#i just learned what touch wood means ^^

[mkmas]

Take Me, My Beloved Villain - Jude Jazza

sorry for any mistakes 🙇‍♀️ also everything is owned by cybird, i only translated

Kate: Ju-Jude, please let go! I can walk on my own!

Jude grabbed me by the scruff of my neck and dragged me down the corridor.

Jude: You’re going to run away as soon as I let go. I have to be cautious.

Kate: I won’t run away! I will pay back what I owe you…!

Today is the 31st of December.

I had been helping Victor make preparations for the countdown party since this morning.

However, Jude suddenly appeared in the kitchen.

“Have you forgotten that you owe me for saving your life yesterday? I will have you pay me back in labor.” …….. Then, he kidnapped me.

(I’m grateful to Jude for saving me from almost getting shot last night. He saved my life)

(But…)

Kate: It must be hard for Victor to prepare alone…..

Jude: Ha, you’re worried about him? How kind of the princess.

Jude: But it’s useless to try to measure someone who is the Queen's aide by ordinary standards.

Jude: No matter how much you complain, it's already decided that you're going to help me with my work. Shut up and follow me.

And so, I was forcibly brought to the common room.

On the desk is a familiar typewriter.

Jude: Use it to transcribe the handwritten documents. The format should be the same as the sample.

Ellis: Jude, I got what you asked for.

Ellis, who came into the room after us, had his hands full of papers.

Kate: Thi-This many…..!?

I trembled, and Jude gave me a cold glare.

Jude: Can’t do it? Was your life so light that you didn't deserve a job of this magnitude?

Jude: Sorry….. I must have overestimated.

Kate: Life isn’t light, even for me. But….. It’s too much, I don’t know if I can do it alone.

Ellis: It's okay, Kate. Jude wouldn't ask someone who isn’t capable.

(….. Ellis and Jude are like carrot and stick)***

Kate: ….. I understand. I will do it wholeheartedly…..

Jude: Don’t put your heart into it. All I want is speed and accuracy.

Jude: If you miss even 1 letter….. Do you want to know what happens?

I began work with a twitch in my cheeks, sensing that it was more than just a threat.

———

Jude: ….. That’s enough.

Jude stopped my work at 7pm, a few hours after we started.

Kate: Eh…. But it looks like there are still some paperwork left to do…..

Jude: No matter how much progress you make, there's no point in reviewing if I can't catch up.

(But I think Jude's revision work is well on its way….?)

Jude: ….. What’s with that face? I told you to stop, but you’re not happy?

Kate: N-No. It’s not like that.

(….. That’s right. Jude said so, so let’s call it a day)

I've learned from experience that pestering him will only make him grumpier, so I decided to clean up my desk.

Kate: What kind of year would you like to have next year, Jude? Do you have any resolutions?

Jude: Resolutions? I have nothing like that.

Jude: The year changes, but in reality, there’s no actual real effect. It's just an arbitrary boundary decided by humans.

Jude: Last year, this year, next year, nothing I do will be any different.

(If I recall correctly….. Jude needs money to fulfill his promise to someone)

(That’s what you’re working so hard for, right)

Kate: Jude is pushing forward towards his goal.…. It’s amazing.

Jude: Flattery will get you nothing in return.

Kate: I’m not looking for anything in return, I really do think so.

It didn't mean anything, but Jude frowned as if he had eaten something he didn't like.

He waved his hand as if to tell me to get the hell out of the room.

———

Victor: Kate! Are you finished with the work Jude asked you to do?

Kate: Yes, he doesn't need any more help today.

Victor: The best timing, we were just about to eat.

Victor: I'm glad Jude kept his promise to me.

(Oh, by the way…..)

———

It was when Jude came to the kitchen to take me away.

Kate: Sorry, Victor.…. I have to help Jude.

Victor: Don't worry about it. I'll prepare everything for you too!

Victor: But….. With all these delicious food prepared, you have to get Kate back in time for dinner, okay?

Jude: It’s up to her to decide when she can go home.

———

(….. Jude, I guess you let me go because it was time for dinner.)

The timing of the work being stopped seemed unnatural, so it must be it.

Then, time passed as everyone gathered in the dining room to eat.

However, Jude never came to the dining room.

(I guess his work isn't done yet…..)

Curious, I kept looking at the door, but there was no sign of anyone coming in.

Roger: Kate, could you do me a favor?

Kate: Yes, what is it?

Roger: I want you to bring Jude some food.

Roger: Jude hasn't eaten anything since lunch, has he? If he dies, we'll have a lot of work to do starting in the new year and it will be troublesome.

Roger: He would get annoyed if I nag him so I would be grateful if the young lady can encourage him.

Kate: …..! I understand!

Having found a good reason to visit Jude, I put some food on the plate and left the dining room.

Alfons: ….. Saying you’re worried when you’re really not, how shameless.

Roger: It’s not really a lie, is it? Well, the biggest motive was that the young lady was worried.

———

I came to the common room with a bowl of hot soup and a loaf of bread.

(Huh…..? Jude isn’t here. He left his papers here, so he’ll probably be back soon)

There, my eyes fell on the desk that Jude had been using.

(Ah….. I knew it, it was a lie that the revision process couldn't keep up)

The paperwork I had finished producing had long since been reviewed, and another new set of work documents was spread out on the desk.

(From the moment we met... Jude has been mercilessly and arrogantly cornering me.)

(So why does he sometimes give me kindness that is hard to understand?)

Is it just a whim, or is it to win me over and use me.…. or is it something more?

(….. I don't know what Jude's true feelings are, which is why I'm so curious and want to know)

But, even in the midst of uncertainty, there are certain things.

I hope Jude’s dream comes true one day, those are my feelings.

(That's right! Let's make a wish for the New Year!)

(I think I'll use.….. this wooden desk that Jude used)

Kate: Touch wood…..

While whispering, I tapped the desk lightly. It's a spell that has been passed down in England for a long time to ward off evil spirits.

Jude: ...... What are you doing?

Kate: !?

I heard a doubtful voice behind me and turned to see Jude standing there.

Kate: Wh-When did you get here…..!?

Jude: Just now. …… So, what’s up with the princess?

Jude: Muttering to the desk with a grim look, were you trying to put a curse on me?

Kate: It’s the opposite! I brought dinner, and gave Jude a good luck spell.

Stuttering my words, I explained that I had no malicious intentions.

Jude: I don't need silly wishes like "I hope my wish comes true".

Kate: N-No! I didn’t wish like that.

Jude: ….. Oh?

Jude raised an eyebrow in interest. I felt like he was urging me to continue, so I opened my mouth again.

Kate: ….. Jude says if you owe something, you should pay it back.

Jude: Loans exist to be paid back.

Kate: If the loan is to be paid back…..

Kate: In that same sense, I hope your efforts will be rewarded as well.

Jude: …..

Kate: That’s why….. I wished that Jude’s efforts would be rewarded.

Jude: ….. What a childish wish.

Jude's reaction was as cold as I expected, but that was okay.

Whatever I wish in my heart, is my choice.

Jude: And yours?

Kate: What is?

Jude: Resolutions, resolutions. I'll have to pay you back for your questionable spells. It's a pain in the ass, but.

I never thought that he would give back what I had wished for on my own.

This kind of discipline may be one of the reasons why Jude has been so successful in his work.

(My resolutions for this year are…..)

Kate: ….. I would like to get to know Jude and spend more time with him.

Jude: Spend even more time with me? Come on, you don't have to make that your resolution.

Kate: Eh…..?

Jude: You owe me a lot, remember?

Jude: You don't think you can pay back in a day what you owe me for saving your life, do you?

Kate: Eh, it’s not right!?

Jude: You said it yourself, life is not light. It's not even close.

Jude: Don't even think you can leave me until you pay off all your debts.

(Then that means….. I can spend a lot of time by Jude's side?)

Jude was probably just stating the obvious, that I owe him and I should pay him back, and that there is no special meaning to this.

(It bothers me that I'm treated like a labor force, but still... I don't know why... I'm happy)

The fact that I wanted to be by your side and was allowed to do so even for whatever reason warms my heart.

Jude: ….. Respond.

Kate: Ye-Yes…..! Next year too-

At that moment, as if timed perfectly, a bang sounded.

When I turned around, I saw large fireworks going off in the distance from the common room window.

(….. Oh, it's the New Year already)

Kate: ….. Let’s get along well this year too, Jude.

Jude: Haha, what a gentle and polite bow….. Hopeless.

Jude removes his gaze from mine to resume his work.

It was a new year that came without a countdown, but that didn’t bother me.

Maybe it's because I'm looking forward to being by Jude’s side this year.

***carrot and stick (飴と鞭) or candy and whip = combination of reward + punishment.

[spikedfearn]

I Thee Bled

one-shot

Remmick x fem!reader

Summary: On the eve of your arranged wedding, you flee into the woods with trembling hands and a bloodstained gown—only to slip a ring meant for another onto a graveyard root and wake something ancient beneath the soil. Remmick is not a man, not anymore, but he remembers how to be tender. Touch-starved and centuries dead, he offers you the one thing the living never did: choice. In a forest that breathes and remembers, where the dead dream and the moss learns your name, you find yourself questioning everything you left behind. After all, what is a monster—if not a man who waits for you? And what is love, if not something you’re willing to bleed for?

(or: A Corpse Bride au)

wc: 15.2k

a/n: thank you all so much for the overwhelming love and support you’ve shown my fics, it means the world to me!! I originally planned to release I Thee Bled on Monday to celebrate one month since Brittany Broski posted Mercy Made Flesh to her Insta story (!!!), but life had other plans, so she’s arriving fashionably late. This one’s especially close to my heart, and I want to dedicate it to the lovely Moga @somnolenthour, whose beautiful fanart for this fic when it was still just an idea (completely unprompted!!) lit a fire under me, this one’s for you <333 shout-out to my beta readers, starting with Liz who also came up with the title: @fuckoffbard @titaniasfairy @jaythewriter @anhelconhmuda @kkniveschau

warnings: Corpse Bride!au, gothic horror, supernatural romance, blood, vampirism, smut, oral sex (f!receiving), praise kink, dirty talk, creampie, touch-starved monster, monsterfucking, sub!remmick, ghost town setting, period-typical misogyny, vague Victorian era, Tim Burton aesthetics, mutual pining, tragic undertones, Remmick in his final monster form

likes, comments, and reblogs as always appreciated, please enjoy!!

Masterlist

It was a quiet kind of death—to walk toward a future that never belonged to you.

The candlelight danced in its sconce like it too was afraid of the dark, throwing gold and shadow in uneven patterns across the walls of your bridal chamber. The air was heavy with the scent of crushed lilies—white, thick-stemmed, and already browning at the edges—as though the blooms themselves had second thoughts. A bridal veil hung limp from the mirror. You had not put it on.

You sat at the edge of the chaise, corseted to breathlessness, the bony ridges of your knuckles straining beneath the thin layers of skin from how hard you're clutching the ring.

Not your ring. Not yet. It was his—your would-be husband's—a man who smiled without his eyes and spoke of love like it was transactional. Whose name alone made your face pucker like you just smelled curdled milk. Mr. Langdon. So old your mother whispered “distinguished.” So cold the maids whispered other things when they thought you couldn’t hear.

Outside, the wind howled through the wrought iron balcony rails, shrill and wild like something mourning. You stood slowly, your bare feet silent against the marble floor, gown whispering around your ankles like the ghosts of every woman who’d gone quietly before you. The gown had been sewn for beauty, not for running. But you would run in it anyway.

You packed light, brought a white shawl and gloves to combat the chill. You brought the ring.

Not because you meant to keep it. Not because it held sentiment. It didn’t. It had no warmth, no story, no soul—just gold, cool and dull beneath your thumb. But it was worth something. Enough to pawn. Enough, maybe, to buy a train ticket. A meal. A room somewhere with a bed that didn’t come with a price pinned to your spine.

You told yourself that was why you kept it clenched in your fist as you slipped out the servants’ gate and into the dark. Not because it was his. Not because it had ever touched your skin. But because the world beyond your wedding had no place for a girl with nothing—and a gold ring, even one never worn, could be a lifeline.

Or a curse.

Fate hadn’t decided yet.

A band of simple gold, dull with fingerprint smudges, too loose for your thumb. You had not even worn it yet. It was handed to you this evening after supper, set beside a slice of blood-orange cake you hadn’t touched. “Keep it close, darling,” your mother had said, smoothing your hair as if you were already a corpse. “It will be yours come morning.”

You slipped it into your palm. And now it pulsed there like a secret.

The hallway outside your chamber creaked and groaned, the house settling into its evening sighs, and still you waited. You waited until the grandfather clock struck eleven, slow and solemn, each chime echoing like nails hammered into your future. Then—silently, so silently—you fled.

The woods did not wait to welcome you.

They swallowed.

The moment your slippered feet hit the dirt path behind the manor gates, the trees leaned in like they were listening, thick with Spanish moss and shadow. The moonlight fractured through their limbs, casting the path in broken, silver stripes. Your breath came out fast, clumsy, fogging in front of you as the night grew colder with every step, every frantic press forward into bramble and black.

The hem of your gown—once bone-white satin—darkened with mud. Then blood. A snag of thorns caught your ankle, sliced skin. You barely flinched. Pain felt like permission.

You weren’t sure where you were going.

Only that it has to be away.

You didn’t stop until your lungs burned and the trees had turned unfamiliar, too thick, too silent, the air tasting of copper and something older—stone, earth, iron. You collapsed against the base of a twisted tree, your gown a tangle of ripped silk and smeared petals, a bridal bloom gone to ruin.

The ring was still in your hand.

You looked at it—glared, really—angry at its weight, at the heft something so small contains. “To have and to hold…” you muttered under your breath, voice bitter, breathless, a mockery of a vow.

Your fingers fumbled blindly through the loam, sticky with sap and rainwater, until you found what you thought was a root. Something slender and pale rising from the earth like a bony finger.

You laughed, delirious. “Here,” you whispered, sliding the ring onto it. “Do you, strange tree, take me to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

The wind rose.

“I do.”

You reached out to steady yourself against the gnarled bark—but as your hand met the tree’s twisted surface, a sharp edge of wood caught the pad of your finger, snagging your bridal glove and the soft meat underneath. You hissed.

Blood welled—bright and living. It wobbled off your fingertip and fell. One drop. Then another. The red hit the base of the tree and sank into the soil like ink into paper. The bark beneath your palm felt warmer now. Almost…breathing.

Something moved. Beneath the dirt. Beneath you. You blinked. Sat up straighter. Listened.

Nothing.

Then—again.

A twitch. A shift. Like the earth itself was exhaling after a long silence. The root curled, moved, wrapped just slightly around your finger. Cold as the grave.

You yanked your hand back with a startled gasp. But it was too late. Blood had already spilled from your hand, sliced on bark or thorn or bone, and soaked into the black, thirsty soil. You watched it disappear.

The tree shuddered. Not in the breeze—there was no breeze anymore. The air had gone still, heavy as boiled milk, clinging to your throat, your hair, the space behind your knees. Your breath hitched. The birds had gone quiet. The crickets. The frogs. The world was listening.

And below you, the earth moaned.

A sound like old wood splitting. Like ribs breaking beneath dirt. Then, suddenly, a violent lurch—wet, sucking, earthly. The ground near the tree root cracked open, moss peeling back like flesh. You scrambled backwards on your palms, your gown tangling around your legs, but you couldn’t look away.

It didn’t feel like waking the dead. It felt like being watched by something that had never closed its eyes to begin with.

First came a hand.

Wide-palmed, thick-knuckled. Fingers unnaturally long, his nails cracked and gray and dirty, like shale. A gold ring gleamed faintly from the third finger. The wedding band you slid onto what you thought was a gnarled uproot.

Then the second, this one skeletal, stripped clean of flesh and muscle and tendon.

And finally, the rest of him.

He rose in pieces, as if gravity itself hadn’t yet decided whether to allow him back. His body pushed through layers of sod and clay and root like a memory that refused to stay buried. His shoulders were broad, shoulders that had once carried something heavy—tools, a body, a burden. One arm braced against the edge of the grave, veins bulging under pale, slick skin.

You saw the sweep of a dark, deep blue tuxedo, its fabric dulled by dirt and time, stitched with the memory of ceremony. The jacket clung to his shoulders unevenly, one side sagging low with centuries of damp, the lapels wrinkled and soil-smudged. Beneath it, a white collared button-up lay partially unbuttoned at the throat, the linen stained faintly at the seams.

A slightly lighter blue tie hung askew from his neck, knotted but loosened, the silk puckered where it had weathered through the grave. His trouser legs matched the tuxedo, tailored once, but now creased and grimy at the hem. Shoes to match—oxfords, maybe—scuffed to near ruin, soles coated in moss and wet earth.

He pulled himself from the dirt slowly, deliberately, like someone waking from a sleep they weren’t meant to return from—each breath thick in his throat, each movement dragging time behind it.

And his face—God, his face.

He was beautiful. In the way statues are beautiful. The way a ruin is beautiful. Pointed cheekbones beneath a mask of grave-filth. Mud in the seams of his short, messy brown hair, clinging in dark curls across his forehead. His mouth parted as he panted for breath he didn’t need, and you saw the right side of his jaw was ruined—torn open, exposing ribbons of raw muscle and the gleam of sharpened teeth. All of them sharp. Uneven. Crooked in places, silver-fanged and jagged like they weren’t made for a human mouth.

He drooled. Milky and thick, slow as syrup, threading from his teeth to the black soil.

His skin was a deep, post-mortem blue—something between bruised flesh and storm-lit sea, like teal left to darken in shadow. In the moonlight, with his veins just barely visible beneath the surface, it looked like cracked glass. His chest heaved. His head turned. And then—

He looked at you.

His eyes were wide as a frightened dog’s. But in the shadows, they shifted—black, almost red, glowing from somewhere behind the pupil like dying coals still clinging to that cherried spark.

He didn’t speak. He just…stared. Watched. Not like a stranger. Like someone trying to remember you. Like someone who knew you. Maybe before. Maybe in another life.

“Are—are you…” Your voice broke, shamefully small. You didn’t finish the question. Couldn't.

He swallowed, thickly. The sound was wet. And then—he smiled. Not cruel. Not ghoulish. Soft, tender.

“I knew ye’d come,” he said.

His voice came low and lilted, thick with the cadence of an Irish accent—rounded consonants, vowels pulled soft and long, a kind of music in his throat whether he meant it or not. The kind of voice made for stories. For lullabies. For oaths.

He took a single, stumbling step forward, mud pulling at his shoes, laced tight enough to keep the soil from suctioning them off his feet.

You couldn’t move.

“Ye put a ring on me hand,” he said again, gentle this time. Coaxing. He held up his fingers, all blood-caked and twitching, the wedding band glinting faintly beneath the filth, fractals of moonlight dancing off the polished gold, a stark contrast to the dirt and grime clinging to his skin. “And ye spoke a vow. That counts, don’t it?”

He tilted his head, like a curious animal. “Didn’t reckon ye’d be so bonnie.”

You should have run.

You knew that. Every part of you knew that. The sensible part. The terrified part. The part that still heard your mother’s voice whispering warnings about strange men, and worse things still, things that didn’t breathe right, didn’t die right.

But something rooted you.

Maybe it was the ring still snug around that pale, twitching finger. Maybe it was the way he looked at you. Like you were the first warm thing he’d seen in centuries.

He took another step forward. Then another. His oxfords left deep, sucking impressions in the soil, and his gait wasn’t quite right—like a marionette with its strings pulled too hard, or a man remembering how to be one. You flinched when he got too close, but he didn’t reach for you. Not yet. Just stood there, arms slack at his sides, mouth slightly open, that thread of spit still hanging from one fang like an afterthought.

His head dipped low, curls shadowing his brow, and when he spoke again, his voice was almost shy. Like he feared you might bolt.

“Was it the blood that roused me, then?” he asked, one brow raising slowly. Thoughtful. “Or the vow ye whispered?” He swallowed, working his jaw with a faint wince. “Might’ve been both. Hard to say.”

You blinked at him. Swallowed the lump that had risen hard and high in your throat. “Who…who are you?”

His smile faltered. Just a flicker. Not hurt—more like confusion.

“Don’t remember me, do ya?” His voice dropped low, almost tender. “But you called, lass. I heard ya—clear as day, so I answered.”

He tapped his skeletal palm against his chest, right over his sternum, his eyes round and brows raised in a puppy dog look, a pleading little tilt to his head like he's desperate for you to believe him.

“I felt you in here.”

You opened your mouth. No sound came out.

The man—the thing—before you cocked his head again, just slightly. His eyes were too soft for the rest of him, too warm. And the accent in his voice made everything worse, somehow. Made it gentle. Comforting. It stripped you of fear, piece by piece, until all that remained was the strange throb of something you didn’t understand.

“What’s your name?” you asked, finally.

His gaze lit up like the question pleased him. He didn’t answer right away. Just dragged a hand through his hair, leaving streaks of mud and grit and grave soil across his temple.

“I’ve been called a lot o’ names,” he said after a pause. “Some of ’em I earned. Some I didn’t. But the name I remember best is…” A thoughtful frown pulled at the less-damaged corner of his mouth.

“Remmick. That’s what me ma called me,” he said, almost shy now. “Back when the sky was still thick wi’ peat smoke and the land hadn’t yet learned the sound o’ English steel. When we carved prayers into stone ‘stead o’ paper, and the rivers boiled not from fire, but from the rage o’ gods long buried.”

