're dead weight now, slumping in his grip.

"what the fuck did you do," he growls, voice tight with fear. "did someone see you?"

you don't answer.

he shakes you hard, fingers digging into your arms. "did he see you?"

your silence is enough.

his breathing becomes frantic. he shoves you back onto the bed and runs to the front window. peeks through the blinds.

and curses.

"fuck. fuck!"

he spins around, pacing.

then—

sirens.

distant.

not close yet, but unmistakable. your heart surges.

sunghoon's entire face crumples with fury and panic.

he grabs a bag—throws it across the room. opens drawers. grabs knives. rope.

sirens grow louder.

closer.

you're still lying on the bed, too weak to fight, but your eyes track his every movement.

he moves to the door. he's going to run, but something stops him.

you.

he turns, stares at you for a beat. long and quiet. then walks back toward you slowly. you flinch when he reaches for your face—but he doesn't hurt you.

instead, he cups your cheek. wipes a streak of something off your skin. sweat or tears. maybe both.

"you did this," he whispers.

his voice is calm again.

the sirens are just outside now—cars skidding, doors slamming.

he leans in closer. kisses your forehead.

"i'll see you again."

and then—

bang—bang—BANG.

"police! open up!"

the door doesn't wait for an answer. it bursts open in seconds. officers storm inside—guns raised, shouting commands.

sunghoon stands tall. his hands rise slowly. he doesn't struggle.

but he never takes his eyes off you.

not once.

as they shove him to the ground, shouting, cuffing him, dragging him away—

he turns his head back to look at you.

eyes wide. wild and devoted.

"i'll find you," he calls, voice breaking. "no matter where they take me. you belong to me."

he never thought it would end like this.

face pressed to the hardwood, cold metal biting into his wrists. police shouting over each other, boots stomping through his space—your space.

they're dragging him away now. but his eyes won't leave you.

not once.

you're huddled near the corner of the bed—blanket pulled over your shoulders, shivering, pale, but awake. not limp. not broken. your eyes are on him.

terrified and defiant.

just like the first time you stared him down.

he thought he'd taken that out of you. smoothed your edges, broken your fight. he thought you'd learned.

but now, looking at you...he sees it.

you never stopped burning. you just waited for the moment to breathe.

it makes his teeth grit.

he remembers the first night he stood over your bed, zip ties in his hands, heart thudding not with fear but need. the thrill of control, the high of being wanted—or at least needed—by something warm, soft, his.

you were supposed to need him by now.

he told himself he'd remake you. that it was fate you were the one sleeping in this house, with the window left open like an invitation.

you were supposed to belong to him.

but now? they're hauling him away and he's powerless.

just like he was before. before the escape. before he found you. before he felt that sick sense of purpose in your screams and silence alike.

you're slipping from him.

you're blinking and breathing and safe in someone else's arms now. and he knows—knows deep in the marrow of his bones—that they're going to take you far away from him.

his lip curls. he twists in the officer's grip, eyes locked on yours.

"i'll see you again," he growls, voice hoarse with rage and obsession. "you hear me? you're mine."

you don't reply.

you just watch him disappear down the hallway.

no more ropes. no more gags. no more silence.

just the ghost of his voice echoing down the corridor, and the sound of your own breath finally filling your lungs—free.

you tremble.

someone rushes to your side—a medic. hands on your face, checking your vitals, voice soft and reassuring. but all you can do is stare at the door.

where he disappeared.

and pray he never keeps that promise.

— enjoy this fic? check out my other ones right here!

[p-seduonym]

The Little Light That Got Lost (Part Ten)

A/N: Writing Constantine, even if it's just notes, was a little tough. If these don't feel very tied together, I'm sorry. I really want to get into Casey's perspective again, I just need to figure out how.

Taglist: @cheust, @i-simp-for-women, @goodsoup19, @143637-hrrm, @delias-stuff, @12nitled, @cutenessbun, @rinkydinkythinky, @trashlanternfish360, @bunbunbread, @daddysfangirls-dc, @justannie18, @moon0goddess

Part One

Part Two

Part 2.5

Interlude

Part Three

Part Four

Part Five

Part Six

Part Seven

Part Eight

Part Nine

Gotham Colonial Watch Inquisition Record — Entry #47 Filed by: Deacon Elias Brewster, Gotham Parish Overseer Date: [March 2nd, Year Of Our Lord 1652]

In matter of the unnamed servant girl, of unknown parentage, previously in employ at the Wayne Household, I hereby submit an account of troubling reports and observations.

Several weeks past, Mr. Nathaniel Wayne declared his intent to take the girl to wife. This announcement was made without banns, and no council of elders was consulted beforehand. Furthermore, it was in the wake of the late Madame's passing. He claimed it was a deed of mercy—that her soul might be spared from corruption, her sins cleansed through union with a Godly man.

While some whispered misgivings, the people of Gotham Colony, held in esteem Mr. Wayne’s judgment, for he is a man of land and long-standing. The girl was known to keep to herself, speak in strange ways, and some say the babe in her care spoke her name before they spoke aught else.

The marriage was never seen, though it would be a grand ceremony. That day, she was gone. Mr. Wayne claimed she fled in the night, ungrateful for his kindness.

House servants report they did not see her leave. No shoes or cloak were missing.

One girl claims the white dress—Madame’s wedding garment—was taken from its chest.

Another says the child was found wailing in the upstairs wardrobe, their fingers clutching a veil of lace.

There are stories of scratching beneath the house. Of chill winds though the torches be lit. Of the air turning foul in the nursery.

When I inquired, Mr. Wayne bid me leave. He said I lack faith in redemption.

Yet I fear something buried. I fear the root of sin is not the girl.

— “Though the pit be sealed, the sin within shall rise.” — Ecclesiasticus

—E. Brewster

Field Notes – Constantine

Location: Gotham (Morwen Parish House / Wayne Estate Ruins)

Date: [REDACTED]

Don’t like Gotham. Never did. But when the dead start talking, I listen.

Got a call from Pennyworth—always dry as dust, but knows when to ring the bloody fire bell. Kid named Casey Wayne—descendant—been having episodes. Was seeing a shrink and talked about them. Night terrors. Sleepwalking. Drawings. Seeing dark figures. 

Psychotherapy and hypnotherapy were done. Did nothing– shocker.

Did some digging. Found a journal. 17th century. Written by a servant girl. “Yaya.” No surname. No family. A ghost in the records—except she ain’t. She's anchored.

She saw the dead. Fed the baby. Took the beatings. Then the Master—Nathaniel Wayne—gets all holy and offers her marriage like a pardon.

Convenient, considering his wife, his child, and the governess all died in the same breath. Village probably needed someone to blame.

No one saw a wedding. But everyone felt it. That’s how hauntings start—not with blood, but with silence.

The cellar is still here. A basement now. Old brick. Cold as sin. 

She’s down there, more than likely. Dressed in white. After trying to run.

And now, centuries later, she’s still watching over her babe. Problem is, the babe’s long dead. And Casey Wayne ain’t them.

She’s tethered. Protective. But warped. The kind of spirit that sings lullabies but could drag you into the floorboards.

Need to find what’s keeping her here. Body’s still under the estate, I’d bet my last cigarette. Or worse—part of her is.

Dealing with a ghost here, maybe more, could become a polter, trapped in a feedback loop of fear and mother’s love.

Next steps: — Locate the grave. — Unbind any circle. — Talk to the kid before she makes them hers for good.

One last thing: She didn’t ask to be a witch.

But they made her one anyway.

A/N: I have no idea what to write next, I'll be honest with you. It might be something with Constantine and Casey, but I'm not sure how I'll even format that. But I'll still try to get some work out for y'all.

[eliasmelody]

Tired babe? Take a seat!

Tag: Sol x reader, fluff Warning: grammar & spelling

✦.───────── ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ ───────── .✦ You yawn again. Dragging your feet into the library like you’re floating more than walking. Your body’s heavy. Eyes sting from lack of sleep. Your brain's practically mush. It's been a long day. Honestly? You need somewhere quiet to crash. Just for a second.

Of course, he’s there.

Same spot, like always. Slouched over the desk, head dipped, dark clothes blending into the dim light of the corner. Pencil dancing lazily in his fingers. He doesn’t even blink when the door creaks open. Doesn’t move when your bag thumps softly against the floor.

Just a glance. Quick. Dismissive. Until he really sees you.

His eyes flick up again. Sharper this time. He clocks your posture. Your sluggish steps. Your barely-open eyes. His gaze lingers like it’s magnetized to the curve of your face. The slump in your shoulders. The way your hoodie’s collar slides off one side. And when you drag your tired body toward him, he straightens up.

You stand beside the table for a moment. Rubbing your eye with the back of your hand. You know there’s a seat beside him. But right now you want comfort. Not a cold wooden chair.

So you act on instinct.

Without saying a word, you swing one leg over and settle yourself right on his lap.

His breath stops. Like someone hit mute on his entire system. Arms frozen mid-motion. Eyes blown wide for half a second before he forces them away. Like he’s afraid looking too long might give something away. You shift to get comfortable. You feel it. His legs twitching beneath you. Fingers gripping the edge of the table so tight his knuckles go pale.

"Hope you don’t mind." You mumble sleepily. Leaning your chest against his chest. Head tucking under his chin like it’s your usual spot. Hands drapes over his shoulder.

He doesn’t answer. Can’t.

Because right now, Sol’s fighting for his damn life.

Your scent fills his lungs with every breath. Warm. Soft. Intoxicating. Your weight against him is driving him insane. Every movement. Every sigh you make. Vibrates through his body like static electricity.

He tilts his head down slightly. His nose brushes against your hair. A low sound escapes him. Barely a whisper of a groan. He doesn’t know whether to hold you or dig his nails into the table to ground himself.

You shift again. Just slightly.

And he’s losing it.

His head tips back, eyes briefly closing as he tries to collect himself.

"Fuck..." He mutters under his breath. The sound of the air shifting in his lungs feels like a weight, and the ceiling above him seems to mock him as his mind races. His hands are shaking slightly, but he refuses to let you see it.

You hum sleepily. "What was that?"

He clears his throat. “Nothing. Just… stay still.”

His words are strained, like he’s trying to convince both of you, but more so himself. He doesn’t trust himself to say more. The feeling of your body against his, your weight pressing down in the most deliciously torturous way, is sending heat spiraling through him.

You hum, a lazy, contented sound, and you nuzzle further into him. Your head buries into his chest, and your breath, soft and warm, flows over his neck. He swallows hard. His throat feels tight. Every shift you make is a reminder of how close you are, how dangerously close.

"Mm. Okay." You mumble, your voice dripping with exhaustion, unaware of how it rips through him.

Sol knows it’s wrong. You probably don’t even realize what you’re doing to him. But he can't stop it.

His hands, the ones that had been trembling at the edges of the table, now drift. Slowly. Hesitantly. Until it finds its place on your hip. His fingers curl there like he's testing if this is real. If you're really letting him hold you like this.

He refuses to move anymore than that, unwilling to risk even a slight twitch, because he’s not sure he’ll be able to stop himself.