He glanced at you then, as if expecting you not to understand. But you didn’t flinch, causing his smile to grow like a decaying flower that didn't know it was dead yet.

“Back when the forest had a name you weren’t meant to speak after dark,” he added, voice gone soft and faraway. “And folk still left cream out on the stoop, hopin’ to keep the hills quiet.”

You said nothing. You had no words.

He glanced down at himself as though just now noticing the state he was in. Fingers touched the torn lapel of his jacket before dusting the front off next. His nose wrinkled faintly, sheepish, eyes round and sorry.

“Would’ve cleaned meself up a bit had I known,” he said, glancin’ back up at you with a crooked smile. “But by Gods, ye caught me right in the middle of me dirt nap, didn’t ye?”

And then he laughed. A soft, broken sound. It wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t hollow. It was almost—sweet. You didn’t realize you’d taken a step back until your spine hit bark.

He noticed.

“No need to fear me, lass,” he said, quickly, voice pitching soft, hands raised just a little, his eyes bleeding red like a freshly weeping cut, “I won’t hurt ye. I wouldn’t.” His fingers curled back toward his chest again. “Not you.”

“Why me?” you asked, finally. “Why—why do you think I called you?”

His smile returned, slow and tender. He lifted his hand—the one with the ring, the one that was intended to collar you to Mr. Langdon before you turned tail and fled, looking sleek and shiny against grimy blue skin.

“’Cause ye put this on me finger,” he said. “Ye made a promise. A vow.”

You shook your head, your breath catching like a bird startled mid-flight, wings beating frantically in your throat. “It wasn’t real.”

“It was real enough for me.”

He looked down at the gold band, turned it with his thumb. “You bled for it, didn’t ye?” he murmured. “Spoke words into the trees. Placed a ring on a buried hand. That’s old magic, love. Older than graves. Older than the Gods above.”

His eyes flicked back to you—red blooming around the edges now like ink through water.

“Old magic don’t care whether you meant it.”

You didn’t know if it was the way he said love, like it meant something eternal…or if it was the silence of the woods, how they held their breath around him…but your world had suddenly been flipped upside down like you'd been living inside a snow globe and someone decided to just come along and shake it. All because you'd gotten cold feet. All because you couldn't bring yourself to walk down the aisle and wed a man who barely made your acquaintance prior to the arranged ceremony.

You recall last night in great detail, the last time you were alone with Mr. Langdon. It had been in your father’s study—dark-paneled, smelling of tobacco and power. He hadn’t touched you, not exactly. But his hand had rested too long on the curve of your shoulder, fingers splaying toward the top of your spine like he was trying to gauge how much pressure it would take to snap it.

“I prefer quiet girls,” he’d said with a smile that didn’t reach his shrewd eyes. “Ones who don’t ask so many questions. Obedience is a virtue, you know.”

You had smiled. You nodded. Because what else could you do?

He had leaned in close, breath stale with wine and something bitter, suppressing the reflexive urge to recoil, “After tomorrow, your body belongs to me. That’s what marriage is. Best you start getting used to the idea.”

You hadn’t answered. You’d gone to your room and vomited in the basin. And tonight? Tonight—you ran. You didn’t bring a bag. You didn’t bring a plan. You brought the ring.

And you brought the no you hadn’t dared speak aloud.

It’s only then that you start to notice—the world around you moves. Not with the subtle rhythm of wind or wildlife, but with a kind of strange, theatrical breath, like the forest is alive.

The tree behind you creaked like a yawning coffin, bark groaning against your spine as if waking from its own long sleep. Overhead, the moon hung too round, too large, almost theatrical in its glow—more paper lantern than celestial body. It cast light not white but a washed-out bluish silver, the kind that made every shadow look like it was up to something.

There were no clouds. The sky didn’t need them.

Instead, the forest itself began to shift—bending at the edges like a curtain drawing inward, branches twisting and stooping with exaggerated grace, their tips curling into crooked little hooks. The trees no longer stood tall and noble; they hunched and leaned like gossiping old women, knotted spines cracking as they bent to get a better look at you.

The leaves above clinked faintly like dry metal. One branch spiraled down and hovered beside your shoulder, like it was waiting for permission to touch you.

And still, Remmick didn’t seem to notice.

Or maybe he did.

Maybe he was used to it—the way the world rearranged itself around him, the way nature bowed and blinked and breathed differently wherever he walked.

Maybe he’d never known a forest that didn’t follow.

He took another step toward you.

He was close enough now that you could see where the flesh on his cheekbone pulsed faintly, still clinging to old life. Where blood had dried in a crooked path down his exposed jaw. Where some of his teeth weren’t perfectly sharp at all—some had chipped, split, yellowed in ways that proved he hadn’t always been what he was now. He had once been a man.

You stared. Not at the horror. At the detail.

His collar was unbuttoned. There was a ring of skin just below his throat that was somehow clean, as if protected by the chain that still hung there.

“You’re real,” you breathed, as much to yourself as to him.

He smiled again. Small, head bowed slightly. Like the thought embarrassed him.

“Aye,” he said. “At least I was.”

Your heart skipped. The accent curled around that last word—was—turning it melancholic and soft. He sounded deeply lonely in a way that didn’t scream or shudder, but bled slow and quiet—like a candle left to burn itself out in a chapel no one prayed in anymore.

You didn’t realize your hand had risen until he caught it. His grip wasn’t strong. In fact, it was hesitant. Loose. Like he feared you might flinch, and he was giving you time to do it. To reject it.

You didn’t.

His thumb dragged over the small wound on your finger where your glove was torn. The one you’d cut on the tree. Your blood had dried there, rust-colored and still.

“’S’what woke me,” he murmured. “This wee thing.”

You tried to speak, but the words tumbled over each other, panic and fascination tangled in your throat. “What are you?”

Remmick looked up at you, then down at your hand in his. He didn’t let go.

“I was a man once,” he said. “Before they put me in the ground like a secret.”

There was no anger in his voice. No grief. Just barebones honesty.

“I remember cold,” he continued. “I remember bein’ bound.” His brows drew together. “I remember hunger.”

You swallowed.

His head tilted slightly again. “But now I remember you.”

You opened your mouth to deny it, to tell him he was wrong, that you weren’t anyone, that this was all a mistake. That you weren’t his. That you weren’t meant to be anything.

But the woods behind you had gone too still. And he was staring at you with a gaze so tender it made your stomach twist.

“Ye came in white,” he said, voice softer now. “Like a bride. Ye gave blood. Ye spoke vow.” He brushed a skeletal knuckle to your chin with aching slowness, the bone surprisingly soft, “don’t reckon the veil’s far behind.”

The branches rustled above, though there was still no wind. You realized the forest wasn’t closing in. It was gathering.

And Remmick…he was looking at you like he was home.

It was no longer night in the way night should be.

Time moved differently now. The sky above bled grey and silver and rust, but the moon never shifted from its throne behind the trees. The light stayed fixed in place, like the forest had slipped sideways into some pocket behind the world. Hours passed like fog. You slept, but never fully. You walked, but your feet left no prints.

And Remmick—Remmick stayed near.

Not hovering. Not leering. Just there, always just far enough not to crowd you, yet always within reach, like the forest had redrawn its laws to keep him at your side. Like you were its axis now.

You thought of Langdon.

Of his voice—measured, polished, practiced. The kind of voice that never raised itself above a certain register, as though passion was unsightly. He had a way of looking at you that always felt more like study than affection. Like you were something to be assessed, not adored. His fingers, when they grazed yours, were cold from gloves and colder still beneath them. Everything about him had been lacquered to a shine: his shoes, his manners, his hollow future he spoke of with such sterile pride.

You remembered one night, not long ago, when you’d dined together at his family estate. A private supper. Three courses. Too many forks. You’d asked him if he liked poetry.

He blinked. Set down his wine glass. “I tolerate it,” he said. “In women.”

That had been it.

No questions in return. No warmth. No wanting.

You’d spent the rest of the meal smiling at your plate, wondering if it would be considered madness to simply climb out the window and run.

And now—here.

Now, you were with a man who’d crawled out of the earth, with dried blood under his nails and a ruined jaw, and somehow he made you feel safer than any lace-draped parlor ever had. Remmick, who flinched when he touched your skin like you were the sacred thing. Remmick, who didn’t ask you to perform, or flatter, or prove anything—who simply stayed close because he wanted to be near.

He was a walking corpse.

And he seemed more human than Mr. Langdon had ever been.

Remmick spoke in murmurs. Half-conversations.

“My folk used to call this part the belly,” he said, gesturing toward a clearing that bloomed only with pale fungi and white moss. “Said the trees grew too thick with memory. Said it weren’t safe for the livin’.”

You stepped forward slowly, the hem of your gown brushing through the hush of strange underbrush. The clearing pulsed in stillness, like something held its breath just beneath the surface.

The fungi were long-necked and ghostly, some capped in translucent bells, others curled like fingers mid-spasm. They glowed faintly in the dark—not enough to see by, but enough to feel seen.

Overhead, the trees now leaned inward with impossible arches. Their bark smooth and gray as drowned bone, and where knots should’ve been were instead hollowed faces, soft and suggestive, as though the trunks had grown around someone who once leaned too long against them. One of the branches creaked in a slow, pendulum sway, even though there was no wind.

You tilted your head. The white moss underfoot looked soft, inviting—until you noticed it wasn’t growing in any natural pattern. It coiled in tight spirals, some large enough to circle your slippered feet, others small and delicate as lacework.

When you asked what he meant, what memory had to do with the trees, he only gave a crooked smile and pointed at your feet.

You looked down. The moss had formed perfect circles beneath your heels.

Spirals.

“See?” he said. “She’s already learnin’ you.”

And sure enough, even as you stood there, the spiral beneath you shifted. Just slightly. Not like a plant reacting to pressure, but something alive—tracing the shape of your sole, marking your weight, remembering the heat of your blood. It liked you.

Or worse—it recognized you.

He never called the place a graveyard. He called it “the kept.”

You first saw them while following a worn path between black pines—stones laid flat into the dirt, unmarked, sunk deep with age. You almost stepped on one before he reached out and caught your wrist, not harshly—just quick.

“Aye, mind where ye tread,” he said, voice gentle, Irish vowels lilting around the warning. “They don’t take kindly to bein’ disturbed.”

You stared at the stone. And then you realized it was moving. Not rising. Not moaning. But the soil above it—it breathed.

You took a step back, heart climbing into your throat.

“They don’t wake unless they’re called,” Remmick said softly. “But they listen.”

Far off, from a hollow deeper in the woods, a chime echoed. High and delicate, like a piano key played underwater. Another answered, lower, more metallic. You didn’t see the source, but you could feel them vibrating in your bones. And yet it didn’t frighten you.

He never told you how he died. You tried to ask. More than once.

The first time, he looked away. The second, he closed his mouth mid-sentence and didn’t speak for a full hour. Not angry. Never angry. Just—withdrawn. The third, he reached up and touched the ruined side of his jaw, as if he’d forgotten it was there.

Then he whispered, “Not yet,” and nothing more. You didn’t press.

Some things, you could feel, were kept buried by more than soil.

It was on the fifth day—if you trusted your own body’s clock—that you tried to leave.

You didn’t make a show of it. You waited until Remmick went still beneath the shade of a hollow tree, head tipped back, eyes closed like he was listening to something beyond your hearing. You crept away quietly. You didn’t look back.

You hadn’t meant to stay that long. You told yourself it was only curiosity, only caution, only until you understood what he was. But the forest had begun to feel too quiet in the right places. Remmick had begun to speak too softly, like a prayer meant only for you. And that was precisely the problem. He was too gentle. Too kind. Too patient.

You weren’t supposed to like any of this—weren’t supposed to be lulled by a dead man’s voice or find comfort in a world where bones lined bird nests and laughter came from unseen mouths. You ran not because you feared him. You ran because, terrifyingly, you didn’t.

At first, the trees parted for you. The path unfolded.

You ran.

You didn’t cry. You didn’t call his name. You just ran. But the forest…it shifted.

The branches overhead grew too low, too tangled. Vines curled beneath your feet like hands reaching out to stop you. A bramble reached out like a whip and slashed across your collarbone, slicing clean through the dress, nicking your skin just enough for blood to bead along the uneven seam of your cut. Still, you kept going.

Until you hit it.

The edge.

It wasn’t a wall—not exactly. It was air. Thick, humming, wrong. The veil between life and death. When you stepped into it, your skin felt like it peeled. Your lungs refused to fill. The world blurred and bent at the corners like warped glass.

You stumbled back, coughing. Gasping. Remmick was there. Not chasing. Not angry. Just there.

He caught you around the middle before your knees buckled, arms strong but careful, like you were made of spun sugar and he was afraid you'd shatter.

“Sshh, now,” he whispered, curling you to his chest, soothing, the brush of his lips, the bloodied network of muscle fiber and tendons woven through his jaw pressed to the side of yours, wet and textured, “easy, easy, you’re alright.”

“I—I had to try,” you managed, fingers curling into the lapels of his jacket. “I didn’t want to stay. I didn’t mean to—I can't stay.”

“Shhh,” he soothed again. “I know.”

You felt him exhale into your hair. Slow. Shaky.

“I know wee bride,” he murmured, the accent softening everything it touched. “But she don’t open the same way twice. Not once she’s taken a name.”

You pressed your forehead into his shoulder, trembling. And for the first time—you wondered. Not how you got here. Not how to undo it.

But if you even should.

You thought of Langdon. Of his thin lips, the contracts, the expectations. Of your mother, her quiet threats tucked into lace gloves. Of the veil that felt more like a burial shroud than a blessing.

And then you thought of the way Remmick had caught you—like a man catching the last soft thing left in the world.

Later—how much later, you couldn’t say—you sat with him in the moss-ringed clearing where the mushrooms bloomed like broken teeth, soft and damp and glowing faintly blue at their tips. The forest had gone quiet again, but not heavy this time. Not watching. It simply…was.

Remmick had taken to lying on his side, propped on one elbow, his ruined jaw turned slightly from view, though you were never sure if it was for your comfort or his.

His fingertips brushed through the withered stems, and chose one near the base of a crooked stone. It was long-dead, crumpled and brittle at the edges, the color all but drained. He held it up between thumb and forefinger, and as he rolled the stem, you watched something shift. The petals darkened—deepened—like blood soaking back into flesh. It bloomed, slow and unnatural, into the shape of a dried red rose. Not living, not quite—but remembering life. Like something dressed for mourning.

“These only grow where the veil’s thin,” he said quiet-like, voice laced with that low, lilting Irish bend. “Where things slip in and out. Couldn’t say for certain which side they’re meant for, if I’m honest.”

You didn’t reply. You just looked at him.

There was dirt under his nails. sediment clinging to his collarbone. His oxfords were still caked in grave mud, but he hadn’t touched you with anything other than gentleness.

Your voice felt small when you spoke. “Why did you wait?”

Remmick blinked slowly. His fingers stilled.

You clarified before he could pretend not to understand. “All this time. You said you felt me. But you were already down there, weren’t you? In the earth. Waiting for someone to call you back. Why?”

He didn’t answer right away. Didn’t shift. Didn’t look at you. And just when you were sure he wouldn’t speak—he did.

“I didn’t know I was waitin’,” he said, voice gone low, just a touch rough. “Not truly. Time goes quiet when you’re laid under like that. Y’don’t count the years. Some days, y’don’t even remember your own name.”

He looked at the sky through the trees.

“Sometimes I’d dream o’ faces. Yours, maybe. Or someone who looked like ye. Sometimes I’d think I heard someone weepin’. I’d think, was it me?”

You felt your chest tighten. Remmick smiled again, faint and lopsided, like a man recalling a song he hadn’t sung in years.

“But when I felt ye, I knew. I knew it weren’t just hunger or ghosts or wind. I knew it was real. Ye bled for me. Ye called for me.” He glanced over. “No one’s ever done that before.”

You stared at him. At his hands, broad and veined. At the faded chain around his throat. At the ring you’d slipped, thoughtlessly, onto the hand of a tree like a promise.

A tree that had promised back.

“I didn’t know what I was doing,” you said.

“I don’t care.”

You swallowed.

He said it without venom. Without accusation. Just—resolute. And maybe something softer curling underneath. He rolled onto his back, the moss giving way beneath him like a cradle.

“I’d have waited another thousand years for that drop of blood,” he said, quiet now. “Another thousand after that just to hear your voice say I do.”

You turned away. Not because you didn’t believe him. But because some part of you did. And it made your throat ache.

Your gaze drifted to the edge of the clearing, where the trees stood thick and close.

“Will it ever open again?” you asked. “The forest.”

Remmick didn’t move. “Aye. Someday. When she’s good and ready.”

“And if I’m not here when it does?”

He was quiet for a beat too long. Then:

“Then I’ll follow.”

That made you look back. He didn’t smile this time.

“I’d walk through fire to find you, wee bride.”

His voice was still Irish—but there was something else behind it now. Something old. Ancient. Something so sure of its longing it didn’t need to shout. It just was.

You realized, in that moment, how terribly lonely he must’ve been. How quiet his world had become. How loud your heartbeat must be to him now.

And how warm you still were.

He asked if you wanted to see the rest.

Didn’t demand. Didn’t lead without waiting. Just…offered.

With a hand half-outstretched and those eyes still puppy-wide, still lit like you were a miracle he was afraid to touch too quickly, lest you vanish into smoke.

You hesitated. But not long.

The forest parted for you both this time. Not like it had when you tried to run. Now it was more like—inviting. The way a house might creak its doors open when it recognizes one of its own.

You slipped your hand into his, the one that still wore flesh. His fingers were cold, yes—but not corpse-cold. Not the kind that bit. His hand was rough in places, as though he’d lived long enough to carry calluses even through death. His thumb flexed gently along your knuckles, testing. Not possessive. Just…checking.

Reassuring himself you were real.

He showed you the orchard first. Or what was left of it.

A grove of trees that no longer bore fruit, only ribbons—hundreds, thousands of them, hanging from the branches like wilted party streamers. Blue, white, ivory, pale lilac. Some patterned, some torn, some fraying from centuries of wind.

You reached up and touched one.

“They’re wishes,” Remmick said, voice softer than ever, his breath beside your cheek. “Made by the dead. Before they were buried.”

You turned to him.

“But they never came true?”

His expression shifted—fond, wistful.

“Some did. Some didn’t. Doesn’t matter.” He touched the ribbon nearest to him, the pad of his thumb brushing its edge. “It’s the hoping that counts, innit?”

You said nothing. The breeze moved the orchard like a lullaby.

Further in, he showed you a town of sorts.

Carved into the side of a crumbling cliff where the rock split into ribs and the stone seemed to breathe, the little village clung to the earth like a half-forgotten secret.

The houses were squat mudstone cottages, weathered and slouched, their chimney pots crooked like snapped fingers. Moss crept up their sides in thick velvety bands, swallowing old lanterns, window frames, and entire doorsteps. Windowpanes blinked with eyes pressed from the inside.

The doors were low and arched, some made of driftwood painted in peeling funeral hues—deep violet, waxy blue, iron black. A few homes had teacups balanced on their roofs. Others had shingles shaped like fingernails or pressed flowers. Bones hung from strings between rafters, clacking gently in the hush, arranged like wind chimes or family crests, each one carved or etched with little initials, or painted with the ash of something you couldn’t name.

A skeletal cat darted past your ankles, all jangling vertebrae and twitching tailbone, its paws clicking faintly against the cobbled path. Its jaw hung open in a rictus grin. You didn’t scream. It looked up at you once—empty sockets glittering faintly—and carried on.

And then the town began to move.

A shutter creaked open. A door whined on its hinges. A hatless man with no lower jaw swept the stoop of what looked to be a bakery, the scent of charred sugar and burnt cinnamon floating faintly from within. He nodded at you politely, bits of soot falling from the collar of his shirt, and kept sweeping. Further down the lane, a trio of old women sat in rocking chairs that had been nailed directly into the wall of a house—sideways, five feet off the ground—and knitted with thread made of silver hair. One of them had no eyes. The second had too many. The third winked at you with a socket.

“Don’t mind them,” Remmick murmured. “They been there long as I can remember. Like to keep to themselves.”

He led you past a crooked fountain that spewed a slow, syrupy trickle of black water, and through a crooked square strung with dim, blue lanterns that hung from lengths of discolored intestine braided like ribbon. In the center was a music box the size of a carriage, its brass bell warped and dented, still playing a waltz you could swear you remembered hearing in a dream long ago. No one danced to it—but some of them swayed.

There was a tailor’s shop with mannequins made of stitched skin and bent spoons. A chapel whose bell tower rang without sound. A bar, glowing faintly green from the inside, where shadows moved across the windows though the glass had long since clouded over with frost from the wrong side. A child floated by without legs, giggling into a jar that held a swarm of candleflies. You saw a man with a flowerpot for a head watering it with tea. A woman selling buttons shaped like teeth.

This was not a place that mourned death.

This was a place that remembered it, wore it, built tea tables from it.

Remmick led you down a sloping path toward a cottage built halfway into the stone, the door crooked, the curtains made of faded funeral veils.

“This was mine,” he said, his voice almost sheepish. He toed at the dust near the doorstep, head ducked slightly.

“When?” you asked.

He smiled faintly, lifting a shoulder. “When the veil was thinner. When the dead and the livin’ shared more than just memory.”

He said it like someone recalling the smell of something they’d never taste again. Like someone who’d tried, once, to live after he’d been buried.

You looked around you.