Taking in a slow breath, trying to steady himself, his mind is all about the way you feel against him, how soft and warm and perfect you are there. Chest tightens, and heart races in a way that doesn’t make sense. Right now, all that control feels like it’s slipping.

"So cute... and all mine"

If you don’t move for the next ten minutes?

Well… don’t blame him.

✦.───────── ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ ───────── .✦ Art & characters from The Kid at the Back, created by Fantasia Kitt. ✦.───────── ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ ───────── .✦

[sometimesoliloquy]

THT Is a Love Story

(Yeah I said it. And I'll tell you why.)

In the very bittersweet context of being in the middle of the final season, and with the knowledge of all the press notes/directional spoilers out there ramping up to the finale, I’ve been thinking a lot about The Handmaid’s Tale as a a whole. What it’s about, at its core, and what would accordingly make for a truly satisfying ending. Margaret Atwood’s novel, of course, has presented a disturbing and brilliantly crafted political commentary and cautionary tale since its debut in 1985: the bleak but ultimately hopeful story of an ordinary woman’s survival trapped in a cold and cruel extremist regime where human rights (and particularly women's rights) are a thing of the past, made possible by environmental ruin and the everyday apathy of ordinary people. The show is that too, of course. It’s also at it's core a story of loss, perseverance and ultimately revolution. But moreover what weaves all the themes together in a truly compelling way: I think at essentially the very heart (fittingly), it is a love story. Not just in the most obvious romantic sense, but on so many broader levels. It’s a love story of parents and children, of family (born and chosen), of human connection. It’s a love letter to the perseverance of the human spirit, the ability of the heart to expand and evolve, the triumph of light over dark in the soul and in the world at large. And dancing at the center of it from the very start (and enduring against incredible odds) has been Nick & June: yes, the very epitome of epic, passionate romance with a capital “R”, but also on a deeper level, the symbolic and tangible embodiment of all of the above.

I’ve also been reflecting a bit on some of the things the show’s writers and producers have been saying about the ending and the last season in general, like how it has been “crafted with viewers in mind more than ever” and focused on “delivering a rewarding conclusion for the audience.” They’ve also hinted at a purposeful harkening back to the very first season and touching on all the seasons in between. All of this would have me believe they are paying close attention to staying consistent with the repeated motifs of the show, and striving for satisfying, full circle cohesiveness AND catharsis in the end. With this in mind, I wanted to go back and explore how the ever-present and echoing theme of love is depicted through the words of the characters themselves. Namely here, a trio of major power players since the beginning: June, Nick, and (in the opposing corner) one Mr. Fred Waterford.

…

June:

"What else is there to live for?"… "Love." - 1x05 "It’s lack of love we die from." - 3x05 "Nichole, she was born out of love. Her father’s a driver named Nick… he helped me to survive." - 3x05 "It’s too dangerous” "No it isn’t… at least someone will remember me… at least someone will care when I’m gone. That’s something." - 1x08

June believes in love. This is made clear from the very beginning and is one of the core tenets of her character. It’s not a “nice to have” and it’s not something she’s able to separate from herself, even in Gilead, a place where love is essentially forbidden, where it should feel impossible. It is framed by her as essential to life itself, like water or oxygen. It’s what she credits her very survival to. Moreover, she believes that love is worth dying for, it’s that vital to her. If June stops fighting for love, stops believing in the power of or perhaps even the very existence of love, who is she then? How depressing and devoid of hope would that ending be? Sure, the June we bid farewell to at the end of 6x10 will inevitably not be exactly the same June we met in 1x01, but given the consistent through narrative, we should expect this core value of hers to remain steady, if not indeed grow in conviction.

...

Nick:

" Love is patient, love is kind... Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It bears all things, believes all things, endures all things. Love never fails." - 2x05

It’s fitting that it’s Nick who reads this passage in the show because perhaps more than any other character, Nick’s love throughout has been the very epitome of the verse. We’ve seen his actions play it out literally line by line. Nick knows his Bible verses. He picked this one for a reason, his (barely) coded Hail Mary message to June: I’m still here, this isn’t over, please don’t give up on us. Nick believes the words he reads to her, believes them to his very soul, and he continues to show it in his efforts season after season, demonstrating the constant and undying nature of his devotion. It’s notable that in fact, the full 13:8 verse reads "Love never fails, but where there are prophecies they will cease, where there are tongues they will be stilled, where there is knowledge it will pass away," emphasizing love as the one true thing that remains.

"I’m trying to keep you alive. You and our baby" - 2x02 “I’m trying to keep you alive" - 4x02 "I just want her to stay alive"- 4x03 "She changed you, she changed me" - 4x03

It’s Nick's love for June (and Nichole) that drives him more than anything else, and we see the real, tangible reverberations throughout the story. June and Nichole are safe, alive and free (at least in part) because of his love. Nick is changed because of this same love. And June’s love saves him from a life lacking in meaning, purpose and true connection. If Nick fully turns to "the dark side", if he becomes somehow irredeemable (particularly in June's eyes), it would negate in the cruelest and most nonsensical way all of this, and in one fell swoop rip to shreds the hopeful rainbow of his cumulative character arc.

...

Fred:

"Love isn’t real. it was never anything but lust with a good marketing campaign" - 1x05 “Every love story is a tragedy if you wait long enough." - 1x05

Fred on the other hand, scorns the idea of love. His cynical, contemptuous views are presented as the antithesis to June's quite early on. In rose-glass tinted flashbacks of early life with Serena, we see glimpses that this may not have always been the case, but what was once their love story has indeed turned to tragedy: corrupted into a bitter, twisted thing under the weight of the monster they created together. In the present, he does not believe in love and the selfish callousness of his actions (in stark contrast to Nick) clearly shows it, over and over again. To Fred, 1 Corinthians 13 is just a silly meaningless little verse (of no more consequence than the vapid old fashion magazines he "gifts" to June) in the book that he uses, not as a guide or an inspiration, but as a weapon: a cudgel to wield for his pathological ego-driven power trips, no matter how many must suffer (including his once beloved wife), how many innocent lives it ruins or much how it blackens his soul.

...

If in the final episodes Nick were to be exposed as a “true villain”  who ends up burning June (and in fact his soul) in favor of “power and prestige”, then Fred will have been proven correct all along, and we (like June) will have been stupid to ever believe in love.

- If Nick truly decides to throw away everything he's done, everything he's held close to his heart even at his own peril all these years, to remain in a dismal teeter totter of emotional pain and privilege in Gilead;

- If June refuses to forgive, to endure, to truly fight for Nick as he's fought for her;

- If they truly flame out in epic betrayal and irreparable rupture:

Then we will know love has failed. And Fred was right. Love doesn’t save, it destroys. Love doesn’t endure, because in fact it was never even real to begin with. Love isn't the ultimate reason and purpose, but a tragedy. A lie. 

That's not the story. That CAN’T BE the story. Fred doesn’t win. He was so dead wrong that he is now dead and buried for it. He eschewed love a long time ago and it warped him into a depraved, cruel shell of a human with acts so heinous under his belt that we all cheered as he was hunted down and the flesh savagely torn from his body, because he deserved it. 

No, this isn’t The Debased Delusional Small-Weak-Man Commander’s Tale. This is not the story of how Fred was right after all.

This story is love endures all things. This story is love never fails. This story is love lifts us up, love saves us and gives us the will to fight. And that (someday) a child conceived in love in this brutal place and saved by the love of her parents will unite with her long-lost but dearly loved sister to burn it to the ground.

They may want the viewers to believe that it’s possible for Nick to be irrevocably lost for the drama of it all; for the shock of the reveal, the reckoning and the emotional payoff when the ship rights itself. And I’ll keep my clown makeup handy in case I end up being astonishingly wrong, but I just can’t see how they would so blatantly, not just blow up the story, but in doing so essentially erase the very core of the story we’ve been told up til now.

(just look at them, don't you fucking dare break up this family for good!)

*screencaps/captions sourced by me*

[aventurineswife]

Is it possible for you to make reader who is just like Viktor from Arcane? In terms of personality, past and goals. With Ratio, Aventurine, The Herta, Ruan Mei and Screwllum?

An Elegance of Flaws

Tags: Aventurine x Reader, Ratio x Reader, Ruan Mei x Reader, The Herta x Reader, Screwllum x Reader, Viktor (from Arcane) based Reader, Collaboration, Internal Struggle, Complex Characters, Mentorship, Betrayal, Flaws & Perfection, Anonymity, Ethics of Innovation.

Warnings: Dark themes, Mentions of physical disabilities/injuries, Mentions of obsession and isolation, Mentions of manipulation and exploitation, Emotional tension, Possible self-sacrifice.

A/N: first time writing Screwllum, I still haven't watched Arcane so sorry if it's ooc

The low hum of Penacony's industrial district echoed around you, the staccato rhythm of machines matching the pace of your thoughts. You leaned on the cane in your hand, its polished wood a stark contrast to the soot-covered metal around you. As much as you despised this city, its chaos offered one thing: anonymity. But as your magenta and cyan-eyed companion sauntered into your lab, grinning like a man who’d just rolled a winning hand, anonymity was no longer an option.

“Well, well, if it isn’t the Architect of Revolution,” Aventurine teased, leaning casually against your workbench. His glasses caught the dim light, making his smile even more maddening. “I heard rumors, but I didn’t think even you would risk your name for this. Creating miracles in the slums while dodging the IPC’s gaze? Bold.”

Your jaw tightened as you placed your notes down. "And yet here you are. What’s your game this time, Aventurine? Here to gloat? Or to use my work as another one of your high-stakes gambles?"

His grin faltered for the briefest moment. “Why not both?” He pulled a gold chip from his pocket, flipping it between his fingers. “I know what you’re trying to do, [Name]. Reinvent life, strip it of its flaws, make the world… fairer. It’s noble. Impossible, but noble.”

You turned sharply, the familiar ache in your leg forcing you to adjust your stance. “Impossible is your specialty, isn’t it? You wouldn’t be here unless you saw an angle to exploit.”

Aventurine’s expression softened, his usual flamboyance replaced by something quieter. “Exploiting you? No. I admire you, actually. You’ve taken the cards fate dealt you and reshuffled the deck. But… I’m worried you’ll bet everything and lose yourself in the process. Believe me, I know how that feels.”

You stared at him, searching for mockery but finding none. The mask he wore, the calculated charm, cracked just enough to reveal something raw underneath. Despite yourself, you laughed bitterly. “Coming from the man who’d gamble his soul on a coin toss?”

His grin returned, but it was tinged with regret. “Touché. But if you’re risking it all, maybe let me play too. Two minds like ours? We could rewrite the rules together.”

The vast dome of the Intelligentsia Guild library stretched above you, its vaulted ceiling painted with constellations of knowledge. Rows of books and holographic interfaces surrounded you, but your focus was on the intricate mechanism before you—a device meant to stabilize organic matter during transformation. It was your life's work, but even now, it felt incomplete.

“Your equations lack elegance,” a voice called from behind. You turned, finding Ratio standing there, arms crossed, his hair catching the soft glow of the library's lights. His eyes were sharp as ever.

You leaned on your cane, raising an eyebrow. “If you’re here to critique, Dr. Ratio, don’t bother. Elegance is secondary to functionality.”