The town wasn’t decayed. It was…rearranged. It had rules you didn’t yet understand. Gravity worked only where it felt like it. The dead did not walk in straight lines. Some glided. Some bounced. Some stitched themselves together fresh each morning and wandered about humming.

And the strangest thing of all?

You didn’t feel afraid.

Not in the way you should have. Not even when you turned around and the fountain had grown teeth. Not even when a man tipped his hat and his entire scalp followed. Not even when a door sighed open with a voice like your own and whispered, Stay.

Remmick was beside you, his body casting a shadow even here, where most things didn’t. He looked at you not like you were lost—

But like you were home.

That night—you still called it night, even though the moon hadn’t moved—he brought you to a bridge.

It spanned over nothing. No river. No ravine. Just a stretch of fog and sky. A ghost bridge.

You sat beside him at the edge, your legs dangling off as if you could fall somewhere, though you knew you wouldn’t. He sat close. Close enough that your shoulder brushed his.

He didn’t move away.

“Used to dream o’ this,” he admitted, after a long silence. “Not the forest. Not the dirt. Not the blood.”

He looked over at you, slowly.

“Just this. You. Here.”

You couldn’t answer. Your throat ached again.

His voice dropped, deep in his chest, accent thick with emotion he couldn’t hide. “Haven’t been touched since they put me down.”

The confession wasn’t vulgar. Wasn’t even pleading. It was starved. He smiled, crooked and small. “Can’t remember the last time someone just…looked at me. Like I wasn’t somethin’ to be feared.”

He didn’t touch you again, not even your hand.

He didn’t need to.

Your fingers brushed his pinky. Slowly. Once.

And his breath hitched so sharp you felt it in your bones.

By the next day—if you could still call it that—you weren’t watching the sky anymore. Weren’t thinking about what the world looked like outside these woods.

You walked the paths beside him. You listened to the hush of wind that sang like violins through cracked branches. You let him point out where the ghost-lanterns grew, little flowers with glass bell-heads that chimed when you passed them. You started remembering the feel of his shoulder bumping yours and missing it when it wasn’t there.

And you started to wonder.

Would it really be so terrible if you stayed?

You asked yourself that once. Then again. Then again.

At first it was just a whisper behind your ear. A suggestion. But now it nestled behind your ribs. Grew there. Took root.

Because you remembered Langdon, didn’t you?

You remembered his hand on your waist at supper, always too firm, like you were something to steer. You remembered how he spoke over you in every conversation, like a man correcting a child he hadn’t bothered to raise. You remembered how the ring—his ring—had been handed to you by someone else. No kneeling. No asking. Just expectation.

You remembered the way his lips never curled unless he was closing a deal.

And then there was Remmick.

Who asked if you wanted to see the rest. Who offered you his hand like it might be too much. Who waited every time you hesitated, and looked like it hurt him to do so.

He smiled with his whole mouth—ruined and all. He grinned when you laughed, even if he didn’t understand why. He softened around you like someone desperate to remember warmth. Every time he brushed against you, it wasn’t accidental. It was careful. Measured. Hopeful.

He looked at you like he was still not sure he deserved to.

You sat on the bridge again. Together.

Remmick had his hands in his lap, thumbs tracing nervous circles against each other. Every now and then, he’d glance at you. Say nothing. Then glance again.

You finally looked back.

“What is it?” you asked.

He startled slightly, sheepish. “Ah—nothin’. I just…”

His jaw clicked when he closed his mouth, then tried again.

“Ye don’t wear nothin’ on your finger,” he murmured.

Your breath caught. “Remmick—”

“No, no, love, I didn’t mean it like that,” he said quickly, huffing a laugh with no sound. “I know ye didn’t mean what ye said under the tree. I know ye weren’t…ye weren’t askin’ for all this.”

He paused, eyes dropping to the ring still on his own hand, the one you'd given him. “I just thought,” he added, quieter now, “maybe it’d feel a little less lopsided, is all.”

You didn’t know what to say. But your silence wasn’t rejection.

He must have felt that, because something flickered behind his eyes. He turned his palm over, and reached into the inside pocket of his coat. From it, he drew something strange.

A spool of hair, spun fine as thread—white and silvery-blue, like spider silk in moonlight. A broken thorn. A sliver of bone, no longer than a sewing needle. And the petal of one of those ghost-lantern flowers, shriveled but still glowing faintly at the edges.

He looked at you. Not for permission, exactly. Just to be sure you were still there.

Then he began.

He wrapped the hair into a loop, whispered to it in a language you didn’t understand—soft, low, rhythmic, like a lullaby hummed through soil. The thorn pierced the bone. The petal melted as it touched the band, fusing everything together in a slow flicker of light. It wasn’t magic like fireworks. It was quieter than that. Sadder. But it was real.

When it cooled, it had taken shape.

A ring. Fragile-looking, but solid. Matte white, like pearl gone to sleep. Veined faintly in red.

He offered it, resting on the flat of his palm like an offering. You looked at it. Then at him.

“It’s not a bindin’ spell,” he said softly. “I’d never do that to ye. It’s just a…a mark. That ye’ve been seen. That someone loved ye enough to make it.”

Your breath caught. You reached out, fingers trembling, and took the ring. And when you slipped it on—

The forest sighed.

Branches curled in. Flowers blinked open. The bridge beneath your feet thrummed like a harp string plucked once, gently.

And Remmick—Remmick made the smallest sound.

A choked inhale. Then, in a voice so soft it broke your heart:

“Ye look like someone worth waitin’ for.”

You don't remember dozing off.

But you did—still sitting beside him on the bridge, the soft weight of the ghost-ring warming your finger, his presence beside you steady as the moon that never shifted in the sky.

And when you woke, he was gone.

You startled upright, heart lurching. Your hand flew to the ring first—still there. Then to the edge of the bridge—still solid. The air felt heavier. Scented with something faint and iron-rich.

You called his name.

No answer.

Not at first.

You stood, blinking the fog from your lashes—and that’s when you saw it.

Laid carefully across the planks of the bridge, stretching in a line from your feet to the treeline beyond, was a trail of dead butterflies.

Hundreds of them. Each one perfectly intact, wings folded like prayer hands. Black as pitch with veins of crimson. Their bodies still. Sleeping. Dreaming. Waiting.

You followed.

Each step brought a rustle beneath your slippers, the softest stir of powder-dust wings. And up ahead—beneath the crooked trees that hung low like eaves—there he stood.

Remmick.

He had one hand behind his back, and his head tipped, sheepish as ever, like he’d been caught with something sinful in his pocket.

“Didn’t mean t’worry ye,” he said, voice soft.

You looked at the butterflies. Then back at him.

“What…is this?”

His smile wobbled.

“A bit of foolishness, maybe. Or maybe not.” He stepped forward, still holding whatever it was behind his back. “Back where I’m from… when we had no coin, no land, no dowry to offer—only things we’d taken from the earth—we’d still find a way t’make a gift.”

He stepped closer.

“An’ the most prized thing a man could offer…” He brought his hand forward.

In it, he held a locket.

But not gold. Not silver. It was made of bone, carved smooth and rounded into the shape of a heart. Not anatomically perfect—no, it was whimsical and off, a little uneven, the way a child might draw one. Etched into the surface were little spiral markings—like the moss had made beneath your heels that first day.

He opened it.

Inside was a pressed bluebell, perfectly preserved, its color dimmed to twilight. Across from it was a single moth’s wing, paper-thin and gleaming dully like wet stone—its veins iridescent, its edge slightly frayed. It shimmered like dusk and felt like a secret, as if it had been plucked from some dream before it could end.

Remmick didn’t explain right away. He only watched you open it, watched your thumb trace the curve of the petals, the fragile line of the wing. When he did speak, his voice had gone quieter, almost reverent.

“Th’bluebell,” he said, “they grow o’er graves where the dead were loved. Not all graves. Just the ones where someone wept hard enough t’water the earth.”

Your fingers stilled.

"And the wing?" you asked.

He hesitated. His eyes—those soft, wolf-sad things—lowered.

“She followed me once,” he said. “When I had no body. When I weren’t really a man at all. She’d land on me shoulder. Wouldn’t leave. Thought maybe she’d carry me soul somewhere if it ever got light enough.”

His smile came crooked. “She never did. But…I kept her. Just in case.”

You looked down at the locket again. At the love tucked carefully inside it—not gaudy, not gold, not spoken in flowers or poems, but in grief. In memory. In quiet things that didn’t ask for attention, only to be kept.

That was how he loved, you realized. Not loudly. Not demanding.

But devoutly.

With mourning in his blood and hope in his teeth. And you, wearing that little bone heart, felt something ancient stir beneath your ribs. Like maybe you'd been waiting for this place—this grave-bound man—just as much as he'd been waiting for you.

You blinked. Then laughed. It startled even you, the sound of it. But he didn’t flinch. Just watched, like you’d handed him the sun.

“I know it’s not what you’re used to,” he said, scratching the back of his neck, that left side of his face pulling with a skeletal twitch where the wound exposed too much. “But I’d like you to have it. If you want it.”

You took it with both hands.The weight of it pressed into your palms like a heartbeat. You looked at him.

At his eyes—those wide, sorrowful things that glowed only faintly red now, not from hunger, but hope. At the way he didn’t reach for you, didn’t presume. Just stood still. Waiting.

You reached up. Tied the chain around your neck. It settled just above your collarbone. Close to your throat. Close to where he watched your pulse.

When your hand brushed his chest after—just lightly, just shyly—he let out the breath he’d been holding like it was his last. That was the moment you knew.

Not the rose. Not the bridge. Not the ribbon orchard. Not even the ring.

This.

This strange, mournful creature who had carved you a heart from the bones of the dead. Who watched you like you were worth every moment of his waiting. Who asked for nothing except to love you.

And you thought—

I feel more alive here, in this place of ghosts and ghouls and goblins than I ever did among the living.

You didn’t say it. But you didn’t have to. Because the forest heard you.

And so did he.

You held the locket in your palm long after it cooled, long after the weight of his gaze had eased—but not faded. He didn’t speak again. Only watched you with that tremble behind his smile, like he was scared his own heart might make too much noise and scare you off.

You looked at him. Really looked.

The sharp, wolfish teeth. The wound yawning over the right side of his jaw, red-veined and lipless but somehow not grotesque—just raw, unhealed, honest. The way his suit jacket hung slightly crooked over his frame. The moss in his hair from when he’d laid down in the grove beside you and listened to your voice like it was music. The wedding band still on his finger, slightly dirty with time passing but not with meaning.

You thought of the bluebell. Of the moth wing. Of all the things buried. And you asked, gently, “you never did get to kiss your bride, did you?”

He blinked. His breath caught like a match about to light. “No,” he said, slowly, voice cracking around the edges, thick with barely restrained emotion. “Never did.”

You stepped closer. Bare feet brushing bone-white moss, slippers silent as ghosts. The town behind you stirred like something dreaming—warm, moon-drowsy lamplight spilling from crooked windows. A cart creaked past on rusted wheels, pulled by a skeletal mule with eyes like glow-worms. Somewhere overhead, a thousand paper bats took flight from the belfry, flapping on stringy wings like dying leaves.

You lifted your hand.

Touched his face—gently, gently—cupping the uninjured side, but letting your thumb rest just at the edge of that ruined jaw. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t lean in.

He just…stood there. As if he was scared his own desire might shatter him.

“Then kiss her now,” you whispered. “She’s right here.”

Remmick’s eyes burned. Not metaphorically. Literally.

A ring of red swallowed his dark gaze—glowing like coals in a hearth that hadn’t felt breath in years. His lips parted, a tiny whimper caught between them. His hand twitched at his side, then lifted—hovering over your waist, then pulling back, trembling.

“I—” he choked. “Tell me if y’don’t want it. I’ll wait, I swear, just—just say it, an’ I’ll wait ‘til the grave grows cold.”

You didn’t answer.

You kissed him.

It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t chaste. It was raw and starved and aching. His hand finally landed on your back, gripping your gown in a fist like it was the only thing tethering him to the world. His mouth was cold—unnaturally so—but the longer it moved against yours, the warmer it got, like you were coaxing heat back into him.

He whimpered into you.

That sound—ragged and small—was almost too much.

His other hand found your cheek. Not greedy. Just reverent. Like he couldn’t believe you were solid under his fingertips.

And all around you, the forest bloomed.

Not with roses or lilies—but with boneflowers and glowing toadstools, with lantern-bugs that lit the air like constellations. Wind chimes made from ribs began to sing, and the belltower rang once, a low, humming note that quivered like a heartbeat.

You didn’t want to pull away.

Not because it was perfect. But because it wasn’t. Because it was messy and trembling and stitched together from grief and longing and the quiet, sacred madness of being wanted exactly as you were.

When you finally parted, his forehead dropped to yours.

“Christ above,” he whispered, voice gone soft and accented and wet with disbelief, “Ye taste like warmth. Like bloody spring after a thousand years o’ frost.”

You smiled.

Because for the first time in your life, you believed someone meant it.

His forehead rested against yours, breath shaky and uneven as if he’d forgotten how to need anything until now.

The world around you hummed in its stillness. Lantern-light flickered like breath behind gauze. Something in the cliffs sighed—the sound of wind moving through the hollow spaces of a place not meant for the living. The scent of old parchment and smoke-moss clung to the air. The boneflowers glowed dimmer now, like candles burned low in anticipation.

Remmick’s hand still cradled your cheek, reverent as a benediction. His thumb moved once, a trembling stroke along your jaw.

You looked at him. Really looked. The way his lashes fluttered like he couldn’t hold your gaze too long. The way his lips—wet, bitten, parted—trembled just slightly even though he’d stopped kissing you. He looked stunned. Like a man waking from a century-long dream and realizing heaven hadn’t been a lie after all.

You pressed your hand over the one still clutching your back.

And you asked, very softly, “Is there somewhere we can go?”

He blinked. “Go?”

Your thumb brushed his wrist.

“Somewhere private,” you said. “Somewhere we can be alone.”

You let the weight of your meaning hang there, open. Raw.

His eyes—still rimmed in that glowing red, still almost black where the light didn’t touch—widened just slightly.

He didn’t speak right away.

Then: “Y—ye mean…”

You nodded.

He let out a breath that wasn’t a laugh, wasn’t a sob, but something caught in the middle. His jaw flexed, the muscles around the torn part twitching as if it ached to smile and didn’t remember how.

“Aye,” he said at last, breathless. “Aye, I—Christ. C’ourse there is.”

You followed him through the quiet town, through paths lined with broken gravestones and wrought-iron gates wrapped in black ivy. The skeletal mule lifted its head as you passed, but didn’t move. The sky flickered between colors that didn’t exist aboveground—indigo, absinthe green, deep plum, midnight rust.

The house he led you to was small, crooked, nestled between two weeping trees. Its windows were frosted over from the inside, but lanterns glowed behind them—soft and inviting, not gold but something bluer, like the edge of candlelight seen through tears.

He opened the door and held it for you, eyes not leaving your face even once.

And when you stepped inside, the house breathed around you.

Like it had been waiting too.

The moment you stepped inside, the door shut behind you with a hush like a drawn curtain. No click. No finality. Just the sound of something sealing the world away—just the two of you now, cocooned in this crooked little house where time didn’t dare intrude.

It was warm, impossibly so. Not with fire, but with memory.

Lanterns floated untethered above the room, bobbing gently like sleeping fireflies in glass cages. Their glow was the color of old violets pressed between pages—dim, wistful, soft. A chair sat crooked beside a hearth with no fire, its frame carved with sigils too old to name. The walls were mismatched wood and stone, patched in places with stained-glass panels that bled moody light across the floor. Dust danced in the air like confetti made from ash and pearl.

And across the room stood a bed.

Not some pristine matrimonial thing. No, this was older. Lovingly worn. A frame of twisted wrought iron and bone-white wood, headboard etched with curling ivy and crescent moons. The sheets were moth-gray and velvet-soft, tucked in neat but frayed at the edges like they'd been waiting for years—centuries—to be touched again.

Remmick lingered behind you, his presence like a shadow you didn’t want to outrun. He hadn’t stepped closer yet. He was giving you space. But you could feel the way he vibrated with restraint. His hand hovered just inches from your back, like he couldn’t trust himself to touch without unraveling.

“If ye…” he began, and his voice cracked down the middle. He cleared his throat, tried again. “If ye’ve changed yer mind, just say the word. I’ll not take a thing ye don’t want to give, not even a breath.”

You turned to face him.

There was nothing hungry in his stance. Not yet. Just reverence. Just awe. But something in you had already begun to ache with want.

You stepped closer, silent as snowfall, until your fingers found the button of his collar. He startled at the contact—but didn’t stop you.

“I’m not scared of you,” you said, voice hushed. “I want this.”

You slid off the suit jacket, palms skimming the broad expanse of his shoulders, Remmick's lashes fluttering in response. Underneath, you found a pair of suspenders stretched taut over his chest, creating wrinkles in the fabric of his collared dress shirt.

You undid the top button. He didn’t move. Then Another.

His throat worked around a swallow, breath trembling. The glow in his eyes flickered, pulsing, softening. Like it responded to your touch.

Another.

You watched his chest rise and fall, slow and shallow as he tried not to pant. As if the sheer fact of you, undressing him—not in horror, not with trembling hands, but deliberately—was too much.

Another.

You laid your palms flat against his chest now, pushing the shirt from his shoulders. The white wife beater underneath clung to him, threadbare and soft, stretched over his broad frame. He was muscular in that quiet, devastating way—someone who’d labored long past death. His chest heaved with breath he didn’t need.

He hadn’t stopped watching your face.

Not once.

“I dunno if I remember how to do this slow,” he murmured, voice hitching on every word. “I’m too far gone for gentle if ye ask me to take too much control.”

You smiled, cupping the side of his neck. The unbroken one.

“Then let me.”

You stepped back once, your own hands now at the hem of your gown, torn at the hem, blood dried like rust at your shin. You pulled it loose now, bit by bit, letting it fall from your shoulders with the softest sigh of fabric meeting floor, leaving you in just your panties.

Remmick stared. His lips parted. No sound. His knees bent slightly, like he was fighting the urge to fall to them.

“Sweet hell,” he whispered, reverently. “Ye look like…like the night I died dreamin’ someone might love me anyway.”

And then, as if the words had summoned it, the lanterns above bloomed brighter, casting kaleidoscope patterns over your bare skin. The stained-glass windows threw ribbons of blue and red and indigo across your collarbones, your hips, your thighs.

Remmick reached out—slowly, slowly—and let the backs of his fingers trail along your arm. He didn’t dare touch your breasts. Not yet. He touched the hollow of your elbow. The dip of your wrist. The edge of your shoulder where your gown had once kissed your skin.

“Are ye sure?” he breathed.

You nodded.

“Lay with me.”

He exhaled like he’d been holding that breath since his last life.

And then he moved.

He moved like he wasn’t sure he was allowed.

Like the spell might break if he touched you too boldly—if he let himself believe for even a moment that he could have this. Have you.

You were already on the bed, the velvet beneath you rich and rippling like ink-stained water. Your head resting against moth-gray pillows. The locket he’d given you pressed cool against your breastbone, shifting with every breath. The air smelled of petrichor, moonlight, and something sweeter—something you’d begun to associate only with him. A scent like charred lilac and old longing.

Remmick knelt beside the mattress on one knee, wide palms gripping the edge of the frame like it was the only thing keeping him from coming undone.

“Christ, darlin’,” he rasped, his voice thick, slurred just slightly with his Irish cadence. “Ye don’t know what ye’re doin’ to me.”

But you did.

You could see it—see the way his jaw clenched, the left side twitching faintly where the skin had long since been torn away. The way his fangs caught on his lower lip, not bared, but there—unavoidable. You could see how hard he was fighting himself, how deeply he was suppressing the parts of him he feared you’d flinch from.

You didn’t flinch.

Instead, you reached for him, fingers curling into the front of his thin undershirt. Pulled him closer.

“Remmick,” you whispered. “It’s alright.”

He froze above you, nose inches from yours.

“I can’t—”

“You can.” You cupped his cheek, gently thumbing along the edge of exposed muscle. Not in disgust. Not in pity. But in affection. “I want all of you.”

Something in him broke.

He surged forward with a noise caught between a sob and a growl, his mouth crashing against yours. It was not the kiss of before—this one had heat, had desperation, the kind of longing that hadn’t been touched in over a thousand years. His lips were cold, but his tongue burned. You tasted the salt of old grief and something copper-sharp beneath it. His hands—God, those hands—one cupped your jaw while the other slid around your ribs, feeling flesh and bone simultaneously, cradling your back like you were sacred, like he might be punished for touching you too hard but couldn’t stop himself even if he tried.

“So soft—” he whispered, kissing the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, then your neck. “So fuckin’ soft, love, like the world before it soured…”

His fangs dragged the faintest line along your throat. Not piercing—just testing. Just tasting. His breath hitched like it pained him to hold back.

And you whispered again:

“It’s fine.”

That was all he needed.

A low, guttural moan tore from his chest as he finally let himself grip you harder—your hips, your thighs, hauling you into his lap like he needed you closer, needed your skin pressed to his or he might rot again right there on the floor. His body was strong, stronger than a man’s should’ve been, and you could feel that strength now as he spread your thighs wide and settled between them, the weight of him pressing down deliciously heavy.

He groaned when he felt the heat of you beneath the fabric, when your legs wrapped around his waist. He wasn’t shy anymore. His teeth caught on your lower lip as he kissed you again, hungrier now, drooling slightly with want—not from gluttony, but from sheer, unbearable starvation.