He stepped closer, examining the device with a critical eye. “Functionality without elegance is like a star that doesn’t shine. It works, but it doesn’t inspire.” He glanced at you. “Your mind is exceptional. Why settle for mediocrity?”

You frowned, turning back to your notes. “Because inspiration doesn’t save lives. This will.”

Ratio’s gaze softened, though his tone remained precise. “And yet, your obsession with saving lives blinds you to the consequences. I’ve read your research, [Name]. You want to fix the flaws in humanity, but at what cost? How much of yourself will you sacrifice before you realize perfection doesn’t exist?”

You slammed your hand on the table, the frustration boiling over. “You think I don’t know that? I’ve lived my entire life shackled by imperfection—my body, my past, this broken world. I’m not chasing perfection. I’m chasing freedom.”

Silence fell between you, broken only by the faint hum of machinery. Ratio sighed, stepping closer. “Freedom is a worthy pursuit. But even the greatest minds need a foundation, someone to steady them when they falter.” He placed a hand on your shoulder, his touch surprisingly gentle. “Let me be that for you.”

For a moment, you allowed yourself to believe him, to imagine a partnership that didn’t end in betrayal or loss. “If you’re offering your help,” you said quietly, “be prepared to see the worst of me.”

Ratio smiled faintly. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

The lab was cold, the sterile white walls reflecting the icy demeanor of its sole occupant. Ruan Mei stood at the far end, her eyes fixed on a series of holographic projections detailing the evolution of a new species she’d been cultivating. She didn’t look up as you entered, though you knew she’d registered your presence.

“You’re late,” she said, her voice as cool as the lab’s atmosphere. “I thought precision was important to you.”

Leaning on your cane, you gave a faint smirk. “And I thought warmth was important to life, yet here we are.”

Her gaze flicked toward you, a faint twitch of her lips betraying amusement. “Touché. What brings you here, [Name]? Surely you have more pressing experiments than interrupting mine.”

You moved to the workstation beside hers, placing your prototype on the surface. “I need your insight. The molecular structure is stable, but the integration process fails every time. I thought… maybe you’d see something I don’t.”

She studied you for a long moment, her usually impassive face betraying a hint of curiosity. “You’re admitting you need help? That’s… unexpected.”

You chuckled, though the sound was bitter. “Even I have limits, Ruan Mei. I just hate that I’m reminded of them so often.”

She stepped closer, her hands brushing over the device. “Limits are what define us. They’re also what drive us to innovate.” Her eyes met yours, and for a moment, you saw something other than cold intellect—a flicker of understanding, even kinship. “You remind me of myself, in a way. Always chasing something… unattainable.”

“Perfection?” you asked quietly.

“Meaning,” she corrected. Her voice softened, and she turned back to the device. “Let me help you, [Name]. Not because I think you’ll succeed, but because I want to see what happens when two flawed minds work together.”

You hesitated, the weight of her words settling over you. “Fair enough,” you said finally. “But don’t expect me to share credit.”

She smirked faintly. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

The dim light of the mechanized workshop cast long shadows across the intricate gears and cogs spread across your desk. The soft, rhythmic tick of the clock overhead was your only companion as you tinkered with the device before you. The design was elegant but flawed, its energy distribution uneven, its purpose incomplete. You sighed, leaning heavily on your cane, the ache in your leg a familiar reminder of your own imperfections.

A voice interrupted the quiet. Smooth, refined, and tinged with amusement. “You’re going to wear yourself out, [Name]. Even the greatest minds require rest.”

You didn’t look up. “Rest doesn’t bring progress, Screwllum.”

He stepped into the light, his polished frame catching the glow of your desk lamp. His cape swayed as he moved, and his hat tilted slightly, casting a shadow over his glowing eyes. His presence was commanding yet unintrusive, like a puzzle piece slipping perfectly into place.

Screwllum examined your work with a calculating gaze. “You’ve overcompensated for the energy loss in the auxiliary channels. It’s elegant but redundant.” He paused, his head tilting slightly. “Much like your insistence on bearing every burden alone.”

You bristled, gripping your cane tighter. “And what would you know about burdens, Screwllum? You, with your perfectly crafted design and flawless movements.”

He knelt beside you, his mechanical hand tracing the device’s intricate patterns. “More than you might think. Perfection is an illusion, [Name]. One I’ve spent lifetimes chasing. But in my pursuit, I’ve come to realize something.” He glanced up at you, his cyan gaze piercing. “It’s the flaws that make the design meaningful.”

Your jaw tightened. “Meaning doesn’t solve problems. It doesn’t make the world better.”

“Perhaps not,” he admitted, standing gracefully. “But neither does burning yourself out in isolation. Let me help. Together, we might find a solution even you couldn’t imagine alone.”

For a moment, you hesitated. The pride that kept you locked in your solitude warred with the small, desperate part of you that longed for understanding. Finally, you stepped aside, gesturing to the device. “If you think you can improve it, be my guest.”

Screwllum smiled, a faint flicker of light in his expression. “Consider it a collaboration.”

And as his mechanical hands worked alongside yours, for the first time in a long while, the weight on your shoulders felt just a little lighter.

The faint light of the workshop filled the room, its ever-expanding landscapes swirling in holographic projections around you. You leaned on your cane, staring at the interface with a mixture of awe and frustration. The calculations refused to align, their inconsistencies gnawing at your mind like an itch you couldn’t scratch.

“Fascinating,” a voice drawled behind you. “Even someone as brilliant as you can stumble.”

You turned sharply, finding Herta lounging against the doorway, her arms crossed and a bemused smile playing on her lips. Her eyes sparkled with mischief, and her hair framed a face that seemed untouched by the years. She looked entirely too amused by your struggle.

“I wasn’t aware I’d invited an audience,” you said dryly, adjusting your stance to ease the ache in your leg. “To what do I owe the pleasure, Madam Herta?”

She sauntered closer, her dress swishing around her ankles. “I heard rumors that the infamous [Name] was working on something groundbreaking. Naturally, I had to see if they were true.” Her gaze flicked to the calculations on your screen. “And I must say, I’m not disappointed.”

You frowned, turning back to the interface. “If you’re here to gloat, save it. I don’t have time for games.”

“Gloat?” she repeated, feigning offense. “I would never. I’m simply curious. You’re like a puzzle, [Name]. A broken masterpiece trying to make the world whole. It’s… endearing.”

Your grip on your cane tightened. “Spare me the poetry, Herta. If you have something useful to contribute, say it. Otherwise—”

“Otherwise what?” she interrupted, stepping closer. Her voice softened, losing its playful edge. “You’ll keep pushing yourself until there’s nothing left? Don’t pretend I don’t see the parallels, [Name]. You’re chasing perfection just like I did. And it will cost you.”

You glared at her, the anger bubbling up despite the quiet truth of her words. “What would you have me do, then? Abandon my work? Watch people suffer because I wasn’t strong enough to finish what I started?”

“No,” she said simply. “I’d have you remember that genius doesn’t mean isolation. Even the brightest stars shine brighter with others around them.” She placed a hand on your shoulder, her touch unexpectedly gentle. “Let me help you, [Name]. Not because I think you need it, but because I want to see what someone like you can achieve when they’re not carrying the weight of the world alone.”

You stared at her, searching for the mockery you’d expected but finding none. Slowly, you nodded. “Fine. But don’t get in my way.”

Herta smiled, a glimmer of triumph in her eyes. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

[becca-reads]

I want to expound on this because first of all YES YES YES!!! to the gifts being so incredibly symbolic, and second of all I mentioned in an earlier reblog that I could write essays on how the Solstice gifts tie back to want vs need in the Elriel/Elucien debate.

First, we have Elain's gifts to Az. Headache powder and earplugs. Not particularly elaborate gifts, but very practical. Made to solve his problems, provide for his needs. Because Elain so desperately wants for the feelings between them to be of the needing-each-other variety. She wants to need him so badly.

Now, Az. The first year, Az's lack of gift can be interpreted as not wanting to reveal his feelings. He's relieved that he doesn't have to show the IC what's going on in his mind, or even admit his feelings to Elain. Even the next year, he's secretive, only giving Elain the gift under cover of darkness, not with anyone around. He's ready to admit his feelings, but only to her.

And what feelings does he reveal with his gift the second year? Want, and delicate want at that. A glass rose necklace. Something beautiful to have and wear, but easily breakable, in the shape of something beautiful known to cause damage if you're not careful. He is well aware of the want simmering between them, but he also knows the precariousness of their situation, and how easily it can all fall apart and hurt everyone involved. It's also described as its beauty shining when held to the light, almost as if Az knows that Lucien is good for Elain, that they need each other, but he wants to lean into this want between them so badly that he's ignoring it.

But then also what does he do when his gift gets given back? He regifts it, further showcasing the fragility of that want. And I'm convinced there WILL be a moment in the next book where Elain realizes Az regifted the necklace, showing more symbolism for the rose shape of it ([insert thing about rose thorns here]).

Lastly, let's look at Lucien. The first year, he gifts Elain gardening gloves, a very practical gift. At this point, he wants so badly to be needed by her, to provide for her needs. The next year, it's the pearl earrings. First of all, there's a glorious symbolism in the pearl being a beautiful thing created as a byproduct of discomfort. But that's not the point here. The point is they're another piece of jewelry, they're a want. Because at this point Lucien is so down bad, and he knows that she doesn't need him, and may never, but he'd settle for her wanting him. For being able to be in the same room as her. (which actually could circle back to the pearl thing, and him trying to convey that in the discomfort of being around one another they may be able to make something beautiful and shining) Additionally, they're a want that clearly match her tastes and things she already owns and wears (the combs we see later) which tells us he knows her. Also to me, when combined with Elain not giving Lucien any gifts, Elain wearing those combs after Lucien gives her the earrings points to Elain knowing that as people they match and secretly wanting Lucien too but not being ready to outwardly express it. Like Az that first year.

You can even tie the boys' gifts back to how they see Elain. Lucien gives her something to match her existing jewelry, as well as something to help her with her biggest hobby. In his gifts, he is embracing the person she is trying to be, while also acknowledging and appreciating her existing tastes.

Az *literally* gives her a delicate flower that is plain when you first see it but pretty when you get closer to it. He gives her something that represents the facade she projects, but which doesn't at all match the person beneath that facade. A symbol of the very persona that she tells Nesta she's tired of being boxed into.

So yeah, the Solstice gifts are SO SYMBOLIC in so many ways and I could go on and on and on lol

The solstice gift exchanges tells a lot about endgame couples.

I see people talking about the Solstice gifts between Elain, Lucien and Azriel and how Elain not wearing Lucien's gifts means she wants nothing to do with him and how she returned Azriels's means it's going to be a set up for misunderstanding. As I thought about it, something suddenly clicked, and I realized that what Elain and Azriel have done with their solstice gifts, is more symbolic than I think people account for.

Lucien's gifts to Elain:

Elain has yet to interact with Lucien's gifts. She's taken them but hasn't worn them, nor has she left them in a pile. How Elain has dealt with Lucien's gifts the same way She's approached the mating bond. She hasn't accepted it, but she hasn't rejected it either. All we know is that she's stubbornly avoiding the bond, the same way she stubbornly avoided wearing Lucien's gloves and got hurt.