“Ye smell like everythin’ I’ve ever lost,” he murmured raggedly. “And everythin’ I thought I’d never be allowed to touch again.”

His hips rolled once, helplessly, against yours. You felt the hardness of him, thick and restrained behind old linen and buttons. His breath hitched, head dropping to your shoulder.

“I’m tryin’, I swear it, I’m tryin’ to be slow…”

“You don’t have to be,” you told him, voice gone small and shaking. “I’m not afraid of you. I want you. All of you. Even the parts you’re trying to hide.”

He lifted his head slowly—eyes glowing red now, the pupils huge and blown with need.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he breathed. “Marryin’ me twice over, sayin’ that.”

You hadn’t meant to tempt him. Not exactly. But you’d said the words—I want all of you—and now you could feel what that meant in the trembling of his fingers as they hovered over your body. Not touching. Not yet. Just breathing you in like he couldn’t quite believe this was happening. That you were happening.

His voice cracked through the hush of the room. “D’you know what yer sayin’, love?” He cupped the back of your neck, gentle as a grave flower. His thumb dragged along your pulse like he was listening to it. “A thousand years o’ hunger in me…an’ you go sayin’ that?”

Your answer came not in words but in action—pulling his hand down, pressing it against your chest so he could feel your heart race for him. For this. For the way his eyes glowed like twin embers in the dark.

That did it.

He surged forward, lips grazing the shell of your ear. “Then lie back for me, mo chroí,” he breathed. “Let me see what I’ve been dreamin’ of since before I knew what dreamin’ meant.”

You reclined against the velvet, heat curling low in your stomach, and Remmick followed you down—kneeling between your legs like a knight in a fairy tale gone all wrong and better for it. His skin caught the light, that blue like moonlight over still water, marred only by the right side of his jaw—where muscle and bone were laid bare, yet never once did he try to turn his face away from you.

Because you didn’t flinch.

You reached up and traced the edge of the torn flesh, and he shuddered, a sound like something old breaking loose in his chest.

He kissed you then—not hurried, but deep, wet, needy—and his hand came to rest between your thighs, warm despite everything. His fingers traced the seam of your inner thigh first, featherlight, before his mouth followed. Down your jaw. Your throat. Lower.

Praise spilled from him like prayer:

“Look at ye—soft as sin, warm as summer rain—ain’t never seen anythin’ like ye.”

He mouthed at your thighs, biting down just enough to make you gasp, but never break the skin. He lapped at the indentations like he wanted to memorize every tremble, every twitch. When your legs started to close reflexively, he hooked an arm around one, spreading you wider with a low, sinful groan.

“No, no, love. Let me see. Let me taste. It’s been so long—I’ll be good, I swear it, I’ll make ye forget everythin’ but me.”

His hand moved between your legs again—rough palm against soft heat. He doesn't remove your panties yet, content to tease you through the., letting the slick there soak into the cotton. He rutted his palm against you, slow and grinding, until your hips started chasing it.

You keened. And he moaned in response—open-mouthed, desperate.

“Fuckin’ drippin’ f’r me already…ain’t even had a taste…”

And he did.

One long stripe with his tongue over the damp cotton. Then another. Until he was panting into you like a starving man nosing through the seam of your underwear. One hand splayed over your belly, keeping you still.

Then he sucked the fabric into his mouth like he could wring the taste of you through it.

When you gasped, he looked up—eyes blown wide, red rimmed, lips wet and parted.

“Beggin’ ye,” he whispered. “Let me have ye proper, yeah? Just me mouth for now—let me make ye sing, mo chroí, let me worship ye like the altar ye are.”

And when you nodded—more a whimper than a yes—he pulled your panties aside and groaned, deep and broken.

You didn’t expect him to kiss your cunt.

But he did.

Like he meant it.

Like it was holy.

He parted you with reverence—his breath hot against your folds, one trembling hand holding your thigh like it anchored him to the earth. The other lay against your belly, fingers twitching as though resisting the urge to claw, to grasp, to sink into your softness and never let go.

And then…he kissed you.

Not rushed. Not ravenous. Just lips to flesh, slow and aching, as if the act itself might undo him. As if his very mouth might shatter around you—and he’d welcome the breaking.

Your back arched.

Not from shock—but from the texture.

Because his mouth wasn’t whole.

His lips were soft, yes. Warm, even. But where the skin gave way—where bone and sinew lay exposed, where every sharp, imperfect tooth glistened with preternatural hunger—his kiss became something otherworldly.

It should’ve been frightening.

It wasn’t.

It was devastating.

You felt it not just in your cunt, but in your spine, your ribs, your soul. He didn’t just use his tongue—though God, that tongue, wet and thick and curling with practiced strokes that told you he hadn’t forgotten how to ruin a woman—he used his mouth in full. The broken parts. The jagged ones.

He scraped—not hard enough to hurt, but just enough to tease. Just enough to remind you this wasn’t a dream. That this was him. Remmick. The dead man with the living hands. The monster with the gentle touch.

He licked you like you were spun sugar and sacrament, and when he pressed his tongue flat against your clit and sucked, your hands shot to his hair, tangled in it, dragging him closer—

He moaned. Moaned into you, like the taste alone could kill him.

“Christ alive,” he rasped, pulling back for half a second to pant against your slick. His voice was wrecked, thick with emotion and want, thick with his Irish cadence.

He ducked back down—open mouth, flat tongue, slow circles that made your thighs tremble—and then slid two fingers inside you in one smooth, devastating motion.

“Tight little thing,” he whispered, “grippin’ me like ye missed me your whole life.”

You sobbed something between his name and God and yes, your thighs clenching around his ears, and he groaned again—deeper this time—rutting against the bed like he was getting off on the noises you made alone.

And somewhere between the moaning and the wet pop of his mouth over your clit, somewhere between the slurp of his tongue and the squelch of his fingers moving inside you, the thought came—

My mother warned me of what goes bump in the night.

She whispered it when you were little. When the winds howled. When the floorboards creaked.

She said, “There are monsters, my love. Stay in the light.”

And now here you were, sprawled beneath one, flushed and soaked and gasping, letting him drag you apart with teeth and tongue.

You wondered what she’d say if she saw you like this.

If she knew that you’d chosen the dark—and begged it to keep you.

You felt it coming.

Not like a storm—fast and brutal—but like a tide, rising slow. Heat bloomed between your hips, slow and dangerous. Your thighs ached with the effort of keeping him there, like if you let go he’d vanish back into the earth that made him.

And still he stayed. Mouthing at your cunt like a man devoted. Like a man damned.

His eyes fluttered shut as his tongue circled your clit, drawing wet, lazy shapes—infinity, you thought, or a name—until you couldn’t tell where his mouth ended and your body began.

And then—

His eyes opened.

They glowed dimly at first, that reddish hue flickering like coal beneath ash. But when he felt your hand trembling against his scalp—when you whimpered “Remmick, I—”, his gaze snapped to yours.

Locked. Frozen. Held. It wasn’t lust you saw there. It was awe. It was reverence.

It was a man who hadn’t been touched in thirteen hundred years, now watching you—bare, flushed, trembling—fall apart beneath his mouth like a blessing.

His lips glistened. His fingers curled inside you, stroking something sharp and sacred. And still, he didn’t look away.

He stared at you like he was watching the stars be born. Like you were the only heaven he ever hoped to find.

And you knew—without him saying it—that if you asked him to stop, he would. If you asked him to die again, he would.

But you didn’t want that. You wanted more. So you said nothing.

You only whispered, voice shaking, “Don’t look at me like that.”

His jaw twitched. His breath caught. Then came his voice, low and ruined:

“Can’t help it, darlin’. Ye look like salvation.”

And you broke.

Your thighs clamped around his ears. Your back arched. You came with a sound so soft it felt like mourning. Like prayer. Like surrender.

And Remmick—beautiful, monstrous, trembling—moaned like he’d been given breath again.

He kept licking you through it. Slower now. Gentler. One last kiss to your clit, soft and grateful. He pressed his cheek to your thigh, jaw wound resting against your skin like it belonged there.

And still, his eyes never left your face.

After, you pulled him up.

He came willingly. Crawled over you with something almost shy in the set of his shoulders, the way his body trembled despite its strength. You reached for him—and for a moment, he hesitated, like he couldn’t believe you were still here. That you wanted this. That you wanted him.

You cupped his face.

Cold skin. The torn edge of his right jaw like worn marble. One fang brushing your thumb where it passed his lip. His eyes flickered between black and red—uncertain, afraid he might be dreaming.

“Remmick,” you said, your voice thick and still breathless, “do you want me?”

The question broke something in him.

He nodded too fast, like a man who’s never been given permission to hope. “Aye. Christ, aye, I do—been wantin’ ye since the trees took yer scent. Since ye bled on the bark and woke me.”

Your fingers trailed down his chest, down the wife beater—until you reached his belt. He sucked in a breath, whole body twitching when your knuckles brushed the tented front of his trousers.

“Then show me,” you whispered. “Show me how much.”

His mouth twitched into a smile, wide and crooked. “Ye don’t know what ye ask, lass.”

You leaned up, lips brushing his jaw, your whisper soft and sharp against his skin. “Then show me anyway.”

He kissed you—harder this time, desperate now, hips grinding against your thigh with the ragged rhythm of a man barely keeping himself leashed. His tongue pushed into your mouth, all heat and hunger, and you could taste blood and lavender and something older, something wild, on his tongue.

And God, he kissed like he meant to die in your mouth. When he pulled back, his voice rasped, thick and low:

“Ye sure?”

You nodded once. Twice. Then said it, clear and sure:

“I want to feel you inside me.”

He shuddered. Not just a tremble—but a full-body quake, as if your words went deeper than skin, straight to the buried places inside him.

“Then lie back, ma wee bride,” he murmured, voice shaking, thick with that Irish lilt you’d grown to crave. “Let me make a proper mess of ye.”

He moved slowly, reverently, as he undressed you fully, fingers shaking as they peeled your underwear down. His breath caught at every inch of exposed skin, like he was memorizing it with his mouth slightly parted.

He bent low, kissed the inside of your thigh again—then your hip, your stomach, your ribs. Worshipful. Starved.

And when he reached for himself, undid the buckle of his trousers with fumbling hands, he looked up at you once more, almost apologetic.

“I—ah—may not last long,” he confessed, shame flickering across his face. “Not when ye’re lookin’ at me like that. Not when I’ve waited this long. I’ll—I'll make it up to ye, I swear it—”

You touched his face again.

“Then come undone for me, Remmick,” you whispered. “You’ve waited long enough.”

He lowered himself between your thighs like a man preparing for worship, not fucking.

His forehead pressed to your sternum. His breath trembled. You felt him—not just the weight of his body, but the heat of him, pulsing against your thigh, thick and straining beneath your touch.

And God, he was big.

You glanced down and saw it—long and flushed dark at the tip, veined like marble, so hard he twitched in time with his breath. The way his cock curved heavy toward his stomach made your breath catch. He looked like something carved from sin.

He saw your eyes widen and started to pull back.

“I—I’ll wait, love, I’ll—”

“No,” you breathed, grabbing his arm. “I want it. I want you. Just…slow.”

He swallowed, hard. His throat clicked.

“Gonna ruin ye,” he whispered, voice thick with Irish dusk and awe. “Gonna stretch ye wide and deep and still wish I could go deeper.”

Your legs parted further on instinct. Your heels dragged the sheets. He looked down at you like you were something sacred, worshipped and half-afraid of.

Then his hand moved between your thighs.

His fingers—two at first, slow and careful—slid back into your soaked heat, working you open gently, watching for every flinch, every sharp breath. His jaw—half-torn and glowing faintly with the light of his hunger—tightened.

“Look at ye,” he whispered hoarsely, breath like a vow. “So soft f’r me. So warm already.”

Your hips arched into his hand. You whined when his thumb brushed your clit, your hands clutching at his shoulders, his name escaping your lips again and again in half-sobs.

“Please, Remmick,” you gasped.

He kissed your knee. Your hip. Your inner thigh again. Then—

He lined himself up with you, shaking. “I can feel ye callin’ f’r me,” he said, voice low, trembling. “Can feel yer body beggin’ mine to belong.”

You didn’t have words for what he made you feel. Only need. Only the hot, aching stretch inside as he finally pressed forward, the thick head of his cock nudging into you with aching slowness.

And God—the burn. It wasn’t pain. It was too much and not enough all at once. You clutched his arms. Gasped. He froze.

“Too much?” he rasped. “Do I stop?”

“No—Remmick—don’t stop,” you moaned, “just—go slow—”

And he did. So slow, like he was trying not to shatter.

His cock dragged deeper, inch by inch, your walls clutching at him, your slick coating him as he bottomed out in you with a shudder that shook his whole body. His arms shook. His forehead dropped to yours. His mouth opened but nothing came out—not until your name escaped his throat on a cracked, desperate sound that felt more like prayer than pleasure.

“Fookin’ Christ,” he choked, barely moving, buried to the hilt inside you. “Ye feel—Gods above—ye feel like fire.”

You were full. So full. Stretched in a way that left your eyes fluttering, your voice catching in your throat. You didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to breathe. You only wanted to feel him there, pulsing deep inside, trembling like you were the first sunrise he’d ever seen.

And maybe you were.

He stayed there, deep and still, as if even the smallest movement might break you. His eyes squeezed shut. His jaw flexed against the side of your throat. You could feel him shaking—not from strain, but from the restraint it took not to move.

You wrapped your arms around his neck.

“It’s okay,” you whispered, mouth brushing the shell of his ear. “I can take it.”

He didn’t answer at first. Just trembled, breath warm on your shoulder. But the sound he made when your hips tilted up—when your walls squeezed gently around him—wasn’t human.

It was a groan wrenched up from the deepest part of him. A sound centuries old.

“Ye don’t know what ye’re sayin’,” he rasped. “Ye don’t know what I’ll do if ye tell me I can…”

“I do,” you whispered, meeting his gaze. “I want you to.”

And that’s what broke him.

The first thrust was shallow, but sharp—his hips twitching forward, grinding deep. Your mouth fell open, a gasp slipping past your lips. He did it again. Then again. Each movement just a little rougher, a little more desperate. Until he was fucking you with the kind of pace that spoke of appetite, not lust.

He pressed you down into the sheets, breathing ragged, body arched over yours like he couldn’t get close enough. His lips dragged down your throat, over your collarbone, mouthing at the tops of your breasts like a man starving.

He muttered something in Irish against your skin—raw, thick, ruined—but you didn’t need to understand it. You felt what it meant in the way he rutted into you, deep and fast, his cock dragging along the parts of you no one else had ever touched.

You sobbed his name.

Your nails dug into his shoulders. You felt his back ripple beneath your hands, all sinew and strength, every part of him working to fuck you the way he’d been dreaming of since long before your first breath.

“You feel me?” he groaned into your mouth. ��Deep in that sweet lil cunt, aye? So warm—so wet—I could drown in ye.”

You cried out, back arching, thighs trembling.

His mouth kissed down your breast, licking over your nipple before sucking it between his teeth. Your whole body jerked beneath him.

“Fook,” he breathed against your skin. “Ye’re squeezin’ me like you like it when I lose m’self.”

“I do,” you sobbed. “I want you to—Remmick, please—don’t stop—”

He didn't.

He pounded into you, hips snapping, the slick drag of his cock obscene as your bodies slapped together. His jaw wound gleamed faintly with wet, his eyes glowing a deep carnelian red. But even with his mouth parted, his teeth sharp, even with the beast in him taking hold—he still looked at you like he loved you.

Loved you, even if he didn’t dare say it yet. You clenched around him. His rhythm faltered.

He growled, low and broken, “Tell me if I hurt ye, love. Tell me—swear it—”

“You’re perfect,” you whimpered, tears slipping down your cheeks. “You’re perfect, Remmick.”

His forehead dropped to yours. Then he rutted into you with such bruising depth, you saw stars.

He couldn’t stop shaking.

Even as his body rocked into yours, even as your legs wrapped around his hips and your nails raked down the meat of his back, Remmick trembled like a man possessed.

“Can’t hold m’self back,” he whispered, voice rough and wrecked and soaked in longing. “Not when ye’re like this—soft and beggin’ beneath me—so fuckin’ warm—”

“Then don’t,” you breathed. “Remmick, please—don’t stop—don’t hold back—just take me—”

Your words undid him.

He groaned low in his chest, mouth falling open, and something inside him slipped. His pace turned brutal—not cruel, never cruel—but driven. Like centuries of craving finally had a body to answer to.

Like you were the only thing he’d ever wanted, and the wait had nearly broken him.

The frame of the bed creaked beneath his rhythm. Your thighs trembled around his hips, slick and trembling, your body rocked with every deep, ragged thrust. And still—still—he tried to speak.

“You feel me, yeah?” he rasped, forehead pressed to yours. “Deep in that sweet cunt…like I belong there. Like I was meant to be there—"

Your hands curled at his nape. Your lips brushed his ear.

“You do,” you said.

That was all it took.

Remmick let go.

His body slammed flush against yours, hips stuttering hard, cock pulsing deep inside you with a heat so full, so heavy, it knocked the breath from your lungs.

He groaned brokenly against your skin, his whole body arching as he spilled inside you—deep, thick, endless—his forehead resting against yours like he had nowhere else left to go.

You clung to him. His breath hitched. Then again.

And when you looked down between your bodies, when your thighs parted with a sticky ache—you saw the proof of him leaking back out of you, thick and warm where you were still stretched around the base of his cock.

A creamy ring of white.

Remmick saw it, too.

He moaned—deep, guttural—and pulled you closer, nosing at your throat like he was afraid you’d disappear. “So full of me,” he whispered, dazed. “Look at ye. Stuffed so pretty…”

You kissed the corner of his mouth.

“Remmick,” you whispered.

His eyes fluttered open.

And when you looked into them—when you saw the pain, the wonder, the sheer reverence—you knew. He’d been waiting longer than you’d been alive. For this. For you.

His voice cracked, Irish accent trembling:

“Don’t leave me, love. Not now. Not ever.”

You kissed him back.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

The air felt different after.

Not warmer, not colder—but fuller. As if something ancient and unseen had exhaled at last. A spell released. A promise made flesh.

Remmick lay tangled beside you, arms wrapped tight around your body like he didn’t know how to let go. His cheek pressed to your shoulder, jaw wound cool and tender against your skin. His breath was shallow, uncertain—like he still couldn’t believe you were real.

You watched the glow-worm lanterns drift lazily overhead. Somewhere outside, the bones in the wind chimes knocked gently together like teeth. The forest whispered.

You should’ve been afraid.

Of the damp, breathing woods. Of the moss that learned your name. Of the way the moon never moved and the veil hung so thin you could taste it when you kissed him.

But you afraid. You were…calm.

He stirred slightly when you traced a lazy pattern down his back—soft whorls against undead skin still damp with sweat. A low, content sound rumbled in his throat, and he nosed into the crook of your neck, whispering something like “m’wife…” so quietly, you weren’t sure if it was meant for you or just the silence.

And God help you, you smiled.

It hadn’t been love with Mr. Langdon. It hadn’t even been kindness.

It had been a future written in ink not your own. One you’d been expected to accept without complaint, because it was tidy. Respectable. Fitting of a girl raised to smile politely, to never contradict her elders, to marry for property and speak only when spoken to.

Your mother had called it security.

Had warned you to stay away from things that wandered in the woods. From things with glowing eyes and sharpened teeth. Things that hungered.

And now—

Now you lay in a moss-slick bed of dirt and silk, bare and marked and full of one such thing. You wore his locket. His bite. His ring.

You brushed your fingers along the smooth place at your neck where his lips had lingered. A perfect bruise. A signature.

And still you weren’t afraid. You weren’t ashamed. You were…

Content.

“I wish I’d met ye sooner,” he whispered against your collarbone. “Back when I still knew how to be a man.”

You turned your head, met his eyes. Those wide, glowing eyes.

“You still are.”

He swallowed, expression caught between reverence and disbelief.

“I ain’t decent,” he said, voice thick with that Irish lilt again. “Ain’t clean. Ain’t right. I sleep in the dirt, I feed when I must, and I carry more ghosts than I do breath in m’lungs.”

“You’re kind,” you said.

“A monster.”

“You’re mine.”

He closed his eyes at that.

You rested your palm over his heart—cold and still. But when you pressed closer, you could swear something stirred there. Like an echo. Like a wish.

He buried his face in your chest, arms tightening around your waist. And you let him hold you.

You never looked back again.

Not at Langdon. Not at the mother who warned you off the dark but allowed the devil in anyway. Not at the world where your name was written beside a stranger’s in a church you hated.

Instead, you stayed in the belly of the forest. In the town built of bones and moss and memory. You watched the ribbons in the orchard sway like breath. You fed the skeletal cat scraps of peach and laughed when it swiped at your slipper. You kissed your husband when the wind moaned, and whispered promises against his cheek when his hands trembled.

Because you loved him. Because he waited.

And because when you reached for a tree with trembling hands and a bloodstained ring, he was the one who answered.

Not Langdon. Not God.

Him.

On the morning the bluebell bloomed again—only one, shy and frost-bitten—you knelt beside it with Remmick and whispered,

“Maybe this was the wish that came true.”

He stared at the bloom, then at you. And smiled.

“I ran from a man with a pulse,” you whispered, lacing your fingers through your undead husband’s. “But I stayed for the one with a soul.”

[jkwrites-m]

Pull Over

Pairing: police officer!Jungkook x female reader

Genre: smut, yandere, dark (PLEASE READ WARNINGS!!)