Elain has canonically worn gloves while gardening before she turned Fae.

When Fayre mentions that Elain got hurt and had she worn "Lucien's" gloves, nothing would have pierced her at all, that was 100% foreshadowing and symbolic for Elain accepting Lucien and knowing Lucien would never hurt her (the way Graysen and soon Az would).

Then Lucien gifts her pearl earrings. Again, barely a thanks, but she took them, she did not reject them. Later on, we see Elain wearing a pearl comb, the only thing that seems to stand out against the Night Court dress that sucks the life out of her. Another perfect gift but Elain just isn't ready to accept right now. She didn't give it back, she could have, but she didn't and that's such an important detail!

I think Elain not returning Lucien's gifts to her, but holding onto them is a perfect symbolism for her bond with him. Each gift he's gotten her has fit her personally. You want to garden? Here's gloves that will protect you from getting hurt while you do the thing you love! You like pearls? Here are pearl earrings!

Lucien, her mate has a deeper connection to her than any other male would, and fits her perfectly and while she has yet to engage with him and accept that, she has not outright rejected him either. Elain has yet to give Lucien a gift, and while many say that means she wants nothing to do with him, I think it has more symbolic tones of the fact she has not accepted the mating bond, and is not yet ready to reciprocate that sentiment.

Elain and Azriel:

Now Elain has given Azriel gifts for both solstice. They didn't seem deep or meaningful in the ways that felt personal. Headache powder and earplugs, and the reasoning behind them were more as gags. It's the kind of gifts you give to friends. With Azriel, it isn't anything serious and deep, it's that light and airy no strings attached kind of thing. Azriel didn't even give her a gift the first solstice and was relieved he did not have to.

Now, during Solstice in the BC, we see Elain heading down to put Azriel's gift with the others, but she did not expect to see him. He had his gift to her, and decided right then and there he was going to give it to her. The gift he got Elain was described as simple and plain on the outside, but when held up to the light, it's true beauty shines.

There are lots of interpretations for who that symbolizes the most and who it is referring to. However, I'm going to focus more on the symbolism of the exchange of this gift.

Azriel presents this to Elain, and she asks him to put it on her. He puts the necklace on, but all he can think of how wrong it is, how his hands somehow stain her, and how she doesn't know of the things he's done with them. The whole feeling in that moment is "wrong". Finally, things rise and he's about to kiss her until Rhys catches him just before he can make his move. Azriel says, "This is a mistake," and Elain has genuine hurt in her eyes before she leaves. (Remember that stubborn rosebush that hurt her? Remember the comment that if she had worn Lucien's gloves, nothing would have pierced her? Hmmm!)

When Azriel is discussing with Rhys about his intentions, we learn that he hadn't gotten far into his planning, only as far as his sexual pleasure. This is emphasized by how he jerks it to the headache powder, Elain's gift to him. Azriel looks at Elain's gifts as a sexual object, mirroring back to how he views Elain as only something sexual. He hasn't thought of any future with her and the only time he thinks of her is in something sexual.

The next morning his gift to Elain is placed on a pile of his gifts and from there on to the end of SF, neither continue to have any charged looks or interactions. Elain returning the necklace isn't a set up for misunderstanding, it's her being done with that side of the relationship. It's Elain making a stance that says "I'm done, I no longer want this." Vs. Elain keeping Lucien's gifts, someone people assume she wants nothing to do with and yet she hasn't outright returned his gifts like she did with Az.

Antis compare the exchange to Nesta and Cassian, where Nesta didn't want Cassian's gift, and he threw it into the sidra. The main difference here is that Cassian got rid of the gifts by throwing it so far away that no one could have it. It was Nesta or Bust. Nesta didn't want Cassian's offer in that moment, but he did not give it to another. He tossed it away.

Azriel however not only asked Clotho to give the gift to Gwyn, but he imagined how she'd look and light up when receiving it. The thought of her getting that gift caused him to smile and keep that image deep down in his chest. It's so interesting how he did not once think of how Elain might smile or light up when she gets the necklace. He didn't think about the joy it would bring to her, but he did with Gwyn. That's something that cannot be ignored and feels so intentional by SJM to show the juxtaposition between how he views Elain and Gwyn.

I can't imagine how some people take that as a sign that Elain and Az are going to have future build up. If Lucien gave Elain a gift, then hurt her in the process to only then give the same gift to Vassa or another woman, it would feel really shitty.

I believe that the gifts and the exchanges really are symbolic for where the characters are and hinting to what we will see next with them. When Elain finally truly accepts her bond with Lucien, I see her being able to not only accept his gifts but in return, give him one of his own. Knowing Lucien, just having Elain in his life will be the best solstice gift he could ever hope for.

[arrietty-rune]

Templates made by @itsnotmourn !!

Yeees already V3 version of them (+ ALTs)!! But just some bits changes and new interface because i actually don't like how messy are the others ones ꒰◞‸ ◟꒱💧 So i hope you'll enjoy these better!!

Also yeah these don't have some lore info i did on the others so see below for info of each ♥ (⚠︎ Warning long text) ⬇️⬇️⬇️

──────── ˚.⋆୨୧⋆.˚ ────────

Luciano:

His blood is in a reddish pink, a raspberry tone, being also the flavor of it.

Past was difficult for him. Strict family, important event: had lack of feelings for a decade, this due to being struck by lightning at 6 years old but recovered slowly at 18.

Doesn't actually know much about his species, this due to his full life among humans. This also meaning he knows little of his magic.

Had no idea about the existence of the Hidden World* until Rósa told about it.

He can be exhausted easily at work, especially when it's about some kids making troubles. But he still likes to help as much he can.

He speaks fluently at Italian, English and Sardinian. Know a little bit of french words and sentences, from the Sterenn sisters but also from memes.

Affiliation with the cult: Has been kidnapped after his work, as to be used as a sacrifice. When Eyes realized his fairy identity, they spared him but instead, they and the cultists are making profit from him. Otherwise, if Luciano doesn't obey, they will use any from his closest friends to be sent as a sacrifice instead. For now, all he does are little harmless tasks, like cleaning rooms and cooking. As being not a cultist, he never saw any of these members without their mask.

──────── ˚.⋆୨୧⋆.˚ ────────

Rósa:

Her blood has a light green color, close to a turquoise tone, with a fresh mint flavor.

Chill past, grew up with her sister Maelys and her father, Icarus, being an human.

Her mother died but shares few memories of her, almost blurred.

She spent time mostly on the Hidden World due to magic school stuff. She knows very much her water magic and has learnt other magic stuff.

She knows dark magic and barely used it. Has knowledge of it, as to push it away and/or to annihilate, it with white magic. (note: she can use dark magic by her left hand, white magic by her right one)

As her element being water, she can control blood, only used it once as this being a part of her boundaries.

She's able to see souls and can read them, not perfectly though, but can recognize how people can be good or bad by this.

Other notes: Can work as an exorcist, or a monster hunter, as protecting innocent soul from their attacks.

She does invest a lot in the forest near the town, due to weird magic she can feel her. She tries to prevent people to not get here, but kids never obey. One day, she started a white magic spell on a supposed dead tree, as to revive it and to possibly use it to chase black magic.

However, something was wrong. Very wrong, as she realized she used her left hand on not a tree, but a dead body, starting to move but seeming very weak.

After moments of panic and confusion, she thought of having no choice but hiding them in the forest, then later in her home after the undead person, named Apollo, recovered enough energy. She tries her best to hide his existence toward people, including his sister.

──────── ˚.⋆୨୧⋆.˚ ────────

Maelys:

Her blood color is in a light reddish orange, with a peach flavor.

Chill past, grew up with her sister Rósa and her father, Icarus

Her mother died few years after she was born. May was too young to share any memory of her

Spent time mostly among humans, share some part of school years with them

Use her fire magic only for good, never as a weapon. Use a frying pan only to defend her or her closest ones. Also do apologies every time she hit someone with as she hates any form of violence

Can use her hair as a source of light. It has healing powers

Speak fluently French and Breton, her English is good but can do mistakes

Love her breton origins, have a flag on her room with an AroAce one. Doesn't even have a french flag lmao

Other notes: Basically chilling in the town, doesn't get much in troubles. Girl works most of her time in morning, sometimes in the afternoon, but met Miles (Captain) and Mihka (Shotgun man) in the bakery, as them and other cops buying sweets there. She becomes easily friends with them, as the friendly girl she is! She does talk with them while being at work when these two have a break.

Both her and Mihka will develop feelings to each other, but at present, they aren't in relationship yet.

──────── ˚.⋆୨୧⋆.˚ ────────

Hidden World* => An unknown place on the Earth, where non-humans lived together, where humans are very rare there! Creatures froms myth and folkores like yokais, vampires, fairies, centaurs, etc live here! Rare humans here are usually affiliated with non-monsters, such like Icarus, the father of Maelys and Rósa.

[anyplaceisparadise]

The Use of Colour in Gladiator II: Black, Part 1

Once again before I get into it, here's my copy and paste from previous iterations of this: I referred quite a bit to some of my favourite books, The World According to Colour: A Cultural History by James Fox, The Secret Lives of Colour by Kassia St. Clair, and Emperor of Rome and SPQR by Mary Beard while working on this. I highly recommend all of them! These are definitely not mind blowing ideas here, just stuff that came to me because this movie has given me a severe case of brain rot. If you disagree, that’s cool. If you’ve mentioned any of this before, I love that we’re on the same wavelength. If you think this is ridiculous and I’ve gone off the deep end, you are correct.

Past Colour Posts: White Yellow Purple Brown

Black can be used in Gladiator II to represent exposure.

Black is most obviously associated with darkness, with hiding, with secrets, or evil. It's often the colour we connect with villains, or the "bad guys" in stories.

James Fox writes, "Just as we can only 'feel' a hole by touching the edges around it, so we 'see' black by observing the lightness that surrounds or precedes it. Black, in other words, is made by light" (The World According to Colour, James Fox, pg. 24). When characters wear black in Gladiator II, I argue that they are exposed, either for what they truly are deep inside, or their thoughts and ideas.

The first character we see in black is Geta, at Thraex's party.

One thing that is interesting to me about the twins wearing black is that every time they do so, it is combined with a metallic colour. Geta, with the silver here, and Caracalla with gold. Other characters that wear black do not get that same colour combo, and I'd argue it's because the twins are emperors, with gold and silver being used to represent wealth and power.

Arguably, Geta's outfit here is more silver than it is black. But I think that works well here, because at Thraex's party, Geta draws attention to himself after the fight by standing up, walking around, clapping, yelling out. All eyes are already on him and Caracalla, but he brings them even more attention, even more exposure. This is where the silver comes in. He's an emperor after all. He's flashy, he's important. However, he doesn't anticipate Lucius embarrassing him in front of everyone by reciting the poem. Geta's shortcoming's have been exposed for all to see. He is not the great, scary, imposing emperor he portrays. And this is where the black comes in, his weaknesses and failures peeking out for everyone to see.

Geta also wears black (and silver and gold) in the deleted adoption scene.