Word Count: 7k

Summary: A dark road becomes forever when obsession wears a badge.

Warnings: MDNI, Explicit, 18+, DD:DNE, speeding, police, power imbalance, yandere, obsession, explicit manhandling, defiance, handcuffs, guns, lying, manipulation, threats, harsh language, fear, chasing, hitting (slapping), shoving, despair, helplessness, mocking, kidnapping, disdain, mentions of past murder, jungkook is crazy!, explicit: noncon to dubcon, heavy degradation, sexual fantasies, spanking, groping, unwanted sexual touch, primal kink (predatory/prey), humiliation kink, breeding/claiming kink, dominant!jk, forced undressing/nudity, gunplay, unprotected sex, restriction/bondage (handcuffs), overstimulation.

A/N: when i tell you that this is dark- i mean it. like wayyy darker than chp 8 of another time. this can be very triggering so PLEASE!!! proceed with caution. also, i know this is very different from my normal fics but i rlly love yandere/dark/horror fics and novels & i rlly wanted to try it out. if this isn’t your thing, i totally get it! i won’t be offended if this isn’t for you! pls lmk what you think 🫶

Note: this fic sometimes flips back and forth between OC & JK (2nd person). you’ll be able to tell!

♡ MASTERLIST ♡ a03

♡ Pull Over: Detained

═══════

before - 

You’re just trying to get home. That’s all.

The last thing you want is to be out here, alone on some empty road with the sky bleeding from gold to purple.

But you had class. Late lab section. The professor wouldn’t let anyone leave early. Your notes are crammed with half-legible scrawls about enzymes and practical test dates. You toss the notebook onto the passenger seat. Your bag spills open. Pens roll onto the floor. You curse, leaning over to grab one.

Your eyes flick to your phone in the console. 5% battery. Of course. You don’t even have a charger. Your roommate’s probably wondering where you are.

Shit.

You promised you’d be home in time to watch your show together. She even saved you takeout.

You tap your GPS. It flickers in the low light. The screen dims, saving battery. Shortest route home.

You know it’s risky- some little back road through the edge of the woods. Barely even a proper highway. But you’re late. And the sky is getting darker.

You sigh, tapping “Start.”

Your phone lights the route in cold blue.

You turn onto the narrow two-lane road, your tires crunching over gravel at the edges. Wind rattles the leaves in the trees on either side. You glance at your reflection in the mirror. Your hair is messy from the long day. Your eyes look tired.

You let out a breath, trying to relax. It’s fine. It’s just a shortcut.

You’ll be home in twenty minutes. Your roommate will tease you for taking so long. You’ll microwave dinner. Laugh. Forget the way this road feels so lonely.

Your music plays loud enough to distract you. You tap the wheel with your thumb. Try to keep your speed steady but slowly getting faster. 

You don’t see the headlights yet.

But they’re coming.

═══════

You hate this fucking town. The same back roads every night, the same broken fences and sagging porches. Every call on the radio is the same bullshit: a drunk husband screaming at his wife, kids throwing rocks at windows, noise complaints from people who can’t stand each other. You drive past it all in your cruiser, listening to the static chatter with your fingers drumming the wheel, wishing someone would give you a reason to care.

Because you don’t.

You don’t care about these people. You don’t respect them. You don’t even see them as people most of the time. They’re livestock that got too used to thinking they’re in charge. Worthless. Pathetic. You feel the anger simmering under your ribs, a constant heat you’ve learned to control. Your pulse stays steady. Your face stays blank. That’s what they all see: Officer Jeon, professional, calm, in control.

But you know what you are.

You want something real tonight. Someone you can feel. Someone you can make feel you. You want a reason to use your hands. To hear begging that isn’t in your head. Your tongue drags across your teeth as you shift in your seat, the leather creaking. The holster presses into your side. You think about using it, not to kill- no, killing is boring- but to threaten. To dominate.

You remember the last one. The one who wouldn’t stop screaming until you showed her how quiet she could be with a hand around her throat squeezing the life out of her as you came inside her. That memory makes you shift uncomfortably, heat pooling low in your belly. You let out a slow breath. You’re calm. Always calm. Even when you’re imagining things that would get you fired, arrested, killed.

Especially then.

Your mind wanders. You imagine pulling over some stupid, clueless girl on one of these dark roads. She’d look up at you with big eyes, all fear and confusion. She’d talk back. Try to act tough. You’d fix that. You’d break it. You’d make her beg. Cry. Say she’s sorry even when she doesn’t know what for. You’d make her yours.

Your mouth twists into a humorless smile as you stare at the empty road. Nothing. No one.

You’re just about to turn around when headlights appear in the distance. Bright. Moving too fast. You see them swerve slightly around the bend, tires scraping gravel at the shoulder.

You sit up straighter.

Finally.

Someone worth your time.

You rest your hand on the switch. You see her car whip past you with feminine stickers on the rear windshield. 

Perfect.

You flip on the lights. Red and blue strobe over the dark trees like warning fangs. The siren blares, screaming through the quiet night.

Your heart rate doesn’t spike. Your breathing doesn’t change. But you’re smiling.

Because you know you have her now.

═══════

present - 

You shouldn’t even be on this road. It’s one of those winding, narrow lanes that cuts through the trees like a scar. Blacktop crumbling at the edges, the center line barely visible in the dusk.

But you were late, and your phone’s GPS told you this was the fastest route. You’re going too fast. Music too loud. Heart racing from caffeine and stress.

Then- flashing blue and red behind you.

Your gut lurches. You swear and slam the brakes. Your car shudders to a stop on the gravel shoulder, rocking slightly. The dash lights glow on your face as you stare at the rearview.

He hasn’t gotten out yet. For a second there’s only the ticking of your cooling engine, the throb of your pulse in your ears. Then the cruiser’s door swings open.

Boots first. Black, polished, heavy. Then the uniform. Dark navy. Badged. Armed.

And him.

He’s taller than you expected. Lean but strong. Broad shoulders that make the bulletproof vest look molded to him. His black hair is slightly mussed but neat, framing a face that’s almost too pretty to be real.

But the eyes ruin it. Dark. Flat. Assessing.

Predatory.

He walks slowly, no rush. The flashing lights paint him in red and blue, making him look like some demon come to collect a debt.

═══════

You see her for the first time through the glass of the window.

There she is.

A little thing, clutching her wheel like it’ll save her. Wide, innocent eyes flashing with fear. Lips parted like she’s about to beg.

You can already hear her whimpering.

You want that. No- you need it. She’s perfect. Young, naive, mouthy just enough to make it fun. The kind you can break. The kind you can own. You imagine her pinned beneath you. Sobbing. Trying to talk back even as you force her to submit.

Your cock throbs in your uniform pants at the thought.

Mine.

You smile as you approach her window.

═══════

Your hand trembles as you roll down the window.

“Officer…” you try to keep your voice steady, friendly, harmless. “I- I’m sorry. I know I was going a little over. But there was no one around-”

He leans down. Eyes don’t blink.

“You know how fast you were going?”

You swallow. “About… maybe fifteen over? I wasn’t really paying attention.”

His gaze drifts lower, over your body even though you’re in the car. His nostrils flare like he’s scenting you. He leans in even closer, shadow swallowing your door frame.

“You been drinking tonight?”

Your head jerks back. “What? No! Nothing.”

“Smells like weed in there too.”

Your mouth falls open. “It does not- I don’t even smoke!”

“Step out of the car.”

Your brow furrows. “Wait- what? I- I can give you my license and-”

He tilts his head slightly. A smirk plays on his lips.

“I smell alcohol.”

Your mouth falls open. “What? No- you don’t! I haven’t had anything!”

“I said. Step out. Now.” There’s no inflection. No raised voice. Just cold command.

You freeze, then shake your head. “I’m not drunk. I’m not getting out for that- ”

He moves. So fast you don’t see it coming. His hand snakes in through the window, grabbing your chin hard enough to make you gasp and clack your teeth together.

“You’re going to make this difficult, aren’t you?” he murmurs, voice like oil on water.

You try to pull back. He holds tighter. He’s holding you in place, fingers pressing painfully into your jaw. 

“Officer, let go of me- ”

“Get. Out.”

Your heart stutters and you’re breathing too fast as he lets go. Your seatbelt is still on. He waits, watching you with dark amusement as you fumble it off. He steps back half a foot to let you out, but still close so you can’t breathe.

The forest is silent. The only sound is your heartbeat and the wind. You stumble onto the gravel, shoes crunching. And he starts to circle you like a shark.

You try to keep your voice steady. “I didn’t do anything. You can’t just- ”

“Hands on the hood.”

“No. I want your badge number! I’m not drunk or high or whatever! This is ridiculous-”

Suddenly he’s behind you. A hard shove between your shoulder blades sends you stumbling forward. Your palms slam onto cold metal.

“Fuck- you can’t- ”

His hand wraps around the back of your neck, fingers digging into your skin.

“I said.” his voice drops lower, crueler, “Hands. On. The. Fucking. Car.”

Your breath fogs the hood. Your fingers splay on the metal. Your vision swims and you can’t move.

“Why are you doing this?”

He chuckles. “Because I can.”

Click.

Cold metal snaps over one wrist. 

“No- wait! Stop it!”

He yanks your other arm back and cuffs it- a snap that echoes in the trees. You wince at the tightness. He leans over you, breath hot in your ear.

“You’re under investigation for DUI and possession of alcohol and marijuana.”

“Bullshit! I don’t have anything! Search my car!”

“Oh, I will.”

His hands slide down your sides. You flinch as he palms your ass roughly.

“Sto-”

“Shut up.”

His hands slide up under your hoodie, lifting it cruelly so your bare stomach hits the cold air. He palms your breast, fingers closing hard over your nipple through the fabric.

“Please- don’t-”

“I said shut the fuck up.”

He pinches it until you’re shaking.

“Look at you,” he purrs, voice low. “Squirming for me.”

He laughs in your ear.

“You’re probably wet from my hands all over you, right?”

“I’m not- you fucking pig! LET ME GO!”

He laughs softly.

“God, I love it when you fight.”

You can’t see him, but you feel him behind you. Pressed in close. His belt presses into your hips.

“I should arrest you for resisting.”

“I’m not resisting- I’m innocent- ”

He slides a hand down between your thighs, forcing them wider. Your cuffed arms can’t protect you. He jams his fingers roughly against your clothed slit, enough pressure to make you yelp. Your knees buckle. He holds you up with his grip on your hair, yanking your head back so your throat arches.

“You want me to stop?”

“YES!”

He kisses your neck. Just once. Cruel, biting.

“Liar.”

He steps back but keeps a hand on your cuffs, jerking you so you slam back onto the car.

You sob, humiliated.

“Please- I didn’t do anything,” you whimper.

He breathes in your ear.

“You did everything,” he hisses. “You just don’t know it yet.”

He finally steps back. The loss of heat is almost as jarring as his touch.

You’re shaking.

“Look at you,” he says. “All worked up over nothing. Don’t worry. I’ll make sure you’re thoroughly searched.”

You sob, humiliated. You want to spit at him. Scream. But you’re too busy breathing in shuddering gasps.

He turns his back to you, sauntering to the cruiser door, checking his belt, like he didn’t just manhandle you.

“Wait here.”

He doesn’t even look back. Your eyes dart around wildly.

The forest is darkening.

Your breath saws in and out of your lungs. You feel the cuffs biting your wrists. Your chest heaves and your legs tremble.

He’s not holding you. He’s not looking. He’s going to put something away in the car, or call dispatch, or get something worse.

Your pulse hammers.

Run.

It’s now or never. 

You spin on your heel and bolt. 

Your feet scrape on gravel, then hit dirt. You plunge into the trees. Branches whip your face. Rocks bite at your soles. The cuffs limit your balance.

But you don’t stop. You don’t dare look back.

Behind you, there’s silence for half a second.

Then:

“Ahhh. Fuck.”

He sees you. You hear the car door slam.

“Run, baby.” his voice calls, too calm, too amused. “Run all you want.”

Your blood turns to ice. You push deeper into the tree- the forest swallowing you whole. You know it’s not over. Not even close. 

Your lungs burn. The cuffs around your wrists bite with every misstep, the metal digging in with cruel precision. You’re running blind- just trees and shadows, your feet slipping on roots and moss. Your breath saws in and out, loud and ugly.

He’s behind you.

He’s behind you.

You don’t know how far. You don’t dare look.

His last words still ring in your ears:

“Run, baby. Run all you want.”

There’s no mistaking the amusement in his voice. The thrill. He’s not mad. He’s playing.

You dart between two trees, nearly slamming into a trunk. Your shoulder scrapes bark. You don’t stop. Everything inside you is screaming- panic, shame, pure adrenaline.

You think you hear his boots. Maybe not. Maybe it’s just your heartbeat. Your jeans are soaked with dew. Your hoodie snags on brambles. One shoe nearly flies off, but you can’t stop.

Your breath hitches as you stumble into a shallow dip in the earth. Your knees slam into cold dirt. You bite your lip to keep from crying out.

Then-

snap

A twig behind you. Too close.

You choke on your breath and duck behind a tree. Crouching. Trembling. Trying to become invisible.

Then:

“You’re so fucking bad at hiding, baby.”

Your blood freezes.

“Don’t cry yet,” his voice is closer. Almost gentle. Mocking. “You haven’t even seen what I do when I catch something.”

You cover your mouth with your cuffed hands. Your knuckles are scraped raw from the fall.

Leaves rustle. A boot crunches. He’s circling you. And you can’t stop shaking.

“Little rabbit thinks she can outrun the wolf.”

You bolt. Again. No thought, just pure terror.

═══════

You grin.

She’s faster than you expected. Desperate. Cute. But not smart.

You’ve been tracking every clumsy step she’s taken since the second she ran. She thinks she’s hiding. You let her think that. Her breathing is so loud. Her cuffs jingle every time she flinches.

You could’ve grabbed her minutes ago. But where’s the fun in that? You want her terrified. Wild-eyed. You want her stumbling through the dark with her pretty mouth shaking and her thighs slick with fear.

You love the way she looks when she thinks she has a chance. She doesn’t. She never did.

You lick your lips. Time to collect what’s yours.

═══════

He laughs. Loud. Deep. Guttural.

You don’t get far. Maybe twenty steps before a strong arm loops around your waist and slams you backward against a tree.

The bark digs into your spine. Your scream is muffled by a gloved hand. He’s right there. Face inches from yours.

Smiling.

“There you are.”

You kick. Twist. Thrash in his grip. But he doesn’t budge. His thigh wedges between yours, grinding into you obscenely just to humiliate you.

“Thought you could outrun me?”

You try to bite his hand. He chuckles and slaps you. Not hard enough to knock you out. Just hard enough to make your cheek sting.

“Bad girl.”

His hand fists in your hair. Yanks your head back. Your throat stretches, vulnerable.

“You have no idea how much trouble you’re in.”

Your voice finally breaks through. “Let go- please, let me go- I’ll never say anything-”

“Let you go?”

He laughs and shoves you harder into the tree. His hand snakes under your hoodie, slides up your back, nails grazing skin.

“You think this is about what you’ll say?” he snarls into your ear. “You think you matter that much?”

“I-  didn’t do anything- ”

“Oh, no baby, you did,” he growls. “You looked at me. You made me feel things. You’re mine now.”

He kisses you.

Rough. Unwanted. His tongue forces its way into your mouth. You try to scream, but his fingers are tangled in your hair too tight. He pulls back. Licks your bottom lip.

“That mouth,” he whispers. “Gonna make you say such pretty things when you’re under me.”

You shake your head violently. “Please… please don’t-”

He cups your cheek. Smiles. Then slaps it again. Harder.

“Beg better.”

Your legs go weak. He grabs your throat. Not to choke but to remind you he could. That he wants to. Your whimpers make his eyes burn hotter.

He leans in. Sniffs your neck.

“You smell so fucking sweet.”

His free hand slides between your legs again. Presses. Rubs. You twist, cry out, try to break free. The cuffs stop you. The tree behind your back stops you. He stops you.

“I want to hear you beg for me to stop,” he whispers. “And then I want to hear you beg me to keep going.”

You cry. He moans like it’s music.

Then, he pulls you away from the tree and throws you over his shoulder. Like you weigh nothing. You pound your fists into his back, even though it was useless. He just laughs.

“Kick all you want, baby. I like when they squirm.”

The forest spins as he walks deeper. You scream into the trees. Birds scatter. No one comes. 

His palm cracks across your ass. “Louder. Maybe someone will come save you.”

Another slap.

“Spoiler alert: they won’t.”

You sob. As his grip on your thigh tightens as he hauls you like stolen prey, his voice a low growl:

“You’re mine now. And the fun’s just getting started.”

He doesn’t stop walking until the woods swallow every last trace of the road behind you.

You’re thrown to the ground. You land on your stomach hard, your breath whooshing out in a pained gasp. The cuffs clank as you instinctively try to brace yourself. You start trying to push yourself up but you can’t get up. He’s already on you.

A boot presses down on your back. Not enough to break you. Just enough to pin you, humiliate you, remind you what you are.

“Such a good little runner,” he hums. “Almost made me work for it.”

You sob.

“Please- please don’t do this.”

He laughs- low and delighted. He crouches down, fingers twisting in your hair, yanking your head up so you have to look at him.

Your eyes meet his, fear mingling with something else- something you couldn’t name. His gaze was intense, his expression a mix of annoyance and desire. He ran a hand down your side, his touch deliberate, his fingers grazing the curve of your hip.

“Look at those tears. Fuck, you’re so pretty when you cry.”

You squeeze your eyes shut.

He shakes your head roughly. “Eyes. Open.”

You obey, trembling.

He smiles. “Good girl.”

His thumb smears a tear across your cheek. Then he presses that wet thumb to your lip, forcing you to taste it.

“You know you were never getting away, right?”

“Please, just let me go. I won’t tell anyone. I swear-”

He snorts. “No, you won’t.”

He stands, dragging you up with him by your hair and you whimper loudly. Your knees scrape against dirt and roots as you struggle to stand. He shoves you hard against a tree trunk. Your face presses into the rough bark.

His hands wander immediately- rough, entitled, unkind. He grips your hips, grinding himself against your ass.

“Mine.”

You squirm.

“Stop- don’t-”

He pulls you back by the hair, arching your spine. His other hand snakes under your hoodie, dragging it up, exposing your back, your bra, your shivering skin.

“Fuck, look at you. So innocent.” He sniffs you, moaning. “Smelling like fear.”

You try to pull away.

He laughs in your ear. “Keep fighting. I fucking love it.”

He bites you between your neck and shoulder. You cry out- turning your head and slightly scraping your face against the bark. 

“Shhh.” He licks the bite. “Don’t want you too bruised. Yet.”

You try to push him off with your bound hands. He grabs them and slams them higher up the tree, pinning them there with one hand. His other hand drags over your stomach, lower. You clamp your thighs together. 

He kicks your foot. “Spread.”

You don’t. Making him growl.

Then you feel it. The barrel of the gun slides between your knees. He nudges it higher, just barely grazing the inside of your thigh.

“Spread,” he repeats.

“You want to see what happens if I don’t ask so nicely next time?”

Sobbing, you obey. 

He puts the gun away and slides his hand between your legs. Over your jeans at first, then under the waistband, fingers finding your panties. He strokes you through the fabric, deliberately slow.

Your breath hitched as his fingers brushed against your panties, his touch both gentle and demanding. You felt exposed, vulnerable, and yet there was a part of you that thrilled at his dominance.

“So wet.”

You sob.

“Please… please stop.”

“I already told you baby, you need to beg better.”

He rips at your hoodie, pulling it over your head roughly. Your arms can’t help you. It bunches around your bound wrists, leaving you in just your bra. He steps back to look at you.

“Fucking gorgeous.”

You shake. Teeth chattering.

“Please… I’ll do anything, please don’t hurt me…”

He hums, pleased.

“Oh, I’m going to hurt you.” He smiles. “But you’re going to like it.”

He unbuckles his belt slowly, eyes never leaving you. You let out a strangled sob., making him chuckle.

“Good girl. Cry for me.”

He leans in. Kisses your cheek. Softly. Tenderly.

“You’re mine now. My pretty little pet. My plaything.”

You flinch as his hand closes around your throat. Not squeezing. Just there. A promise.

“Say you’re mine.” He growls

You shake your head frantically. He slaps you.

“Say it.”

“No! No- please- ”

He sighs like he’s disappointed. Then you see it. He draws the gun from his holster again and holds it lazily at his side.

“You’re really going to make me use this?”

He presses the cold metal barrel to your stomach. You freeze.

“So fucking say it,” he says again, softly. “Say you’re mine, or I’ll make a mess right here in the woods.”

“I’m yours!” you sob instantly.

He smiles.

“Good girl.”

He licks the tears off your cheek.

“Now beg me to keep you.”

You sob.

“I- I don’t want- I can’t- ”

He grips your hair again, yanking you back. He pushes the gun deeper into your stomach.

“Beg me.”

“I- please… keep me…” you say sobbing loudly. 

His eyes blaze.

“Fuck. That’s better.”

He releases you. You slump to the ground, half-naked, shaking.

He circles you like a wolf around prey.

“Clothes off.”

You stare up at him, horrified.

He cocks his head. “Do it. Or I’ll do it for you.”

Hands shaking, you try to wriggle out of your bra. Your jeans are harder with the cuffs. You fumble. Fail. He sighs dramatically.

“Pathetic.”