Geta and Caracalla ask Lucilla to adopt them, thus securing legitimacy for themselves and connecting them to Marcus Aurelius. Their weakness, their lack of authority, and their tenuous position as emperors is exposed in this scene, and it's a shame it never made it to the final film.

Lucilla also wears a black cloak when she meets with Lucius for the first time and exposes herself as his mother. Her vulnerability is on display, and she is open to hurt. And she is hurt, Lucius isn't receptive, he's angry, he denies her. But her secret is out there, and she speaks it aloud for the first time while wearing black (the blue dress is for another post).

Lucius and Acacius both wear black as well.

It's definitely a practicality thing (as I wrote about in the post on brown), to wear dark colours while in battle, but for the sake of the post, let's look at it again. In the opening of the film, Acacius is wearing dark armour to capture more land for Rome and for the emperors. He is exposing his role as general and conqueror, but he also exposes how he truly feels about it all with the rather sad way he speaks about his actions.

It's fitting that Acacius wears that same armour in his final fight. He is fighting Lucius, who even if we ignore the entire coup plot, is from the place Acacius just raided and captured. This is the first time Lucius and Acacius have spoken or even really been close to each other, and Acacius' actions in the raid are exposed to the very person that was impacted by it.

He is doubly exposed in this fight, as the entire point is that the coup plot has been revealed and his transgressions against the emperors is exposed to the entirety of Rome (or at least, those in the colosseum).

Lucius wears black armour that belonged to Maximus at the end of the movie. The symbolism is pretty obvious, it's a full circle moment here. His true identity is exposed, his birthright is right there for the taking, and he wears his deceased father's armour to defend his mother. The cat is full out of the bag by the time Lucius puts this armour on.

Caracalla also wears black (and gold). The first time is at the second round of games:

This entire scene is super interesting to me, mostly because of Geta. At this point in the movie, Geta is seen as in control, the more stable twin and emperor. However, he is really losing it here. He rubs his gums, he rocks in his seat, and is generally twitchy and fidgety. In other words, he acts the way we are meant to view Caracalla.

Caracalla wearing black and gold here exposes him via Geta. He looks to Geta in this scene for reassurance. He fiddles with his fingers and straightens up in his seat as he looks at Geta. His role as an emperor is on display because Geta is acting so much not like an emperor here. Geta becoming a little unglued shows Caracalla's usual behaviour, but also exposes their lack of control. If Geta is rocking in his seat, where does that leave Caracalla?

This is also the scene where Lucius shoots an arrow into the emperor's box seats. No one is hurt, but it's a direct display of how their roles have impacted everyone in that colosseum, even themselves.

Caracalla also wears black once he is sole emperor.

This is his darkest outfit. We know that he doesn't remember what happened to Geta, nor does he realize the implications or consequences of what is happening. He is ill, he is mad, and while Rome probably already knew that, he doesn't have Geta to hold him back anymore. He full exposes his illness in this scene by naming Dondus as first consul.

He is also out of Geta's shadow. Throughout the film, Geta has been the one to make decisions and to speak for the two of them. Geta holds Caracalla back from gutting Lucilla and Acacius in the night scene (where the darkness of the night exposes the coup). Geta is the one that makes the mercy/no mercy decisions (although he does ask for input the first time around, I'll give him that). Geta is running the show because it is necessary; Caracalla is ill (does Cara even realize he is ill? Debatable). We also know that Geta has been this way their whole lives as mentioned in their final moments together. It was Geta that took the blows from their father to spare Caracalla.

But here, dressed in black and gold, Caracalla is in the driver's seat so to speak. He's the one in control. He's sole emperor. And when you are sole emperor, you also become the sign of the times. There is no one else to shift the blame on to, no twin left to shoulder the consequences for you. Geta protected Caracalla all their lives, till the very end, but he can't protect him anymore. It's all on Caracalla now.

So ends part one. Part two is a piece of absolute brain rot that is related to the idea of exposure but it veered off course so it gets a separate post.

[justauthoring]

The Man I (Unfortunately) Love.

Request: I’m BEGGING foaming at the mouth can we plsplspls have more jealous zoro (or luffy 👀 I want to see you take on that as well) Requested by: Anonymous

Pairing: Zoro Roronoa x F!Reader

A/N: I wasn't sure if you meant live action or anime so I went with anime since I haven't written for anyone else but Luffy lol. Hopefully this is in character!!

Also, I don't really know why Ace is with the crew. That fact is not important. Whats important is I wanted to include Ace and thus, jealous Zoro was born.

Word Count: 2,135

And, as usual, it's not spell-checked :)

Zoro, by nature, was not a jealous man.

At least, not overtly.

He literally dealt with a shitty cook who could not keep the lovesick act together for even a second whenever there was a woman anywhere near his presence. It didn't bother Zoro, at least not enough to do anything about it.

(Anything major).

He'd tell the cook to quit it or grunt disapprovingly but Sanji was apart of the crew and he knew that he respected yours and Zoro's relationship at the end of the day.

He could handle boys flirting with you. Honestly, most of the time they were boys (not men) and really, they're the ones who looked like fools at the end of the day. Fumbling with red cheeks and look like an idiot. Zoro didn't have any fear of you choosing one of them over him any day because really--

Could they do anything he could?

No.

And his confidence was always rewarded when you'd all but tell the boy you were interested, harsher if they were more pushier, and then would turn your back to them like they were nothing. And who would you go running to?

Him. Every time.

You'd call his name in that sweet voice of yours, face soft with warmth and excitement twinkling in your eyes. He'd watch with a smug smile as the boys face would fall and then gradually turn to fear when they got a proper look at Zoro.

Zoro didn't love being public with his affection. He was most content sharing those more intimate moments when it was just the two of you. But in moments like those, he'd be a little bit more deliberate about wrapping his arm around your waist and pulling you flush against his chest.

The flush of your cheeks and the light giggle you'd let out were added rewards.

So, no. Zoro was not a jealous man. He was confident and secure in his relationship with you.

But that didn't mean he couldn't be jealous.

-

Zoro truly did not understand what was so fascinating about Luffy's brother.

But clearly you thought he was the greatest thing to walk on this very earth.

Ever since Luffy's brother had stumbled upon the crew, explaining he was missing his dear younger brother and wanted to check in on him, you'd been absolutely glued to his side.

Zoro had been surprised, to say the least, when your face had broken into a wide grin with literal stars in your eyes at the sight of Ace. You'd exclaimed that you'd heard of the 'Fire Fist Ace' before and thought he was 'an amazing pirate' that you'd 'always wanted to meet'.

Zoro still scoffs at the thought.

Sure, Ace was... strong. He was nice, Zoro guessed. And he was Luffy's brother so that meant he was obviously... okay. But Zoro couldn't understand why you looked starstruck.

You hadn't been with the crew yet when they'd met Ace back in Alabasta. Zoro would be relieved about that fact if Ace wasn't here now.

After a whole day of the regular silliness the crew got up to, they were celebrating in their useful festivities. Normally, Zoro would be just as ramped up with the rest of the crew. Even if that only involved him simply drinking while sat with the rest of the crew.

That night though, he'd proceeded to... for lack of a better word, sulk.

He was sat in a corner, far away from the rest of the crew, huddled in the darkness (still drinking) and watching you with a heavy frown.

Normally, you spent these nights glued to his side. Not somebody else. Not... Ace. You'd dance with Luffy, Usopp and Chopper or chat with Nami and Robin while being fed drinks and food by Sanji. But, for the majority, you'd be with him.

Sitting with him. Drinking with him. Just... talking.

Zoro loved those nights.

But you'd barely glanced his way all day, let alone that evening.

The drink he knocks back is particularly soar as he watches you laugh at something Ace has said. He can't hear either of you, but your smile is wide and your laugh is loud and genuine. Ace is smiling at you too, glancing down at you with warm eyes as he indulgences in your questions.

Even Luffy almost seems out of place between the two of you. Not that he cares; Luffy seems simply ecstatic that his crew is getting along with his brother so well.

(Some more than others, clearly.)

If Zoro were a jealous man and he stooped to those sort of levels, he'd imagined he would've marched right up to you and Ace by now and made it clear who you were with. But Zoro was not a jealous man, nor did he fall privy to his emotions so easily.

Instead, Zoro sulked.

It's a few hours into the party, however, that Zoro decides he has had enough of sulking. He won't do anything but he doesn't want to sit here and watch this any longer either.

He's just about to stand up when he hears you calling for him;

"Zoro!"

The sound of your voice, light and airy in that way he loves, gives him pause. His body freezes and slowly his head turns to face you, only to see you frowning at him.

"Where are you going?" Your eyes flicker on the bottle on the floor back up to Zoro, head tilted.

"To bed," he says, harsher than he means to. "Night."

He looks away before he can see the look of hurt and shock he knows washes up on your face. Zoro knows he's being unreasonable, but the words seem to leave his lips nonetheless.

Just as moves to walk away, though, your hand is around his wrist, stopping him.

"Already?" You ask, still thoroughly baffled. (Obviously you're confused, Zoro thinks to himself, you don't know how stupidly jealous he's felt all day). "But you've been tucked away by yourself all night when we're supposed to be celebrating! Luffy's brother is--"

"I know!" He cuts in, voice pitching as you flinch in response. He turns to face you, eyes set in a mean glare. "I get it, okay? Luffy's brother, the amazing Fire Fist Ace that you think is just so amazing and strong and wonderful, is here so we have to celebrate it, right? So much so that you haven't left his side all day! I'd begun to think you'd forgotten I'd even existed."

At this point, his words were loud enough to catch the attention of the entire crew. All noise, chatter or otherwise, falls completely silent as they watch Zoro berate you.

You, however, simply stare back at Zoro. Your face has fallen from your previous excitement and the hand you'd had around his wrist has returned to your side as you take a step back.

"Zoro, I--"

But he doesn't let you say anything.

"Save it, okay?" Zoro practically bites at you. "Just go back to hanging with Ace and leave me the fuck alone."

He turns and walks off in the next second, practically slamming the door shut behind him.

-

It takes ten minutes before someones knocking on the door.

Zoro has half the mind to tell them to fuck off, but then he remember show he had done exactly that to you and the guilt eats him up. He knows what he did was wrong. He knows he'd overreacted. And what sucks more is that Zoro isn't the type of guy to overreact.

And yet he had. He'd hurt you in the process too.

When Zoro doesn't say anything, Luffy invites himself inside.

Zoro isn't sure who he's expecting. He thinks briefly it might be you, but he also doesn't blame you for the fact that it isn't. He figures Luffy makes the most sense. The look on his captains face his clear.

Pressing his head to his hands, Zoro huffs. "You don't have to say anything."

Luffy is silent. His arms are crossed over his chest, his face strangely not in a grin and rather, his lips are downturned into a disapproving frown. The look in his eyes, though, is the worst.

Disappointment.

Zoro pushes himself to a stand in frustration.

"I know, okay?" He snaps at his captain, "I know I was a dick."

"Good," Luffy finally says. "Because you were. And you need to apologize to Y/N."

Zoro sighs. "I know."

"But that's not why I'm here."

Confused, Zoro turns to Luffy, shaking his head. "I--"

"Y/N spent the whole day talking about you." Luffy says, in that way he always says things when he knows he's right. "She constantly tried to get you to come join us but you dismissed her at every point. Ignoring everything, that's not how I let my crew treat each other."