He crouches. One hand grabs your hair again, the other rips at your jeans. The button pops. The zipper drags painfully over your hips. He forces them down roughly, taking your panties with them.

You’re left shivering, dirty, humiliated. He leans back on his haunches to admire his work.

“Look at you. Perfect.”

You try to curl up. He doesn’t let you. He grabs your ankle and drags you flat on your back.

You scream. He clamps a hand over your mouth.

“Shut up. Don’t want you scaring the wildlife.”

He leans close. His hair brushes your face.

“Gonna fuck you so good you’ll forget your own name.”

You shake your head violently. He surges forward and kisses you, shoving his tongue in your mouth. Deep. Wet. Disgusting.

You gag, causing him to laugh.

“Don’t worry. I’ll make you love it.”

He presses his knee between your legs, forcing them apart. You try to fight. He pins your wrists above your head again with one hand. His other hand roams your body freely, groping your breasts, pinching your nipples until you whimper and squirm.

“Shh, baby. Don’t worry. The real fun’s about to start.”

You sob. He smiles down at you, eyes dark, hungry. “You’re not going anywhere. Not until I’m finished with you.”

He pauses, “And I’m never finished.”

The forest is quiet except for your sobbing.

Your face is streaked with tears, hair tangled from his grip. Dirt smears your skin. Your bare chest rises and falls with panicked gasps. Jungkook stands over you, belt coiled in his hand like a leash. His eyes are bright in the gloom, teeth bared in a smile that’s all wolf.

“Look at you.”

He says it like an accusation.

You try to scoot back on your ass, bound wrists scraping roots. Your jeans are gone. Your panties lie shredded nearby. Your bra dangles from a branch where he flung it. You’re naked. Exposed.

He moves before you can blink. His boot presses on your thigh, pinning you. He leans over, grabbing your wrists and wrenching them higher above your head. He uses his belt to tether them low on the slanted tree trunk.

Your scream is high and broken.

“Please! Don’t- don’t do this! I’ll do anything, please let me go!”

He just hushes you.

“You are doing something for me.”

He leans close, nose brushing your cheek.

“You’re going to make me feel good.”

You twist, trying to buck him off. His laugh is a rasp. He lets you squirm- watching you fight. You feel him getting harder through his uniform.

“God, keep fighting. Makes it so much sweeter when you break.”

You sob, words failing you.

His hands roam. Palms you like meat. Gropes your breasts, thumbs flicking your nipples. He pinches them until you squeal.

“Say it,” he murmurs. “Say you’re mine.”

You shake your head.

He slaps you. Hard. Your head jerks.

“Say. It.”

“I’m-” your voice cracks. “I’m yours.”

He sighs in pleasure.

“Again.”

“I’m yours.”

He kisses you violently. You gasp, trying to turn away. He bites your lip until it bleeds.

“Taste that?” he says against your mouth. “That’s you giving yourself to me.”

You sob. He breaks the kiss to slide lower. His mouth on your neck, biting, sucking hickeys that will stay for days.

“I’m going to mark every fucking inch of you.”

He places the gun beside your head in the dirt, just close enough for you to see it. You stare at it with wide, panicked eyes.

He watches your gaze and smirks. “One wrong move, and I’ll use that to remind you who owns you.”

He licks a path down to your chest. Sucks your nipple so hard it hurts. Bites the swell of your breast. You wail, trying to twist away.

He growls. “Stay. Still.”

Your wrists burn in the belt restraint. His hand slides down your stomach. He cups your mound.

You jerk. “Please- don’t touch me there-”

He smirks. “Sweet thing, that’s the only place I want to touch.” he says while laughing in your face. 

He parts your folds with rough fingers. You’re wet. You whimper in humiliation. He hums like it’s praise.

“Fuck, you’re soaking. Did you know that?”

“I’m not- I’m scared-”

“Same difference to me.”

He thrusts two fingers inside you without warning. Your back arches. You keen in pain.

But there’s something worse.

Heat. Low in your belly. A flutter you try to crush. You whimper in horror at the way your hips rock helplessly. 

“No- please-“

He moans at the feel of you clenching. “Tight little cunt. Made for me.”

You sob, shaking your head violently.

He scissors you open. Your feet scrabble at the ground uselessly. He pulls his fingers out and smears your slick over your clit. You squeal, trying to twist away. 

He grabs your throat. Not choking but controlling “Stop.”

He rubs you mercilessly, circles your clit until your hips betray you and buck. You sob in shame.

“That’s it. Good girl. Show me how bad you hate it.”

Your breath hitches in a moan you didn’t mean. He notices and grins.

“Oh, you like that, don’t you?”

You shake violently. “No- I- I fucking hate you-”

He slides his fingers back in. Crooks them cruelly.You feel something building despite everything. Your thighs tremble.

You gasp.

“No- please- I don’t want to-”

He leans in, teeth grazing your ear. “Cum for me.”

You shake your head, silently crying. He moves faster. More relentless.

“I said. Cum.”

Your whole body locks up. You scream.  But it’s not just pain. Your vision whites out. You cum. You tried to hold back, but it was no use. Your body betrayed you, your walls clenching around his fingers as you cried out, your orgasm tearing through you like a storm. Your walls spasm around his fingers, pulsing slick. You moan and sob at the same time. He moans at the feel of it.

He groans, grinding his cock against your thigh through his uniform.

He didn’t stop, even as you trembled, his fingers continuing to stroke you until you were a quivering mess.

When he finally pulled away, you were breathless, your legs weak. He smirked, his eyes dark with satisfaction.

“Fuck yes. That’s what I wanted. Look at you. Perfect.”

You sob so hard you can’t breathe. He pulls his fingers out and smears your wetness on your lips.

“Taste it.”

You try to turn away. He holds your chin. Forces it. He hums in satisfaction. He unzips his pants. Your eyes widened as he freed his cock, thick and hard, the sight of it sending a fresh wave of heat through your body.

“You know what’s next.”

You turn your head away, tears soaking the dirt.

“I- I can’t- I’m sorry-”

He grabs your chin.

“Don’t be sorry. You’re mine, remember?” he growled, his voice low and dangerous. “And I’m going to remind you just how much.”

Your eyes go wide. You try to fight but you’re powerless.

He lines up. You scream. He sighs in bliss. He thrust into you without warning, his cock filling you completely. You gasped, your head falling back as he began to move, his hips snapping forward with a force that left you breathless. 

The handcuffs bit into your wrists, a constant reminder of your helplessness, but you didn’t fight it. You couldn’t. His dominance was absolute, and you were lost in it.

“That’s it. That’s fucking it.”

You kick. Your cuffs rattle. He just grabs your hips and forces you to take it all. He bottoms out. Holds you there.

You’re shaking. Crying. But you’re wet. You feel it. You hate it. Your mind screams but your body clenches. A humiliating moan slips out and he hears it.

“There she is. Good girl.”

You sob, shaking your head. Your mouth was dry, your thoughts scattered as he pounded into you, his movements relentless. The forest around you faded away, leaving only the two of you, his body pressing into yours, his cock stretching you open. You felt full, overwhelmed, and yet you can’t believe you wanted more.

“You’re fucking good for me.” He starts thrusting. Hard. Deep. You feel every humiliating drag. He moans in your ear.

“Gonna ruin this pussy. Make it mine.”

You sob. He fucks you harder. The belt creaks where you’re tied. Your wrists bleed. He doesn’t care.

“Please- I don’t want- ”

“But you need it. Look at you. Dripping for me. You love this, don’t you? Being used like this?”

He thrusts. Hard. Deep. You cry out, but it’s a half moan.

You want to die. You hate that you feel good. You hate him. But your hips buck anyway.

He laughs darkly.

“Say you love it.”

You shake your head. He slaps you again and thrusts harder. 

“Say it.”

“I- I love it,” you choke out.

“Louder.”

“I love it!”

He roars in triumph. He pounds you harder. Your voice breaks. He tells you all the sick things he’ll do. How he’ll keep you. Breed you. Lock you away.

“You’re going to look pretty when you’re pregnant with my child, baby.”

He pounds you relentlessly. You’re so close. You beg him through small moans. And he brings you there.

He leaned in close, his lips brushing your ear as he whispered, “Cum for me again. Do it, or I’ll make you regret it.”

His words sent a shiver down your spine, but they were unnecessary. Your body was already on the edge, his rough thrusts pushing you closer and closer. You cried out, your walls clenching around him as you fell apart, your orgasm tearing through you like a wave. Hard. Sobbing. Hating every second.

He kisses your wet cheeks.

“That’s it. Good girl. Mine forever”

He finishes inside you. his grip tightening on your hips as he thrust one last time, his cock pulsing inside you as he came. “That’s it,” he groaned, his voice rough. “Take it all.”You feel the hot spill. He collapses over you, panting. He kisses your face like a lover.

“All mine.”

You can’t even cry anymore. He pets your hair. For a moment, neither of you moved. 

“Don’t worry. We’re just getting started.”

Your body feels heavy. Boneless. Used.

Your wrists burn where the belt held them to the tree. They’re red, raw, leaking small rivulets of blood and sweat. Your thighs are sticky with his cum, your own slick, the mess of it cooling uncomfortably in the night air.

You don’t even have the energy to sob anymore. Just ragged, broken breathing. He’s still inside you, buried deep.

Not thrusting anymore. Just there. Holding you open, claiming you with every second he stays sheathed inside.

His breath is hot on your shoulder. Slow. Satisfied. You flinch when he finally pulls out. Your body clenches uselessly.

A whimper breaks from your throat.

He hushes you.

“Shhh. It’s okay.”

He sounds so gentle you want to vomit. You try to turn away. The belt binding your wrists tugs painfully. He unloops it slowly, letting your hands fall. They’re so numb you can barely move them.

You collapse onto your side. He catches you before you can hit the dirt. Arms wrapping tight around your waist. You flinch, letting out a cracked, broken sob.

He just shushes you softly, rocking you like a child. “Shhh. Shhh. No more crying. It’s over.”

You’re shaking so hard your teeth chatter.

He hums against your ear, soothing, twistedly affectionate. “You did so good for me.”

You try to pull away with the last bit of strength you have. He tightens his grip.

“No, baby. Don’t fight. Not now. You’re mine.”

Your voice is barely a whisper.

“Please… let me go…”

He growls low in his throat, the sound vibrating through your back where he holds you.

“Don’t say that. Don’t ever say that again.”

He turns your face roughly with one hand, fingers digging into your jaw. You can’t even close your eyes.

He leans in and kisses you. Slow. Deep. Your lips crack from the dry sobbing, split from earlier. The taste is copper and salt. He moans into your mouth like it’s a love letter.

When he pulls back, you’re gasping, tears starting again.

He wipes one away with his thumb, “Look at me.”

You don’t want to. He pinches harder.

“I said look at me.”

You obey. Eyes blurry. Red. Broken. His own eyes shine with that mad gleam.

“You’re mine now. Do you understand that?”

You don’t answer. He slaps you. Not hard enough to break anything. Just enough to feel it.

“Answer me.”

Your voice cracks.

“I’m… I’m yours.”

He breathes out a pleased sigh.

“Good fucking girl.”

He leans in, pressing his forehead to yours. You try to shy away but his fingers hold you in place.

“I’m going to take care of you. Feed you. Dress you. Fuck you whenever I want.”

You let out a broken sob.

He smiles, “Shhh. Don’t cry. You’ll learn to love it.”

You try to speak. Nothing comes out but wrecked sounds. He rocks you again. His gloved hand trails down your body possessively. Over your ruined thighs. Between them. Smearing what’s left of his cum against your skin with sick reverence.

He presses the gun to the inside of your thigh once more. Firm. Icy.

“You keep crying, but you haven’t said thank you yet,” he whispers. “Thank me, baby. Or I’ll make this night worse than you thought possible.”

You sob harder- voice cracking, “Th- thank you.”

He hushes you, “Shhh. It’s okay. I know. It’s messy. Let’s clean you up.”

He drags his fingers through your folds slowly. You squirm weakly, sobbing at the overstimulation.

“So sensitive. Poor thing. So fucked out.”

He brings his fingers to your lips. You clamp your mouth shut. He waits. Calm. Patient. Then pinches your nose.

You can’t breathe. So you gasp. He pushes his fingers in.

“Taste what you did to me.”

You start tearing up again.

He smiles.

“Good girl.”

He finally lets you go, your body slumping in the dirt. But he doesn’t leave you there. He tucks himself back into his pants, adjusting calmly like nothing happened.

Then he leans down. Hands under your knees and back. He lifts you. You’re limp in his arms. Exhausted. Broken.

Your arms dangle, raw wrists leaving trails of blood on his uniform. He doesn’t seem to mind.

“You’re going to sleep so good tonight.”

You sob weakly against his chest.

“Please… don’t… I want to go home…”

He chuckles.

“We are going home now. I’m your home.”

You can’t stop crying. He carries you through the forest slowly, like a bride. But there’s nothing romantic about the way he tightens his grip every time you flinch.

When you reach the road, his cruiser is waiting.   He sets you on your feet, but holds you steady as your knees buckle.

He opens the back door. You see the cage partition. You see the locked handles. 

You try one last time. “Please… I’ll be good… let me go…”

He sighs like he’s tired of explaining. “Stop asking. You’re mine.”

He throws you inside. Your bare thighs stick to the cold plastic seat. He reaches in and buckles you, snapping it so tight you can barely move. He cups your face in one gloved hand. Smiling.

“Say it.”

Your voice is a scratchy ruin, “I’m… yours.”

“Good girl.”

He softly kisses your lips.

“Forever.”

You shiver.

He closes the door. You hear it lock. He walks around to the driver’s side. Gets in. Starts the engine.

You can’t stop the tears. You don’t even try.

As the cruiser pulls away, bumping over the dirt road, you hear his voice in the front seat, low and dark and happy.

“Mine. All fucking mine.”

He keeps driving, the forest swallowing the narrow road in darkness. He kills the lights, letting only the low hum of the engine and your broken sobs fill the air.

You press yourself into the corner of the back seat, wrists raw from the cuffs, legs pulled up uselessly to your chest.

He glances at you in the rearview mirror. His dark eyes catch yours, and his mouth curls into that smile you’ve learned to fear.

“That’s it, pretty girl. Let it all out.”

Your breathing hitches. You can’t stop the tears.

He laughs softly.

“Fuck, you’re even prettier when you cry. You look so real now. No more of that tough act from before.”

You squeeze your eyes shut. It doesn’t help. His voice wraps around you like a noose.

“Shhh. Don’t be scared. You’re safe now. No one’s going to hurt you except me.”

Your shoulders shake.

He keeps talking, voice low and calm, like he’s confessing something intimate.

“I’m going to take such good care of you. Feed you. Bathe you. Dress you. Strip you. Fuck you until you don’t even remember what being alone felt like.”

You let out a cracked sob, shaking your head frantically. He hums contentedly, fingers tapping the wheel.

“We’ll have such a good life. I’ve got a place ready for us. Bed with fresh sheets. I’ll get the closet full of clothes your size.”

You gasp in horror, voice strangled.

“Please… let me go… I won’t tell anyone- plea-”

He cuts you off with a low growl.

“Don’t. Say. That.”

His eyes blaze in the mirror.

“Don’t you ever fucking say that again.”

You whimper, shrinking against the door. But he smiles again. Softer. Sicker.

“You’ll learn. You’ll see. I’m patient.”

He turns his gaze back to the road, the trees blurring by in the dark.

“You’re going to shower when we get there. You’re fucking filthy. I’ll watch. Make sure you’re clean everywhere. Don’t want you hiding anything from me.”

You let out another sob.

“Then you’ll sleep in my bed. Right beside me. Don’t worry, baby. I’ll tie you up nice and tight so you don’t wander off.”

Your entire body trembles. He chuckles. 

“Next time you try to run?”

The amusement fades from his voice. Cold steel seeps in.

“I’ll break your fucking legs. Understand?”

You cry harder. But he just sighs like he’s exhausted by your disobedience.

“I’m not a bad man, pretty. I just hate liars. And I hate runners.”

You stare at the cage barrier. Your own reflection in the glass. Eyes puffy. Skin raw.

Empty.

He hums under his breath as he drives, tapping the wheel, like nothing is wrong at all.

“You’ll see soon enough. I can be so good to you. As long as you’re good for me.”

Your mind screams.

You think about your apartment. Your roommate. The show you were supposed to watch together tonight. She’ll surely wait up for you. Call you. Text you. Leave the porch light on. She’ll think you’re just late. 

She’ll never know you’re gone.

Never know that you’re crying in the back of a cop car, naked, dried with his cum between your legs. You sob so hard your throat burns.

He clicks his tongue. “Shhh. Don’t wear yourself out. We have a long drive home.”

Your vision blurs. But you can’t block out his words. You’ll never see any home again except the one he owns.

“By morning, you’ll understand you’re mine. Not today. Not tomorrow. Forever.”

He doesn’t look back again. Just drives deeper into nowhere.

And you realize, with cold, perfect clarity, that no one is ever coming to save you.

═══════

♡ Pull Over: Detained

♡ MASTERLIST ♡ a03

♡ requests are welcome ♡ taglist ♡

These characters are fictional and do not represent any real-life individuals. Their likeness is used solely for visual inspiration and does not reflect the actual person or their story.

═══════

Posted: 07/05/2025

Taglist: @mar-lo-pap @lovingkoalaface @whoa-jo @kiliskywalker666 @sucker4jeon @annpeachy @kaiparkerwifes @nikkinikj @elithenium @asyr97 @heyinwluv85s @jjkluver7 @bammbi-jeon127 @kookoo-kachoo @angelsdecalcomania @kayswatanabe @granataepfelchen @kelsyx33 @tatamicc @blubird592 @llallaaa @chromietriestowrite @k1ll1ngcl0wns @jahnaviii @mfsitscho @traumaanatomy @mellyyyyyyx @yu-justme @bangtaniess @mygukkiebaby @roseda

[issybee06]

Baby hotline!

Viltrumite men and how they are in bed!

I got bored and when I’m bored I write so here! Munch!

Short dabbles, nothing major I just thought we should get a little snickersnack

This includes Thragg, General Kregg, Lucan, Nolan, Mark and Conquest, and that one Viltrumite Guard who got his head double teamed by Allen and Nolan(he was very pretty idc I just locked onto him like a dog smelling chicken)

…………………….…………………….��………………….………….

Grand Regent Thragg-

Fucking mean

Like full-on does not care if you aren't prepped or shit he's going in.

He wants kids, not pleasure, so he's fucking like its his 9-5

He's got your ass up, sharp, calculated, thrusts as you're sobbing and begging to cum. Red marks on your cheeks, bite marks on your body, cum from previous orgasms running down your thighs.

You beg again and he scoffs.

“Again…? I don't think it's fair that you've got to cum 5 times now and I haven't cum once,” he chuckled lowly in your ear, “hold. It.”

General Kregg-

Terrible husband, great father.

Excellent in bed.

He gets around, and doing so he's learned A LOT from all his fairs and now knows exactly what makes you tick.

If he's one thing, he's great at memorizing and learning from his conquests.

He's got you on top, smirking as he watches you work yourself before he shifts his hips just enough to get the head of his cock to kiss your sweet spot.

“Fuck!”

He's humming, thumb lazily rubbing circles into your clit, “come on star…youve got it…give me another baby to spoil.”

Lucan-

Omggggg

I love Lucan so much he might be one of my favorite Viltrumites in the comics

So loyal to his wife, refused to breed with any other humans besides her

He would treat his partner right, praising and kissing and would take time to learn what you like and hone in on it 10x more than you'd expect

Like eating you out? He's got that tounge trick down to a T

“Fuck…Lucan…right-right there!”

He'd blink his pretty dark eyes, hick your legs higher on his strong shoulders and work you until you were seeing the stars he hailed from.

Nolan-

HE KNOWSSSSS

We all know he and Debbie were still going at it

He looks older, but his stamina? Unmatched. Once he's got you its end game.

He's passionate, rough but not mean, hands on the headboard as he's pounding into you. The wood will splinter, the wall will dent, you wont walk for days, but he's grinning and cooing down at you.

“Come on darling…cant you keep up? I think you can…youre my tough little human…”

He's tweaking your nipple, pinching it and rolling it roughly, snorting when you whine, “shhhh, you like it.”

Mark-

Bottom.

Canon bottom.

Whining and holding you too tightly cause he still can't fully control his powers so you'll bruise, begging you to fuck him harder. You're on top, riding him as he thrusts up into you with a pathetic look on his face. So in love, wanting to please, you tell him to do something hell fucking do it.

“Ah-AH~ ba-baby! So good when you ride me, so tight…so warm-FUCK-b-babe can I cum? Please? Please? Plea-”

“Mark…huh…t-touch me?”

Don't need to tell him twice, he's already swiping his thumb over your clit and watching you unfold before messily cumming inside with a cry of your name.

Conquest-

Dominating

Taughting

Teasing

He's gonna toy with you, drag out each orgasm and then ruin your peak. He wont let you cum, not until you're crying and offering up your soul to a demon does he let you finish.

Its not even about him, he can care less about if he gets to cum, his pleasure comes from breaking you, ruining you, claiming you like this.

He'll laugh, ruining another orgasm, “Aw, were you gonna cum? Did I ruin it for you? I guess we're just gonna have to start over, again.”

You'll cry, hell laugh and lick your tears up without care.

Viltrumite executioner-

I think he's a switch, I mean look at him.

He can either be pounding you mercifully with your legs on his shoulders and one of his hands on your throat.