The guilt festers deeper in Zoro. A nasty feeling that eats away at him.

(Fuck. He screwed up).

"Whatever your problem was," Luffy starts, voice dark. "Fix it."

And then Luffy walks out the door, leaving Zoro to stew in his own guilt and thoughts.

-

You're not with the rest of the crew when Zoro goes to find you.

Nami won't tell him but when he turns to Sanji, the cook simply just glares at him, gesturing over his shoulder towards the crows nest with a barely concealed threat; "try that shit again, moss head and I'll throw you off this ship myself."

He also notices Ace is gone.

You're staring up at the stars in the night sky when he makes it to the top.

You meet his eyes but don't say anything and so Zoro crawls up into the small space and moves so he's across from you. He lets a beat of silence follow his arrival before he says;

"I'm sorry."

It's important he starts with that.

You scoff, rolling your eyes. "I'm sure you are."

"I am," he asserts, making sure his tone conveys how serious he is. "I was an asshole. And I shouldn't have snapped at you like that. I never should."

Finally, you turn to look at him properly. "You ever speak to me like that again, Zoro and we're through."

"I won't," he says. And he means it.

You nod, and then; "were you jealous, then?"

(Zoro is not a jealous man, but...)

"Yeah." He admits, even though it's hard to. "I was."

"Why?" You ask, hugging your knees to your chest. "You've never been jealous like that before."

"It was... different. Different than the shitty cook or random guys who flirt with you." Zoro explains, trying to ignore how uncomfortable he is. You deserve an explanation, and he's going to give it to you. "You looked so... impressed by him. By Ace. And I'm used to you only looking at me like that. It's shitty and doesn't excuse it but that's how I felt."

You frown. "Zoro," you call and your voice is considerably softer than it has been. "It doesn't matter if I think some other guy is cool, you are the only one I want to be with. You have to know that."

"I do."

"Then why?"

"I..." But he trails off, because he doesn't know.

"Zoro?"

"I... don't know," he admits. "I know it's not what you want to hear, but I don't know. I was blinded by emotions. I'm... sorry."

You nod, slowly. Zoro notices the way your nails are digging into your hands, a nervous tick of yours, and taking the chance he reaches for your hands. You don't pull away, and he lets out a sigh of relief.

(He doesn't know what he would've done if you had.)

"I love you," he whispers, "and I'm sorry."

You stare at him for a long moment. Just... taking him in.

Then, your hand squeezes him back.

"You made Ace leave."

"Next time we see him, I'll apologize to him."

You raise a brow; "that's big of you."

"I'd do it for you."

That pulls a chuckle from your lips, rolling your eyes. "I would like you to apologize to Ace because you feel bad about how you treated him."

Zoro grins, "you know that's not why I'll do it."

Letting your head tilt to rest on your arm, a soft smile curls on your lips. "I know."

"Good."

"I spent the whole day talking about you, you know."

Zoro tries to hide his smirk. "I know. Luffy told me."

"So you should feel extra shitty."

He tries to wipe the smirk off his face, it doesn't work.

"You're far too smug," you huff half-heartedly. "I should be more mad at you than I am."

"But you're not?"

"No," you mumble, voice warm with love. "I'm not."

(Because Zoro, despite everything, is the man you love.)

[keeping-writing-frosty]

Unnamed Western WIP Snippet

[Author's Note: This is a VERY rough draft. Very first draft actually. I am sure there are typos, and other BS. I am just trying to share a little. I hope it is enjoyable despite it all. Most of it is under the cut.]

Seven Years Ago

There came a wind that whistled through the tiny cracks between the wood of the cabin’s walls, bringing with it a chill that caused tiny pin-prick bumps to cover Alexandra’s arms. A small fire in that old cast-iron stove crackled and hissed as it burned away all the volatile elements in the dried-out firewood within. On top, bubbling softly, a small pot filled with the strong, bitter coffee that she had grown so fond of; mother didn’t like it, but it was something she shared in common with father. One of many things.

Despite its relatively tiny size, there exuded a lonely kind of way from it. With just herself, and this cruel, frozen winter, leaving her to just her thoughts. What has come to mind over and over again is a desire for more. To do more, to earn more than just squeaking out a sort of life day-to-day.

At the foot of her parents’ bed, sat a weathered chest, bound by iron and locked since Father passed. And in truth, Alexandra had never looked in it. Both Mother and Father never let her look within, yet as she stared at it from her perch on the rocking chair. She stood up, there were no other family, no siblings, or uncles, or aunts, or grandparents. Everything that belonged, and would belong, to the O’Sullivan’s family, belonged to her. Despite lacking a key, she removed the Winchester rifle from off its rack on the wall. One solitary, solid strike from the butt hit with a thud, then another, and once more to finally cause the lock to break off and clatter onto the floor below.

Within were relics of Father’s forgotten and old life, before he met Mother and settled down here. From the life he lived by the gun, “a righteous man in an un-righteous time. Must bring about the judgement of the Lord,” he told Alexandra this one night when he was deep into the drink shortly after Mother’s death. His words still rung in her ears, “there is no greater calling, lass, than the culling of evil. That it pays well is just a bonus. To be taken care of both in this life and the next, nary a greater calling than that.”

Stuffed in an old, time-worn holster was the Colt Walker revolver that Father used to end the lives of so many bad-people that plague the relatively lawless lands. Despite its age, it still gleamed in the low light, as if freshly-polished and cleaned. On the left side of the wooden handle, there were twenty-six tally marks. She bit her bottom lip whilst pulling it from the soft confines of the holster. Stood up to hold the heavy, yet somehow, familiar weight of the rather long-barreled gun. Alex looked down its sights, pulled the trigger—having already checked that it was empty. Maybe this was meant to be, her destiny as well.

Wrapping the belt around her waist, pulled it taut and buckled it securely. Alexandra pushed the gun down back into its holster and squatted beside the chest again to go through the rest. An old photo of Father from before he met mother, still just as large as ever but youthful, seemed more careful and without a beard, a rather dashing fellow—Mother had good taste after all. Her face scrunched up at just the mere thought of thinking her father was handsome.

“Gross,” she said to the empty cabin.

Through the other mementos of a nostalgic past, of when the west was free for everyone and anyone without the encroachment of civilization from those posh, lazy folks east of the Mississippi, Alexandra found her father’s old, wide-brimmed rawhide that fit rather loose on her head. It didn’t matter to her. It felt right—it all felt too right. As if this was her calling, perhaps the blood that ran her veins was the same that ran in the crusaders of old. The same that fought against the darkness, to keep it at bay so the light could live and grow.

His hat still smelled of him: deep, richness of tobacco and the beautiful astringent peat of the scotch father would constantly take a nip of. The thick woolen Union jacket, just as warm and comfortable as the day it was made, smelled of his comfort and kindness, of his fierceness and his sense of duty. When Alexandra wrapped it around her shoulders and pulled it tight across her chest., it felt like a strong, loving hug—almost.

Knock-knock-knock! A heavy hand almost beat on the door.

“Alexandra! I need my rent money, or I have to call upon the sheriff. I do not want to do that,” Old Man Jackson’s gruff voice carried with it both authority and sincerity.

With a deep breath, she stood up and walked over to the door and pulled it open. “Come in, please. I don’t have your money, but I am a-thinking of leaving anyways.” Alex pulled out a chair as she walked over to the stove. “Coffee? Get a bit of that chill off the bones, sir.”

“Please and thank you,” a puzzle expression crossed Old Man Jackson’s weathered face as he spoke. “What do you mean you are leaving? I am pretty sure your parents would have wanted you to settle. Start a family. Turn the land into something fruitful. We can talk over new terms, if’n it helps. Get you the deed over time.”

With a warm-hearted smile, Alexandra placed the steaming mug of coffee in front of the man and sat down across from him. “No, I appreciate it, but there’s something burning deep inside. These lands are in desperate need for a righteous soul—”

“In such an unrighteous time.”

“—aye, yes.”

The old man, who had seen more sunrises than most ever will, took a long drink from the coffee and thanked the young woman for the libation. “I’ve known your family a long, long time. Longer than even your mother knew. Did your father ever speak on our history?”

Alex shook her head and leaned forward, elbows on the table.

“Figured not. No one likes to speak of the bleakness, even if done for good reasons. We used to ride together. Hell, I taught him about the bounty hunter business. When he was still fresh-faced, hardened by the war. As we all were then. No side won that shit show, and all got broken up over it. It’s why everything is so…well, more people like you would not be a bad thing.

Listen up, okay? I want to tell you about the time your father and I took down Black Hat Bailey and his Psycho gang. It all started when Red Rock Mines were raided, dozens killed, more raped and wounded…”

****

Tag List:

@fablesandfragments @seastarblue @vesanal @theink-stainedfolk @leahnardo-da-veggie

@aalinaaaaaa @an-indecisive-nerd @write-with-will @the-ellia-west @carb0n-m0n0xide

@inadequatecowboy @kitkins13 @watermeezer @shepardstales @bardic-tales

@dyrewrites

[ihaznoclue]

Edge of the fight ♡♡♡♡

⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆ Bayverse Turtles x Reader ⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆

Part 1 || Part 2

Warnings -> Near death experiences, trauma, PTSD, Nightmares, hurt/comfort, Emotional talks, Experiments, being called a 'failure', Kidnapping, Reader is going through it, Panic attacks, Over protective, Trauma/Past dumping (Woah that's alot)

Authors Note -> Mind you that this story came to my mind late at one night, it came to my mind and I mixed up some stuff in it even though it might not make sense to everyone

⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆ ♡ ︎♡ ︎♡ ︎♡ ︎⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆

On top of the crumbling building, Shredder stands like a devil in metal armor, every move that he takes sparks off the roof as the rain hits his blades that were drenched in your blood

You watched him confront the turtle as you could hardly breath, Leo is already slightly wounder as Raph was making a angered face like a beast

Donnie was attempting to remain sane as Mikey is jumping in with unbounded bravery but you knew he was scared to death

But it wasn't enough.. Not against him

You decided to make a spilt-second decision before he was about to turn Leo into turtle soup, you ran straight into Shredder's clear line of sight as you breathed heavily

"Hey scrap head!" You yelled out, your voice slightly echoing as Shredder was sure to hear the anger in your voice "You need a new outfit because that is so 2007!"

That caused Shredder to turn, it worked but at what cost

While distracted by you the turtle gathered together, even if just for a second because that second was all they needed

Shredder's gauntlet slashes out as it was too fast to dodge in time, pain tears through your side as one of them slashed through your shirt and you stumbled backwards as you clutched your side, it felt too hard to breath

You try to stay on your feet, you really did but the edge is just a step too close and your balance wasn't going to be any easier with your lack of strength

You saw the city lights upside down, you then came to realise

You were falling...

A blur of green and pieces of the building dives after you, it was one of the turtle or maybe two.. the ground looks like it was coming fast

Then—

Darkness

⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆

"— got them, I got them—!"

"Are they breathing?"