“You like this? Fuck… you're so filthy…flying all the way to the prison just for some dick…”

Orrrrr

He's moaning, crying, whimpering under you as you force another orgasm out of him and admire the was his tan skin flushes and his pretty eyes fill with tears from overstimulation.

“Oh-stars-p-please…i-i can't anymore…too much!”

[yuujispinkhair]

THE SUMMONING - PART 2

You get hurt, and Sukuna learns the hard way that nothing is as terrifying as the thought of losing you

PART 1

Pairing: Trueform!Sukuna x Reader (female) Genre: fluff + smut + angst with a happy end Word Count: 4.5k Warnings: 18+, mentions of smut but nothing explicit, violence, blood, Reader gets attacked and almost dies, but Sukuna heals her, mentions of murder, mentions of cannibalism. All characters are of age. Minors don't interact. Divider @/benkeibear

Sukuna still visits you every other day, his feet always carrying him back to your little hut in the middle of the woods. Back into your arms, back to this newly-discovered feeling he only gets when he is with you. This warmth, that he never knew before. This fluttery feeling, that fills his chest and makes a smile tug at his lips.

Here in your hut, Sukuna doesn't have to be on his guard all the time. He can let go and just feel. It's a kind of luxury he never had before. When he feels the soft caress of your skin against his. When your warmth envelops him. When he surprises himself by how tenderly he kisses you and how slowly he moves on top of you, inside you, treasuring every moment of your intimate union, committing every gasp falling from your lips to his memory, reveling in the feeling of your legs tightening around him and your fingers digging into the muscles of his broad back, right before his name falls from your lips in the sweetest cries.

Sukuna can't deny that he would like to see you every day. He craves your presence, your touch, your company. He would like to sleep curled around you every night in his bed in his temple. He would like to have you join him during his baths. He would like to have you sit across from him at every meal Uraume serves him.

But when he brings it up one evening when he and you are tangled up in your bed, bodies still hot and sweaty from your freshly spent passion, you smile and shake your head slightly,

"My place is here. I don't think I would be fit to be the woman by your side, my Lord."

Sukuna's first instinct is to bark a command, demanding you to obey him and come with him. Telling you that no one says no to the King of Curses. But he closes his mouth again before his lips can form any words like that. It doesn't feel right to say that to you.

Sukuna almost laughs out loud at the realization. He is a man used to taking what he wants, a man used to everyone kneeling before him and following his orders obediently or dying a gruesome death.

But it's different when he is with you. He doesn't want to scare you or force you to obey his wishes. He doesn't want to use his power and strength against you. No, when it comes to you, Sukuna cannot bring himself to do any of that.

What would your connection even be worth if he forced you to come with him? It would just be like everything else in his life. Empty and fake. Sometimes, Sukuna catches himself thinking that nothing in his life is real. Everyone is just playing an act around him, careful to please the monster they fear. So terrified of him that they do anything to avoid his anger. And others are constantly sucking up to him, wanting nothing more than using him for their own gain. All they care about is his power, his riches, his protection.

How refreshing it is to hear you say no to him. How refreshing it is to see how honest you are. How brave. Sukuna's heart swells with pride and admiration.

No, he won't force you to come with him. He doesn't want to taint what the two of you have. He doesn't want it to become nothingness, just like everything else in his life. When one can take anything he wants without resistance, everything slowly loses meaning. But what you and Sukuna have is meaningful, and Sukuna wants it to stay that way.

And so he just laughs gruffly and tightens his four arms around you, pressing himself against you from behind, wrapping his huge, muscular body around you, holding you at least for a few hours here in your bed, while he adds softly,

"You are the only one that is fitting to be the woman by my side. I hope you'll give it more thought and maybe change your mind, little one. But if not, I will just come find you here. But know that I won't ever take another woman. The place beside me is reserved for you."

Sukuna sees you lift your head and look at him with surprise written all over your face. You reach out, and your tiny hand cups his disfigured cheek oh so tenderly. Caressing him as if he isn't the monster that everyone fears. He leans into your tender touch like a starving man, his four eyes closing momentarily as he just lets himself bask in your loving touch.

Sukuna's enjoyment is still laced with fear. It still scares him what you do to him. How you managed to put him under your spell. He is so strong and powerful, but his heart feels so fragile since he found his way into your arms.

Sukuna sighs and rolls off you, gazing down at your small figure on the bed, letting his hands travel slowly down your naked skin from your shoulders down to your thighs before he straightens up, his hair almost brushing against the ceiling of your small hut.

"Sleep well. I'll come to visit you again soon."

The smile he gifts you is too tender to ever be shown in bright daylight, but here in the dim lighting of your hut, which is only illuminated by several small lanterns, Sukuna thinks it is safe to show such raw emotion.

He walks back to his temple through the nightly forest, taking his time, breathing in the cold night air that carries the earthy scents of the forest. On his clothes, he can also still smell the soup you cooked for him. And underneath that is another smell. Your scent. Flowers and herbs and magic mixed with the sweetness of your sweat and your arousal that is still clinging to Sukuna's skin.

A light chuckle escapes his lips as he slowly follows the narrow path through the forest. Yes, you truly awakened another side of him. Who would have thought that the feared monster could become so tame and so vulnerable for a tiny human woman?

But Sukuna doesn't know just how vulnerable he made himself by falling for you until he returns to your hut three days later.

He is still quite a bit away when his nose catches the faint smell of smoke. His nostrils flare, and all four sapphire eyes scan the trees around him. His strong body is alert, his muscles taut, and his hands are balled into fists as he sniffs the air.

It is unmistakably a smell he is all too familiar with, a smell that he is often the cause of. The smell of destruction and violence. Blood and smoke.

Sukuna breaks into a run before he is even aware of it. He rushes through the forest, his large feet landing heavily on the soft forest trail. His breath is harsh in his ears, and his body is tense, every muscle ready to strike.

He can already sense the tragedy before he even reaches his destination. And he gets the cruel confirmation he dreaded when he enters the small clearing where your hut stands. Or rather used to stand. There is not much left of it.

A fire crackles loudly as the bright flames flicker in the soft breeze, swallowing the wooden structure. Your few belongings are scattered all over the forest floor. The pots you cook your delicious soup in, the little flasks with all the things you collect in the forest, your bedding on which Sukuna made you his over and over again just three nights ago, and the beautiful red silk scarf he brought you as a present, half of which is burned to ashes.

Sukuna has never known fear like this, as when he stands frozen in place, his four sapphire eyes wide open as he stares at the destruction before him. His chest feels so tight. The smoke fills his nostrils and his lungs, choking him. And even worse than that, there's also another all too familiar smell filling his senses. The metallic smell of blood. A scent Sukuna usually enjoys because it means food or that he had fun wreaking destruction. But today, the metallic dark red scent is making him nauseous.

He draws in a sharp breath, finally able to move again as his gaze darts around. He can see a trail of dark red liquid sticking grotesquely to the light green grass that your naked feet used to dance on.

Sukuna follows that trail, not like a hunter this time, but like a man walking toward his execution, mind reeling with dark thoughts, heart heavy, convinced that what he will find at the end of this red trail will bring his demise.

Because how could Sukuna still call himself alive if you were taken from him so cruelly? Was he even truly alive before he met you? Before you kissed him and loved him and treated him like a man instead of a monster?

Sukuna grits his jaw. Either this will lead to the ruin of the feared King of Curses, or it will lead to an even more terrifying rule of terror. He will burn everything to the ground, will burn the whole world down, will cut everything and everyone to pieces, will stand in the flames and watch them all burn and bleed and scream and beg for his mercy. But Sukuna will have none. He doesn't need this world if you aren't in it anymore! His kingdom will be worth nothing if he doesn't have his queen by his side. No one deserves to live when his beloved was taken from him!

Regret joins Sukuna's desperation and anger. Regret that he never told you the sheer extent of his feelings for you. That he didn't court you like he should have.

Sadness threatens to drown him when he thinks of all the half-finished poems lying around in his study in his temple, all his attempts to put into words what he feels for you. Would you have smiled if he had given you one? Would you even have been able to read those poems, or would Sukuna have had to read them to you? Would you have found them beautiful? Would you have understood how much you meant to him?

Did you die crying out for him? Did you die, not knowing that he... that he loved you?

Sukuna's nails dig painfully into his palms, drawing blood, causing wounds he doesn't even bother to heal. He forbids himself to dwell on those thoughts, accelerating his speed as he rushes through the forest.

Sukuna's strong legs sway for a split second when he spots your crumbled figure lying under a tall tree.

He is by your side in an instant, the King of Curses kneeling in the dirt, staining his beautiful white pants with your blood and the muddy dirt of the forest floor, but he doesn't care. His four thick arms instinctively reach out but then stop a mere breath away from your lifeless figure. Scared to touch, scared to cause even more damage.

When Sukuna finally touches you, it is gentle, almost timid. Just his fingertips ghosting over your bloodied skin. He sends his reverse cursed technique through his skin to yours. He doesn't dare breathe, fearing it will be a fruitless attempt.

Fearing you are already gone. Fearing you have already stepped over the threshold to the afterlife without him, lost and lonely, scared out of your mind because he didn't manage to protect you, even though he is the most powerful sorcerer, the most feared monster.

"No."

The word comes out in a broken whisper as Sukuna grabs you and pulls you into his lap, strong jaw clenching when he sees the damage the intruders did to you. The countless bruises, the scratches, the blood, the ripped clothes. A part of him dies in that forest as he stares down at the broken body of the one he loves.

"Come back to me, little one! Open your eyes! Look at me!"

Sukuna's voice sounds like the growl of a wild animal, too harsh and too loud in the otherwise eerily silent forest. He sends more reverse cursed technique through his fingertips, pressing them against your skin, almost crushing you in his urge to heal you.

Fear and anger are a dangerous combination. The words leaving Sukuna's lips are harsh, cruel even, demanding, filled with the desperation of a man who thinks he has lost everything,

"Don't you dare leave me, woman! Open your eyes! I didn't allow you to go! Your King demands you to look at him, you damn brat! Look at me! I forbid you to die!"

Sukuna's voice breaks at the last word. His vision is blurry, and he doesn't know why. Is it sweat running into his eyes? Is it the smoke from your burned-down hut? His face feels wet, and he wonders if it is your blood soaking his skin, marking him with the guilt he feels for not being there for you when you needed him.

Sukuna presses his teeth together. He feels light-headed. From the fear, from the guilt, from the sheer amount of power he is using to send all that reverse cursed technique through his fingertips to your cold, bruised skin. He doesn't care, though. He will give you more. Will give you all of him until he uses up all his strength.

If he cannot bring you back with his power, then he will just die here next to you. Will place his huge body over yours, protecting you from the wild animals who will surely soon be attracted by the scent of your flesh. But they will have to go through him first. At least he will be able to do that for you.

A broken, raw sound escapes Sukuna's throat at the same time as a small, barely audible gasp leaves your lips.

Your eyes open, looking weakly up at Sukuna, staring uncomprehendingly at him. Sukuna draws in a sharp breath, his large hands grabbing you tightly as if he is scared you will slip through his fingers again if he lets go of you. The wetness in his eyes is even worse now, clouding his vision, spilling over, running down his cheeks hot and wet.

Your tiny hand comes up weakly to cup his cheek, just like you always do, gently caressing the black markings on his face and wiping away the strange wetness on his face.

"Sukuna... oh Sukuna. You came. I knew it. I knew you would find me in time."

You speak the words as if you never doubted he would save your life. As if you are completely convinced that your fates are entangled until the end of time. And maybe it truly is like that.

Sukuna lets out a relieved breath. He leans into your gentle touch, turning his face so he can press a kiss to the inside of your palm. He can taste your blood on his lips and the salty taste of what must be his own tears.

How strange. He can't remember ever crying before. Not even when he was just a starving, abandoned child who wandered through the streets looking for a way to survive. Not even when everyone called him a monster and threw stones at him had he ever spilled any tears. But you... you bring out so many new things in him. It's terrifying and beautiful in equal parts.

But right now, all that Sukuna feels is relief. Relief so immense that it makes him grin broadly at you, his chest filled with tingling exhilaration, his mind light-headed as he lets his gaze wander over you, watching your wounds close again, watching the life come back into your eyes.

Just looking at you isn't enough, though. Sukuna needs to touch you, needs to feel your skin becoming warm under his palms, needs to feel your heartbeat under his hand. He needs to make sure you are truly breathing, living, part of this world again. Part of his world. Or maybe not just part of Sukuna's world, but his whole world.

His large hands run over your body restlessly, still sending his healing powers into your skin.

"How are you feeling? Does it still hurt somewhere?"

You shake your head, a dreamy expression in your eyes as you look up at him.

"I feel good. You healed me. Thank you."

A weak but genuine smile lifts your lips, making Sukuna gulp hard. He can't look into your eyes for too long, or he fears you will see too much of the raw emotions cursing through him. Instead, he inspects your body scrutinizingly, checking for even the smallest scratch.

Sukuna is satisfied with what he sees. Your wounds have closed beneath the dried blood. All the broken bones are fixed again. His little fragile bird is whole again. Its broken wings are fixed again.

Regardless, one of Sukuna's large hands is slipping under the torn fabric of your robe, cupping your left breast, pressing his palm against your naked skin, feeling your heartbeat fluttering underneath it, counting it, waiting until it has settled into the familiar, strong rhythm it always has when he rests his head on your chest after making love to you on your small bed.

Finally, Sukuna dares to let his gaze wander to your face, his voice rough when he asks,

"Who did this to you?"

You shake when you tell him what happened. How a group of men came up to your hut as you were cooking, how they instantly attacked you, demanding you to hand over all of your belongings. They took everything of worth from you and then set fire to your home before they proceeded to attack you while laughing and telling you that you wouldn't get out this alive. You tried to run from them, fleeing into the forest, but they caught you again.

You can't describe them other than they had dark hair and black clothes, but Sukuna doesn't need more than that. He can still smell them on you.

He makes sure that you are comfortable, slipping out of his haori to carefully put it under your head as a cushion. Telling you to rest and that he will be back in a short time. He takes your hands in his and brings them to his lips, kissing your knuckles, his blue eyes burning into yours as if he is trying to make you understand he will do anything to make up for his mistake.

Sukuna moves through the forest with all his senses sharpened. In his hunting mode again. The powerful predator chasing his prey. The merciless monster looking for the kill. He can smell the stench of your attackers and can easily follow their trail down a narrow path through the forest.

He hunts them down quickly and finds the small camp they set up by the river, where they cook fish over a fire and laugh and chat as if they didn't just try to take everything from him.

Their laughter stops the moment they see the large, strong figure break through the underwood. And the laughter turns into screams of terror when Sukuna smirks cruelly at them as he snaps his fingers to slash their Achilles tendons, stopping them effectively from running from his wrath.

Now, Sukuna's laughter fills the air as he watches them fall into the muddy grass, scrambling desperately in their attempt to crawl away from him, screaming and begging. Begging for mercy he doesn't have.

"You laid your hands on what is mine. Now, you will suffer the punishment for it."

"Please let us go, Sukuna-sama! We didn't do anything wrong! We serve you devotedly! We would never attack any of the villages under your protection! It was just a useless woman!"

"Silence, insect! I didn't allow you to speak to me. That woman is mine. How dare you touch what belongs to me!"

He sees the comprehension settle over their faces, all hope leaving their eyes as they realize what they did. A satisfied smirk spreads over Sukuna's face as he slowly walks towards them, laughing when he sees their futile, pathetic attempts to crawl away. To escape from The King of Curses. From the God Ryomen Sukuna.

He stops only a few steps away from them, gazing down at them with cold hatred burning in his blue eyes.

"Usually, I would tell my loyal servant to come here and pick up your dead flesh after I am finished with you so they can cook it for me. But rotten people like you don't deserve the honor of being eaten by me. You will decay here in the dirt, getting eaten by worms and other animals."

Their screams, when he uses his power to slice them open and tear them apart oh so slowly, are sweet to Sukuna's ears. But it's not enough. Killing them didn't bring him the peace he hoped it would.

Sukuna knows there is only one place where he will feel better. By your side.

He hurries back to you, the tension leaving his strong body when he sees you sitting up where he left you, wrapped into his haori, hugging yourself and smiling at him. That sweet, warm smile that is always so full of affection.

Sukuna is by your side in a heartbeat, swooping you off the ground and into his arms, cradling you to his broad chest. You laugh, but he can still hear how shaken you are, and it almost breaks him. He feels sick. Sick at the thought of the pain and fear you had to endure. Sick at the thought of what almost happened. How he almost lost you forever.

Sukuna's arms tighten around you, his low voice rough and determined when he tells you,

"You're coming with me. Enough is enough. It isn't fitting for my lover to live out here in the woods anyway, and it surely isn't fitting for my future bride."

Your eyes widen at the word bride, but you smile softly at him, a small hand coming up to touch his chest, resting on his buff pectoral muscles,

"Alright, bring me to your temple until I fully recover. Maybe you can help me rebuild my hut afterward..."

Sukuna laughs gruffly as he presses a tender kiss to your blood-stained forehead. Even now, you so desperately want to stand on your own feet. But it's a small victory, at least. He can bring you to his home, take care of you, make sure you are wrapped in the softest silk, and eat the most nurturing meals to get you back to perfect health.

And who knows, maybe once you have seen the life Sukuna can offer you, you will finally let him have his way and keep you forever.

So Sukuna starts walking. He carries you all the way to his temple and smiles when he hears your soft gasp upon seeing its sheer size.

He tells Uraume to get clothes for you and everything else a woman might need.

"And make sure everything is of the finest quality. I only want the best for my betrothed."

Uraume raises a curious eyebrow at that but bows respectfully and replies with the usual politeness,

"Of course, Lord Sukuna. I will get the finest garments and items for your Lady."

You protest even in your weakened state, claiming that you don't need anything special and that you are used to living a simple life in the woods. But Sukuna just hums softly and carries you deeper into the temple.

"Oh, little one, I know you aren't here for my riches, but just let me spoil you a little bit, at least."

You sigh and snuggle against his naked chest, murmuring something about how good he is to you, and Sukuna can't help but make a strange noise, a low rumble deep in his chest, almost like a purr.

He carries you straight into his bedchamber. A place that is usually sacred to him. So private that no one is allowed in here apart from his loyal servant Uraume.

Sukuna gently lays you down on his bed, careful not to hurt you, gazing down at you with his four sapphire eyes full of love. Finally, the suffocating tightness in his chest vanishes, and Sukuna feels at ease again.

So far, Sukuna has only shared your small bed in your hut with you. But now you will share his bed with him, a huge bed the size of half your hut, with sheer endless silk pillows and luxurious sheets. No one else was ever allowed in here. But when it comes to you, all his former rules don't apply anymore.

Sukuna trusts you. And he wants you here. He wants to share his bed with you, wants to share his whole life with you.

You are his beloved, his woman, his bride.

Sukuna lets his eyes slowly travel over you. Your body is so small compared to his huge bed, but you look so comfortable, and your skin looks so beautiful against his red silken bedsheets. You meet his gaze, looking up at him with trust and love in your eyes. The way you always look at him, despite him being who he is and looking the way he does.

Sukuna smiles at you as he tenderly brushes the hair out of your face.

"Rest now, my love. You are safe here."

He sits on the side of the bed, watching you and petting your hair as you drift off to sleep.

Sukuna can't help but think that this is where you belong. In his temple. In his bed. He hopes you will stay forever. And if not, he will have to find ways to convince you. He will not risk losing you again.

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING!! It's been a while since I wrote the first part of this story, but I couldn't get this version of Sukuna out of my mind again. I am so happy that I finally finished Part 2!

I hope you enjoyed it and that you would like to be Sukuna's bride after reading this 💗💗 I certainly do ;)

Comments and reblogs would be very sweet 💗

[yzzart]

✶⋆.˚ DID A DEMON EAT YOUR TONGUE? ── VERGIL

୭˚. ᵎᵎ summary: during your pregnancy, your husband only wants to make you feel good.

୭˚. ᵎᵎ content warnings: F!reader, reader is pregnant, established relationship/marriage, 18+, fingering, praise kink, teases, explicit words, explicit content.

“Carry on, my wife.”

The voice, so unperturbed and balanced, instructed your ears, exerting unalterable control over the words; a drastic calm, which also bothered you. — It burned, deeply, and increasingly, your skin.

Your husband, unusually, would never stop teaching you to be patient, to remain impassive — such words were ironic, like a joke about his past — even if it might take longer than expected.

“Vergil, i don’t…” — Your words, if they could be considered, slipped, incoherently, and not maintaining harmony of meaning, it was ridiculous, humiliating; you were starting to become blind, incapable of any shit in your head.

The half-demon, your lovely husband, kept you, in pure and complete comfort, between his thighs; pleasing a position where your belly, which was gestating your firstborn, would fit. — Firstborn, it was such a beautiful word, wasn't it? — The bed amplified the comfort, the fine and satiny sheets that blended together.

Oh, it wasn't just that. — Worried, perhaps, a little complacent, and austere with your complaints, which were not few, of contractions, discomfort and a thirst for need, Vergil didn't worry about a solution; his lover always knew what, in fact, to do. — Or rather, his fingers knew what to do.

“Can’t you tell me how your day was?” — He breathed, feigning disappointment, against the back of your neck, leaving a small kiss on the warm skin; at the same time, moving his middle finger inside you. — “I’m so curious.”