"Let Donnie—"

You were drifting back to consciousness like being dragged through some type of syrup, pain floods your body as you tried to breath in. You're body felt like it was hit by a train, you tried to move but the motion earns a 'hiss' and a gasp from one of the turtles

"Don't.. Don't move, you're okay now" A voice says gently, you blinked through the blur and see Leo kneeling over you, his face streaked with grime, blood a slight rain

His swords were placed near by but his hand were terribly trembling. He caught you or maybe you hit something that slowed you down and then he caught you.. either way, you're not dead.. that's a first

You tried to crack a smile as you looked at every single one of them "Told you.. I could be distracting"

Leo's jaw tightened as his eyes flickered with not amusement but with guilt as he huffed "You almost died.."

The pain in his voice cuts deeper than Shredders claws, looking away as you felt guilty now

You then saw Raph pacing back and forth, his fists clenched so tight you swear he could draw blood from it, Mikey crouches nearby as his usual cheery self drowned by a frown and scared eyes. Donnie's was already scanning you with a portable med scanner as his fingers flying across it

"Ribs are slightly cracked, they definitely have a concussion and that gash.. we need to get them back to the lair now"

You wince a little "Is that.. worse than I think?" Leo swallows hard "You shouldn't of done that"

"But you would've lost.."

"I rather lose the fight than lose you" His voice breaks on the last words and something in your chest aches worse than the injuries. Raph lets out a frustrated growls and then punches the wall near him, making it crack a bit form his force, Mikey flinches

You started to close your eyes for a second "Did we win?"

There was silence until Mikey says softly "Yeah, we won.. all because of you"

You smiled faintly as tears started to burn on the corner of your eyes "Good" Your head move slightly as the exhaustion pulls at you but Leo catches your head a shis arm gently held you like you were made out of glass, he lowers his forehead to your as his breathing was steady and close

"You're not doing that again" He whispers but you didn't answer

You were already slipping back unconscious

⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆

The lair is uncharacteristically quiet when you came back to your senses again, Gone are the usual echos of Mikey's video games, the sounds of Donnie tinkering in his little lab area or Raph and Leo arguing about literally anything but instead there was a low hum

Donnie's machines maybe and that the soft shuffle of someone pacing

Your eyes started to open as your whole body ached in pain, your side was bandages but you were warm, clean and surprisingly surrounded. Leo was sitting beside your makeshift bed, his arms crossed but his gaze was glued to you

The moment that you stir he completely straightens up

"Hey, you're awake" His voice was quiet as relief rushes into him like a tide, you were okay and alive

the next thing you know, Mikey is practically launching himself across the lair as soon as he sees you awake, he skids to a halt beside your head as his eyes were glassy, like he was about to cry

"Dude! You're alive! I told them you were too stubborn to die!" He was then interrupted by Raph pushing him back as he grunts at his little brothers voice

"They shouldn't have been in the fight to begin with" Leo looked at him "Raph" Leo says sharply but you cit in with a wince as you started to get up

"No, he's.. he's not wrong" You mumble "I just couldn't let him kill you guys"

Raph rushes over to you as he pushes you back gently down on the bed

"You scared the fuck out of us" Raph glares at you as you turned away with a slight pout

"Sorry" You mutter then let out a soft chuckle but turns into a groan as you held your side "Ow, nevermind, laughing hurts"

Donnie then appears out of the blue "Well maybe you'll think twice before jumping off building next time" He stated but you raised an eyebrow at him "I'm pretty sure he pushed me"

"Technicalities" Donnie deadpans but there's no missing the shake of his hands as he adjusts your blanket and checks your vitals, he slightly sniff very softly "You're lucky I'm a genius or you'd be a corpse right about now"

"Raph and I caught them in time" Leo added "Well barely"

You looked around at them as your heart full and aching with pain, Mikey is now curled to your side, clearly trying so hard not to cry seeing you like this, Raph was still tense as his face furrowed like he's trying to hold back a hundred things that he want to say

Donnie's eyes are laser-focused on his scanner but the crease of his forehead hasn't left and Leo.. he looks like he hasn't slept, maybe hasn't even moved from that one particular spot, you also wondered how long you're been out for

"I didn't mean to make it worse for you guys" You whispered slighty, Leo shakes his head "You didn't, you made it possible but next time.. let us do the protecting"

"We're used to it" Mikey says, giving you a wobbly smile "It's kind of our thing, you couldn't help it as the tears sting your eyes "You guys are ridiculous.. I love you guys"

All four freeze

Donnie then clears his throat very loudly "Well.. uh.. emotionally compromised, clearly" then was interrupted

"Shut up, don" Raph mutter as he ruffles your hair softly "We love you too, idiot" Leo doesn't say anything but just brushes his fingers against yours slightly, although his eyes says more

The rest of the night passes in peace, you started to drift off to the sound of Mikey snoring down at your side, Donnie typing away on the desk near by, Raph sitting against the wall not to far who was still awake and Leo keeping vigil beside, like he will every night until you're whole again

⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆

It has been a few days, you were still healing, the pain was dulled enough, finally. You sat up without feeling like your side was screaming at you and that you could breath without sound like a dying animal. There was progress

But sleep?

That's becoming the worst part of your day all because every time you close your eyes, you're back on that same crumbling rooftop, back to the sound of metal slicing the air as the wind blows pass your ear

Back to Shredder's demonic armor and that fall — that infinite, weightless terror you've been holding onto. You feel the air rushing past your ears once again and your stomach in your throat, the sickening feeling

This is it

Every time you hit the ground in your dreams and every time you wake up gasping, drench in cold sweat as your fists clenched the blankets ever so tightly

Tonight no different

You jolt upwards with a sudden gasp as you felt your heart pounding so hard it hurts.. the lair is dark and quiet, except for the soft hum of Donnie's machines in the distance and the drip-drip of the water tunnels echoing

You press your hand to your face as you tried to calm your breathing down, trying to remind yourself that you're not falling.. you're not dying and that you are now safe

"Another one?"

The voice comes from a distance, quiet, low and familiar

Raph

You blinks into the dark and see him slightly, leaning against the wall nearby. His arms were crossed but his eyes are softer than usual, watching you like a guard dag that doesn't want to admit it's worried

You nod, barely making Raph walk over to you as he slightly crouches down due to his height near the bed "Wanna talk about it?"

You instantly shake your head "It's stupid", "No it ain't" He says without a missing beat "You almost died, kinda messed with your head"

The honesty in his voice cracks something open in you "Every time I close my eyes, it feels like I'm falling" You whispered "I feel it, the wind, the drop.. I.. I hit the ground every time but I never seem to wake up"

Raph slightly swears under his breath, then without asking he gently scoops you up a bit the places you back down while sitting on his lap

"I used to have dreams, similar to that.. The attacks, the crimes, the krang all comes back to me, never told the others but yeah.. it's like your brain keeps makin' you relive that situation, like it wants you to remember"

You sniffed as you glanced at him "How did you make it stop?" You asked "I didn't.. not really" He shrugs "But It got better later on, cause I wasn't alone"

The reassurance from Raph felt comforting, the next time you fall asleep, you're surrounded, Leo was still sitting close by, Donnie sleeping on the desk, Mikey snoring still near your side and Raph sleeping with you near him

You still dream but this time when you fall.. you don't hit the ground

You were caught

⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆

It has been week ever since you fully recovered, the boys suggested that you could use some relax time while watching a movie with them

Mikey declares it before you even finish your post-training smoothie that Raph secretly made for you

"It's movie night, Baby!"

You blink, hallways through a sip as you wiped your mouth "Is that a formal thing?" Leo then sighs from across the room "it is now, he's made a theme song and everything"

Mikey breaks into a quick beatbox routine that includes dramatic Kung Fu nosies and the words of 'popcorn justice' for reasons that no one fully understand

Donnie was already at the TV as he turned the TV on, Raph was in the kitchen area as he was grabbing some chips

The couch now sinks under the weight of some of you on it as Mikey was sitting in front of you as Raph was on your left side, Donnie on your right and Leo sitting on the couch's armrest

Mikeys then throws a blanket over you as he says that you might be cold, which you were. It was like he read your mind

"Okay, What are we watching?" You asked, "Kung pow!" Mikey suggests but Leo turns that down "Okay, Shrek 2 then" Leo sighs "Fine"

The movie begins, Popcorn in a bowl placed right on your lap, someone (Mikey) quotes every line which Raphs taps him hard on the back of the head

You? You're smiling so much that your cheeks hurt, for once.. there was nothing to worry about.. nightmares, no flashback and no tensions in your shoulders

Just warmth, laughter and the sound of friends around you

At one point, Mikey turns his head to him as he happily smiles up at you, mentioning to come close then he whispers "You're a special person to all of us y'know?"

You looked at him "Yeah?" You question "Yeah, but you're more special to me" That made you grin until Raph flips Mikeys forehead as he yelped in pain

"Watch the movie moron and stop distracting them" Raph grunts

This was everything and never was going to ever change that

⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆

It was quiet at night, you're alone or so you thought, the memory of what happened weeks ago hits you hit and too fast

it starts with something small, a clang that just a piece of metal fell off of one of Donnie workbenches

But in your mind, it's not just that, it was the sound of Shredders armor, the hiss of metal against the concentrate, the whirl of those blades that were coming for you

The rooftop

The wind

The fall..

Suddenly you were back there, your body doesn't know it's safe but your brain doesn't care that it's over, you couldn't breath, you can't move, your vision shrinks and all you could hear is rushing air and your own heartbeat pounding in your ears

You hit the ground as you could feel it, even though you're still standing in the middle of the lair, shaking

Your knees buckle and then you hit the ground, making a thud sound

"Name?" Your name was called out, making you freeze

The voice sounded confused, worried and gentle

You barely register Donnie's silhouette until he's kneeling in front of you, his bo staff long gone in his lab that was on the floor

"Hey, hey, You're okay, you're safe now" He says, his voice low and warm "It's just me, Donnie, you're in the lair and your safe"

You can't answer and you couldn't form words, it felt like you were trapped, in that moment of fear

"Will you give me consent to touch you?" He asked, you could hear him as you nodded

You were soon wrapped in a warm and shielded embrace by the turtle, muttering to you that you're safe and that you are not there anymore

"Your system overloaded" He murmurs "But it happens, but you're not broken"

You nod slighting into his plastron as you thanked him

His hand rubs your back in a comforting matter

"Always"

⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆

I'm gonna make this into a series of parts

-A<3

[noirscript]

sanctum | chapter three

Pairing: Yandere Preacher x Reader Description: You came because your friend said it would help—just a quiet retreat, a place to clear your head. But from the moment you stepped through the gate, you felt it: the way Father Caelestis looked at you, not like a stranger, but like someone he'd been waiting for… someone he'd already claimed long before you ever arrived. Warning/s: Yandere | Religious themes | Cult-ish | Brainwashing | Manipulation Note/s: Enjoy reading! Chapters 4 to 7 are now available on my ko-fi (it's currently locked and only accessible to supporters ^^).

Masterlist | Series Masterlist | Commission | Tip Jar | Dark Roast 50% Off

Chapter Three | A Garden Without Serpents “There is no temptation in sanctified soil.”

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

The gardens stretch endlessly in every direction, a labyrinth of perfect beauty that leaves you disoriented. You’ve been walking in circles for what feels like hours, each turn bringing you face-to-face with more pristine roses, more marble saints, more paths that lead nowhere. The air smells sickly sweet, heavy with the perfume of flowers and something else—something metallic that lingers at the edge of your senses.

You pass a statue of a saint whose faceless head tilts toward the heavens. The word sanctity is etched at its base in elegant script, but the longer you stare, the more the letters seem to blur, twisting into something unreadable. The chanting from the main hall is faint but insistent, its rhythm burrowing into your mind like a melody you can’t escape.

You’re not sure why you keep walking. There’s nowhere to go. Every time you approach the edge of the gardens, someone is there—a gentle but unmoving wall of white robes and serene smiles.

“The world beyond the garden is not yet ready for you, Mother,” Grace had said earlier, her voice as soothing as the petals of the roses she tended.

Her words replay in your mind now, grating like static. Not ready for you. The phrasing feels deliberate, like a feint to obscure the truth: that you’re the one not ready, that you’re unfit to leave.

“You seem troubled, beloved,” Father Caelestis’s voice cuts through your thoughts like silk on steel.

You startle slightly, turning to find him standing a few paces away, his hands clasped in front of him. He looks as he always does—serene, unruffled, as though he’s never known a moment of doubt in his life.

“I’m fine,” you say quickly, too quickly, and his faint smile tells you he doesn’t believe you.

He steps closer, his presence filling the space between you like an encroaching shadow. “The Vessel cannot carry doubt, beloved,” he says gently. “Tell me what weighs on your heart.”

You hesitate, your gaze flickering to the faceless saint beside you. Its blank features offer no refuge, no guidance, and you find yourself speaking before you can stop.

“My friends,” you say, the words spilling out in a rush. “They warned me about this place. They said it wasn’t… that it wasn’t safe.”

Father Caelestis’s expression doesn’t change, but something in his posture shifts, subtle but unmistakable—a sharpening of his focus, like a predator catching the scent of prey.

“The voices of the outside world are tainted,” he says, each word heavy with sorrow. “They planted poison in your soul, beloved, because they feared your light. They saw in you what they lacked in themselves, and they couldn’t bear it.”

“That’s not true,” you protest, though the conviction in your voice falters under the weight of his gaze.

“Isn’t it?” he asks softly, his tone tinged with pity. He takes another step closer, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “Tell me, what did they offer you, these so-called friends? Love? Freedom? Truth? All lies, beloved. All traps designed to keep you chained to their broken world.”

His words wrap around you like a vise, tightening with every syllable. You take a step back, but he mirrors you, closing the distance with a grace that feels almost predatory.

“They hurt you,” he says, his hand hovering just above your shoulder. He doesn’t touch you—he never does—but the proximity makes your skin crawl. “I can see it in your eyes, in the way you carry yourself. The world broke you, but you don’t have to carry those wounds any longer. Let me take them from you.”

“You’re twisting everything,” you manage to say, your voice trembling despite your best efforts. “I’m not broken.”

His smile deepens, but there’s a sadness in it now, an almost unbearable tenderness. “The truly broken never know they are broken,” he murmurs. “But that’s all right. That’s why you’re here. To be made whole again, slowly, lovingly. Trust me, beloved.”

You want to scream, to push him away, but your body feels frozen, heavy with the weight of his presence.

“I need to be alone,” you say finally, the words barely a whisper.

For a moment, he studies you in silence, his gaze unreadable. Then he nods, stepping back with a grace that feels like a calculated release. “Of course,” he says. “But remember, beloved: isolation breeds doubt. Doubt breeds darkness. And darkness…” He trails off, letting the implication hang in the air like a blade.

You turn and walk away, your steps unsteady, the sound of your retreat swallowed by the endless garden.

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

Later that day, as you wander aimlessly through the winding paths, a young woman approaches you. She’s small, barely out of her teens, with nervous energy radiating off her like heat. Her hands are clasped tightly in front of her, and her head is bowed low.

“Mother,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “May I speak with you?”

You nod slowly, unsure whether to be wary or relieved. She glances over her shoulder, her movements quick and furtive, before stepping closer.

“They’re watching,” she murmurs, her voice trembling.

“Who?” you ask, though you already know the answer.

She doesn’t respond. Instead, she presses a small piece of paper into your hand, her fingers brushing yours for the briefest moment. Her touch is cold, trembling, but there’s something electric in it—an urgency that sets your heart pounding.

“Please,” she whispers, her eyes darting around the garden. “Don’t let them see.”

Before you can respond, she’s gone, disappearing into the maze of roses like a ghost.

Your hands shake as you unfold the note. The words are scrawled hastily, almost illegible, but their meaning is clear:

“You’re not crazy. Get out.”

The paper feels heavier than it should, like it’s carrying the weight of all the fear and desperation she couldn’t say aloud. You clutch it tightly, the words burning into your mind like a brand.

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

You spend the rest of the day searching for her. You retrace your steps, scanning every face, every corner, every shadow for any sign of her. But no matter how many paths you walk, how many people you ask, she’s nowhere to be found.

Grace is the first person you approach, though you already know her response before you ask.

“I’m looking for someone,” you say, your voice strained. “A young woman. She spoke to me earlier.”

Grace tilts her head, her expression a perfect mask of gentle confusion. “I’m sorry, Mother,” she says. “I don’t know who you mean.”

“She was here,” you insist, your desperation creeping into your voice. “I spoke to her.”

Grace’s smile doesn’t falter. “There’s no one like that here,” she says softly. “Perhaps you were mistaken.”

You clench your fists at your sides, the note crumpled in your palm. “I wasn’t mistaken.”

She bows her head slightly. “If Father Caelestis wisher you to know, he will tell you,” she says, her voice calm but final.

You turn away before she can say anything else, your frustration boiling over into anger as you storm through the garden.

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

That night, when you return to your room, something feels… off.

The furniture is the same, the linens still white and pristine, but the air feels heavier, colder. It takes you a moment to realize why.

The locks.

They’re on the outside now.

You stare at the door, your pulse pounding in your ears. Your hand drifts to the crumpled note still tucked in your pocket, the words a mantra in your mind: “You’re not crazy. Get out.”

But as the chanting outside your window begins again, rising in volume like an encroaching tide, the walls seem to close in around you. And for the first time, you wonder if escape is even possible.

TBC.

noirscript © 2025

Taglist: @hopingtoclearmedschool @violetvase @zanzie @neuvilletteswife4ever @yamekocatt @mel-vaz @vind1cta @greatwitchsongsinger @delusionalricebowl @nomi-candies @jsprien213 @kaii-nana33

← Previous | Next →

[voidcat]

idk little elaboration on this ig michael kaiser x gn!reader. vampire au. wc: 1k

it's been an odd couple of days, weeks even.

Michael isn't sure what did it start with but it ended with you caught up in the claws. When you first disappeared, he paid it no mind. You did like your space and tended to disappear on him often. Not for naught, he did press your buttons, forcing you out of your shell and further- fight or flight, is the simplest result nature offers everyone. You are your nerves, your brain, your body and systems working in absolute unity.

'Homeostasis.'

He still hears your voice in his head correcting him.

'It is what you call your body working in regulation, maintaining its inner- and outer balance, if you include the barreers and systems engaging with the world to be outer.'

He tests the word on his tongue.

"Hoh-mee-oh-stay-sis" a funny word for something so simple yet heavy.

All the burden entities in whole carry. The essence of life maybe, to keep the gears running, to keep the showing going.

What you've been lacking lately.

It's been a long while since you disappered, and returned, eventually.

You do, always finding your way back to him. But at the sight of you, looking normal but not quite, face sunken and something empty behind your eyes, he felt the hairs on end spike up. Yet Michael had been worried for a while longer than that.

When you hissy fit went on longer, no contact to anyone or anything, no sign of you existing in any space, he knew something was off.

When you step in through the frame, lights too loud and bright, and your eyelids unable to response, you stand in the entrance for a while. Your body carried you all the way here, something born out of reflex, you assume, but you don't know this place.

It smells... nice. Or what should be considered nice. There is a fragnence of musky and sweet, were you to look around a little, you could've spotted the sources to be little candles scattered around.

Shaped of strawberries in a basket, some roses and few more- varying from cute to aesthetic, only the cat shaped candle on the bookshelf apart from them, unlit. Candles you would never light up normally.

Not that you remember any of these. But he does.

It's been some time now, you sit still in the room he told you was yours, curtains pulled all the way to both edges, drowning you in absolute darkness.

It feels like home that way. You can still taste the dirt and the cold on your tongue.

Something is wrong.

That much, you know. You feel weirdly silent, calm, something missing, ripped out of you even.

Your confusion does not bring forth anything akin to worry though. Worry, the word might've made you chuckle perhaps. Such a small sound for something people claim to be big. It must be what keeps life kicking and going. It's what dances behind those blue eyes of the man you've been observing whenever he comes near, if your judgement is anything to come by.

For the most time things go still, those moments you like best, as if ceasing to exist-- then the serene darkness is interrupted, you feel pulled back to a stage you do not belong.

The man becomes memorable again whenever he does so. You think, maybe that's what he wants.

Nobody seemed to pay you any mind or even spared a glance up until now. His explosive behaviors only seem to strenghten your case.

(He would've laughed at it, you'll learn later. 'Explosive? I'll show you explosive.' or something cliche like that. He is the closest example to life you've been witnessing as of late- so he marks the upper limit for such definitions for you.)

He acts and moves and talks in ways that confuse you, making your body shriek. A reaction you find abnormal from yourself, what must've caused it. Maybe something runs deeper to have caused such a trigger response.

His behavior only worsens when you look at him without a sound, expressionless. Those moments, you mark as 'explosive'.

His pupils dilatate, his voice gets louder, until you hear a little ringing-- you begin to notice how his fists tightens, his body changing color. Drops of something rim at the edges of his eyes, shining under the light yet not in any particular color.

Red and flush in the face, neck craned out, muscles constricted and something ragged, a sound like he is in pain almost.

These displays add to your confusion.

You do not know why you are there or why you're staying. You suppose you could leave, but it'd only trigger his explosion again. You do not make any sense as to why he is so adamant on keeping you near, to stay close.

The man has given you a name but he shifts again whenever you call him that. You later muse that the emotion he must've felt is sadness, or distress, when you utter the name 'Kaiser'.

And so you stop doing that too.

'It's Michael. Not Kaiser.' he has said this so many times that his voice rings long enough in your head now.

On the moments of stillness when he makes you sit with him, you catch his face shifting too. Those emotions, you'll learn to label far later, so they remain saved somewhere in the back of your mind for the longest time.

You know something is deeply and utterly wrong.

More to do with you and your predicament than the man before you. Even while your mind and body were devoid of everything, you could feel it. That sinking feeling with its claws surrounding you, its grip tightening with each futile attempt he makes at you.

You suppose, despite it all, maybe you should thank him for teaching you so much in the meantime- to help you categorize and label all you've done so far. But you think, this would only upset him further-- another judgement you've learned to make in your time with him. So you refrain from voicing that too.

Not that it matters. It scratches at your throat, the dryness of your mouth hurting you from the inside out, like something dragging its nails into your skin, so you remain silent majority of the time.