Your hand snaked down Vergil's strong arm, pressed so tightly against your body, lightly scraping your nails and feeling him shiver faintly. — The damned man laughed, seeing your despair and delight, which was so adorable, he followed his lips to your reddened cheek, kissing. — Such an affectionate gesture.

Vergil rested his back against the headboard, made of pure and resistant wood, in front of your body that rubbed desperately against his legs; with your hip, you tried to intensify the pleasure, wanting more while, with the other hand, you supported yourself on your belly. — A stunning scene for him.

“My wife,” — He claimed softly in his voice, breathing deeply and inhaling your scent; something that left him distracted, addicted as a demon is thirsty for blood. — “I have the right to know if you felt any pain or dissatisfaction.” — During the small reprimand, Vergil increased the speed of his finger, exuding a wet noise between your thighs. — “I would hate to know that my child is causing you so much mercy.” — The speech sounded sweet with a touch of predominance.

Gods, upon learning that he had impregnated you, after countless mating sessions, — such animalistic vocabulary, which came out of his scrupulous and brave mouth, causing a burning sensation between your legs — Vergil severely held you in his claws.

Not that this is an objection, ever.

The long finger provided a slow, disgusting “come and go” against all the agony that burned in your chest, wanting to delight and release that trapped pressure. — But it was so delicious, delirious, hellish.

“V-Vergil..!” — Tears began to threaten your eyes, the selfish and power-hungry man pushed, deepened, his finger, touching and feeling your velvety walls; locked and inside your pussy, he stimulated, moved his finger. — “My husband, my husband..” — You repeated it countless times.

“Yes, my darling?” — That damned demon, and he was still the father of your child, drove her crazy and, formidably, fucked you up. — “Tell me.” — The sky-blue eyes, which always contemplated you, in every detail that could exist in you, traveled to his hand; including his head, enhancing his vision, he observed the silver shine on his ring finger, his wedding ring.

The proof of your union, commitment to the faithful and pure passion bond between you and him. — The pact, the promise that would never be broken in any life.

“I felt nothing.” — Finally, you spoke, and you weren’t lying; even though it was extremely difficult to format words or be fair to your lover. — “I swear to you, i swear..”

Your head turned, along with a few strands of hais standing out against the eldest's chest, and those dilated, trembling and, in the midst of voluptuousness, ecstatic eyes met Vergil's face. — You were so charming, apollonian; you always were.

“I just missed you, my love.” — Your voice pleaded, whimpering through the teary vision; Sparda smiled delicately, dedicating human tenderness. — “Please,” — Tears began to roll.

“My beautiful wife,” — Vergil kissed your forehead, feeling a salty taste on his lips, removing one hand that prevented you from closing your legs completely, and resting it on top of yours, which was on your belly. — “the lovely mother of my child.” — The words warmed your heart, entering into fascination.

When he finished speaking, Vergil returned to investing small, quick and flexible thrusts with the same finger, smiling when he heard your needy and melodic meows. — And nodding his head in agreement with anything that came out of your cute little mouth.

[bluehourbucky]

illicit affairs

paring: older!JoelMiller × younger!reader

summary: Joel calls you a kid when Tommy asks about you.

warnings: sad,angsty age gap (reader is in late 20s and Joel late 50s)

A/N: Yes this is inspired a little bit by taylors song illicit affairs. also this is my second time ever writing for joel so uh sorry if it's a bit out of character 😭

oops this is a bit long... hope you enjoy

~~~~~

Maybe you should've known better, and maybe this is exactly why you're standing in the doorway of Joels kitchen, fists curled up by your side with tears threatening to fall while you listen to the man you've fallen in love with call you a kid.

It started innocent, you had just come to Jackson and slowly started to adjust to the somewhat normal life in the community. It was hard to sleep, hard to function for a while without your body being in fight mode.

That was until you had stumbled upon the Joel, after making a delivery to his and Ellies house. You've heard stories but never met the man, he's like a mystery, he does his part but stays away most of the time. So when the door to Joel's house opened you were stunned.

A man in his 50s, he's wearing a flannel sleeves pulled up, glasses low on his nose, his forehead shiny with sweat, and wasn't that a sight. You stood unmoving, speechless.

"Uh hello?" Joel says and since that moment you knew you were a goner.

"Hi! This is oil for wood or something." you shyly say,which earns you a soft smile from the man opposite of you.

"Thanks." and as he takes it away from you, your hands touch and your hand is on fire so is your face.

and that was just the beginning.

Since then you started noticing him more and more or maybe you were just looking for him.

The community meetings turned into you just stealing glances at Joel who always stood in the corner, with a frown on his face making his wrinkles more prominent. He'd catch you every time but never say anything, and you would always blush.

It was never supposed to be serious, it was just a crush. But then the glances turned into small touches. And the touches into something more.

One day you had expressed a wish to learn woodworking from Joel when you saw the guitar he had restored for Ellie. He quickly agreed, even though he was surprised why you would even be interested in it. If he was being honest Joel would love some company.

However with it came a problem for you and your focus and it was just Joel.

"You're not really here to learn woodwork, are you? Sweetheart?" Joel said his voice lowering as he said it, while smoothing out some wood while you watched him, or his hands more like which he had noticed.

"Not really, no." you sheepishly admitted as Joel slowly turned in his chair.

"What are you really here for darling, it can't be for me?" the teasing tone in Joel's voice, along with him being just centimeters away from you made you weak in the knees.

"But I am, I mean I'm here for you." you mumbled. His eyes softened, and he slowly gently lifted your chin so you look at him.

"Sugar, I need you to repeat that because I'm not sure I heard you and I dont wanna do somtin' wrong."

You have no idea where the bravery came from , maybe it's the way he said it or just a leap of faith you stood from your chair and stepped into Joel's space, right between his legs. Your hands grabbed either side of his face and you kissed him. His hands instantly went to your waist holding you in place.

And since that day Joel and you saw each other every single day, in secret. He'd come to your house, he'd kiss you like there's no tomorrow and then leave. Joel would take the streets less crowded, so he doesn't get noticed.

"Hey, Joel! What're you doing out this late?" Tommy asked.

"Uh just a run?" Joel replied his face still flushed from previous activities.

"Since when do you run?"

"Have to keep myself in good shape." Tommy looked at him with confusion but shrugged and said nothing.

As months went by, you kept falling.

For your birthday Joel had managed to find a museum that had aurora borealis simulation on the ceiling. You had told him you read about it in a book years ago and had since lost the book, but you could never forget it.

"Did I do good?" Joel looked at you softly, unsure if it's too much or not enough. Nervousness laced in his voice. While you just laid there the greens and blues shining over your teary eyes.

"Good? Joel this is a dream, It's perfect. Thank you. I didn't even know the colors could be this beautiful."

Joel just smiles, the kind of smile reserved just for you, where he lets himself be happy. Joel turns and puts his hand on your cheek caressing it slowly with his thumb, and you close your eyes feeling more content than ever.

"I love you." you whisper, eyes still closed afraid of looking at him.

"Sweetheart, look at me" and you do, Joel looks at you and it's enough. You know what he isn't saying. It's like a secret language you two have.

And right now everything just crumbled so fast, and if you don't leave you'll crumble too.

As you leave you crash with Ellie.

"Woah are you okay?"

"Just great, I have some stuff to do."

The walk, almost run to your house is painful, it doesn't help that you can barely hold the tears in, making it hard to see where you're going.

When you got home you slid down the door, your face pressed into your hands, and it's getting hard to breathe. Maybe you're being dramatic and maybe Joel is right, you're just a kid, there's a freaking apocalypse and you're dreaming of what? Happiness, love?

Stupid isn't it? Childish.

You don't know how long it's been but it must be while since you heard Joels signature knock at the same time every evening.

"Hey, sweetheart. It's me."

It takes a while for or you to decide what to do but you know he's still there. When you opened the door Joel knew something was wrong not only because you took so long to answer but also because you'd already be in his arms.

"Baby, is everything okay."

"Stop. Do not call me baby!" you take a step back as if he had physically slapped you. Joel is taken aback by your outburst. In the months he'd known you, you were always just soft and sweet.

"Did I do something?" Joel asks softly, confusion drawn on his face.

"I think you should leave."

"What?"

"You heard me." Maybe you shouldn't be acting like this it is childish but you're hurt.

"Why are you acting like a-"

"LIKE WHAT? A KID?"

Realisation hits Joel like a truck.

"You heard that? Listen I didn't mean it like that."

"Then what did you mean by,

"No she's a kid I would never do something stupid like that.""

You're one of those people who is sensitive and when you're sad angry frustrated you cry.

"God look at what mess you made me. It's embarrassing." you look down and see your shirt cover in snot and tears.

"I'm sorry,I swear I didn't mean it like that, Tommy asked and I didn't know what to say, and we didn't talk 'bout what to say to others."

You chuckled sadly.

"So the best thing was to say you see me like a child? Like that's not weird at all. Please Joel just leave,we're done. You can go live your life a good man who didn't fuck a woman years younger than him."

Joel and you stand in silence, it's deafening. The words hang between you.

"Darlin' I'm sorry I said that, and I wish I could go back and not say it but I can't. And why I said it doesn't make me any more of a good man. I'm not a good man at all. I've sinned, I've got so much blood on my hands, I hurt people that's all I do. You're too pure for me, and I didn't want to admit it but ruining you with my reputation is not the road I was willing to take. What would they say? What kind of a monster is he, and how could she even let him touch her with his bloody hands. I don't care what they say about me but you deserve better and I was too lost in the lies I told myself, that I can stop whenever. But I couldn't. I'm sorry I hurt you but you're better off without me, and I'm not going to ruin you like I do everything else."

You're too overwhelmed, you knew Joel was broken but you thought you were enough, that he was finally accepting the love he was given by you so freely.

"You know that for you I'd ruin myself a million little times and more." you say while your voice breaks. Joels eyes glossy, tears just about to run down but he keeps them from falling.

"I know which is exactly why I must leave."

He gives you a feather light kiss to your forehead and closes the door behind him.

~~~~~~~

a/n: uh what is wrong with me why must I suffer😭

better man (part 2) happy ending <3 if you don't want this one 😅

[sai-int]

omg what about first time giving RTS!Simon a blowjob !! Is he all rough and mean about it or is he gentle, letting you explore his body and take your time adjusting to his size?

hmm... I’d say both! reader seriously teaches simon how to love as their relationship develops. he absolutely softens a bit, but he’s nothing if not a man stuck in his ways, if even a little.

cw: detailed blowjob, fem!reader below the cut!

“I dunno about this, babe…”

You’re kneeling on the mattress, bare legs tucked under you, fidgeting with the hem of one of his old shirts—your favorite one, soft and worn, hanging off your shoulders.

You’re nervous. And not in the shy, flirty way either.

It’s more raw than that—honest. There’s a slight tremble in your voice you can’t hide.

Simon’s sitting back against the headboard, legs relaxed, arms loose at his sides. The mask’s off for tonight (at your request), resting folded neatly on the nightstand beside his knife and the book he’s been pretending to read. His eyes meet yours, warm and steady.

“Y’got this, sweetheart,” he says softly. “But no pressure, yeah?”

You chew your bottom lip, glancing toward his massive bulge hidden beneath his boxers, the space between his thighs.

Your cheeks go hot. Even after all the time you’ve spent together—after learning every inch of each other’s bodies like scripture, you still get nervous. You could sculpt him from memory, chisel him from marble with your eyes closed, and still he makes you feel small.

He’s just so much—all tank-like and solid—and somehow, that never stops making your stomach flip.

“It’s not that I don’t wantto, I do, it’s just… well, you’re—”

“Big?” he finishes, one brow raising with a slight, crooked smirk. That dry humor is still there, but it’s softened with affection.

You huff a laugh, sheepish. “Yeah... not something easy to ignore, y’know.”

He shifts slightly, sitting up to trace the back of his hand along your jaw. “I’ll help y’out, sweets,” he murmurs, thumb brushing over your cheek. “Won’t do anythin’ alone.”

That calms the buzz in your chest a little.

The room smells like the two of you. amber and clean linen, a hint of his aftershave soaked into the sheets. You’re both on the bed he built for you. Literally. A wide, sturdy thing, carved from maple wood—the exact kind you’d mentioned offhand in a story once, something about your grandma’s porch as a kid.

He never forgot. He never forgets anything, actually. But now, it holds your shared weight, your shared life. Same with the sheets: pale grey, soft from so many washes, tangled up with the comforter he always kicks off but you always steal back in the middle of the night.

You take a breath and settle between his thighs, breathing slow as he guides you closer to his length with gentle hands—one at the nape of your neck, the other resting steady against your jaw. Nothing rushed.

You pull down his boxers and take him in your hands. He murmurs sweet nothings when you wet your lips and suckle at his tip, when you test the weight of him against your tongue, when your hands slide over his thighs and he shivers beneath your touch.

“There y’go,” he groans, voice thick, chest rising and falling like the tide. “Just like that, Girl— Doin’ perfect.”

You glance up at him through your lashes, the edge of a smile tugging at your lips as you pull your lips off of him with a pop. “Could say the same about you…”

Simon huffs a breathy laugh, head tipping back for a second. But when he looks at you again, it’s different—his gaze darker, more intense. “God, you’re trouble.”

you hum a laugh as you swallow him down again, your mouth moving slow, building confidence with every pass of your tongue, every soft hum that makes him twitch beneath your hands.

You hollow your cheeks a little and take him deeper—gulping as his cock tickles the threshold of your throat. He curses under his breath, thighs are tense under your palms, his stomach flexing as you keep going. with one hand, you stroke what doesn’t fit, and with the other, you gently fondle his spit soaked balls.

And just when you think you’ve got the rhythm, that you’ve found your pace and your place in it, he shifts.

His hand weaves itself between the locks at the back of your head, fingers threading through the strands as his hips roll up into your mouth. Controlled, but undoubtedly rough.

“Fuckin’ hell, baby—” he groans, voice almost strangled. “Dunno what y’doin’ t’me— Christ—”

You gag around him and your eyes widen, part surprise, part thrill—and his grip in your hair eases, smoothing along your scalp.

“Too much?” he murmurs, meeting your pretty, glassy eyes. His voice is all second-hand smoke now—breathy, rough when he breathes. “Tell me if it is. I’ll stop.”

You shake your head, eyes watering slightly, lips swollen from the stretch of him. You don’t want him to stop. Not when he’s like this—straining to hold back, fighting himself every second just to let you lead, even when he so clearly wants to take over.

He cups your cheek with one large, shaking hand, thumb brushing the corner of your lips as he salivates over the way your lips stretch to take him—your eyes wide, jaw tense as you lave around him, the muscles in his stomach twitching each time you swirl your tongue just right.

“Look at you go,” he hums in awe, “So bloody sweet for me— Sweet thing—”

His praise comes ragged now, breathless, and he can’t stop touching you—your hair, your face, your neck. Like he needs the contact just to believe you’re real.

“Shit baby— So good- fuck—there y’go…” His cock violently twitches in your mouth when he finally reaches his peak. It isn’t necessarily a storm—it’s a slow, rising tide that’s pulling him deeper and deeper.

He gasps, instantly shooting thick ribbons of tangy cum down your throat. You swallow (not like you had much of a choice), pulling off of him when his thighs stop twitching.

You crawl up beside him after, wiped mouth, flushed cheeks, tucked against his chest like you always are. He reaches for the throw blanket at the end of the bed without thinking, draping it over your shoulders, hand smoothing along your back.

“You alright?” he murmurs, nose brushing your hair. “Wasn’t too much?”

You grin against his chest. “Nope. Might’ve even liked it.”

“ ‘Might’ve,’ she says…” He presses a kiss to the crown of your head. “Gonna be the death of me, y’minx”

You snuggle into him and press a soft peck to his clavicle.

“Si?” You tilt your head to look at him.

He meets your eyes with a soft, fucked-out smile playing on his lips.“Hmm?”

“Can I do it again?”

[loserinahotway]

Hobbies - Will Solace

Will Solace is head doctor. Easily and often shortened to only doctor. So, he thinks, knowing there’s more snide than there needs to be, who would expect him to have hobbies? Apparently, there’s a phase of dating that relies on their existence. 

Nico and Will have only been dating for two weeks. Haven’t kissed yet, have been on a solid three in-camp dates. And Will, on the forest floor with his back to some poor tree, is breathing heavy with the crushing, rock-hard weight of that stupid, too deep question that just. Keeps. Coming. Back.

He’s not stupid. He can see. He knows, logically, rationally, that it’s a standard question. A good and easy icebreaker. An important thing to know about as a partner. Yeah. Totally. Mhm. What do you do in your free time? Solid stuff. Solid. Solid. Good. Solid.

Solid enough to fill his lungs with rocks.

“Shit, what did I- what’s wrong? Will? Fuck. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I don’t- what did I do?”

In. Out. In. Out. In, in, in, in-

He wheezes, embarrassingly, and his forehead hits his knees. He can feel, lightly, that Nico’s hand is above his shoulder. Ghosting it. He’d make a joke if he wasn’t so nauseously panicked. It barely brushes him, hesitant in the anxious, heart-stopped way Will can’t afford to be. That’s a mean thing to think, he berates. You aren’t struggling more than he is. Don’t compare.

He thinks it anyway. I can’t afford that. I can’t have that.

Can’t have hobbies, either.

Will hates when he gets like this.

Nico, next to him and out of his sight, seems to have settled his own breathing. You win, Will thinks, and almost laughs. He doesn’t. “Hey, alright, do you-uhm, do you wanna do the breathing stuff you taught me?”

His hand finally drops to touch his back, and Will feels one finger trace an infinite square on his shoulder. He knows the rules. He’s said them to camper after camper. In for the first line, hold for the second, out for the third, hold for the fourth; in, hold, out, hold, in, hold, out, hold in. 

He doesn’t know how long it takes, but his breath does even out. 

And instantly, guilt. 

He shoots right up and turns to his date. Fuck, his date. A picnic in the woods at the edges of camp. What a lovely way to kill romance. With a pointless panic attack. “Fuck, fuck! I’m sorry, shit, Nico, you didn’t do-”

“Hey, hey,” Nico raises his hands, looking right into Will’s eyes. He looks panicked, like he’s not quite sure what to do. Will likes that, somehow. Not in a sadistic way. It’s calming to seem like he’s not the only one all messed up in the moment. Part of him still bites, why aren’t you fixing it. It sneers about his need to nurse everything back to health. Sometimes Will thinks he was born a contradiction. God and mortal swimming in his blood, with all sorts of emotional opposites moving after that. “We just got you breathing again. You don’t need to apologize to me, Will.”

Will just sort of keeps looking at him. He’s not sure how to respond. Not out of shock or anything, just a lack of words. Luckily enough, Nico continues. 

“I said something.” “You didn-”

“Will.” Nico furrows his brows with the name, and Will closes his mouth and cuts off the denial. He remembers, sometimes, that Nico is technically a prince. And the way he ties weights to words really does sound royal. “I’m not blaming myself, or beating myself up, or sad. I didn’t mean to do anything. I’ve got very little reason to get mad at myself. That won’t help. I’ve learned that, by now. I promise.” Lightly, he moves his hand to Wills. He slots their fingers together against the dirt. “But I care about you. A lot. So, if something I did hurt you, I want to know. I want to get at it and learn and- and be good to you. I want to be good to you, Will. Please. Let me?”

He blinks.

And blinks.

And, with tears in his eyes; “I can’t have hobbies.”

A beat. “What?”

And he just fucking bawls, after that. Crumpling impossibly smaller as Nico curses and reassures and gets closer to him, rubbing his shoulders and forearm. Gods. How fucking pathetic, he thinks. You’re supposed to be a doctor.

That line, that last line. It does do something to numb him. He quiets, after another little bit. And eventually he’s just sniffling and leaning half against the tree and half against the sweet, beautiful, surprisingly good with speeches boy he’s supposed to be on a date with. 

“‘M sorry,”

“I’m not mad, though.”

“Probably should be.”

He pauses for just a second. “I don’t think so, Will.”

Now, Will’s voice is monotone and devoid of anything in a way he’s a little sickly proud of. “I’m a freak.”

Nico raises an eyebrow. Will can’t see it, with his head on his shoulder, but he knows he does, because he knows Nico. “For what? Not filling your exceptionally limited free time with extra tasks?”

Will rolls his eyes. “That’s not what hobbies are.”

“Isn’t it?”

They both stop for just a little, sitting close and in silence. It's really quite nice. 

“Is there a reason this upsets you so much?” You know that feeling, where you’re asked a question, and your whole story just sort of unfolds backwards in your brain. You remember everything, see it all, but it’s behind things. It’s blurred and muffled by glass. That’s what happens to Will, there.

Everything Will Solace has read since he was nine has been in a medical textbook. Because godly gifts aside, he needs to know he’s getting things right. He needs to know how to treat the bleeding and coughing and crying children that are in his care. So the Star Wars novels he’d trek through as a kid are gone. Because he can’t read them without knowing that there’s something better he could be looking at. Something  more useful to get into his head. 

He is the son of the music god and a renowned country star. And he has not a drop of musical talent. Musical knowledge, sure. He can read any sheet music, he can tell you any fact about a piece by ear, he could probably even teach you to play any instrument with words. But for the fucking sake of him, he cannot  put anything that sounds good into the air. He gets stressed in low-stakes situations instead of high ones, like he was anxiously programmed backwards. His hands only shake when they’re presented with something that will distract him. Like a guitar. Like a microphone. Et cetera. There’s no instrument that will give him something he needs to have. So why play one?

When he writes, he subconsciously looks for the line he has to sign. The boxes to check. The space for notes. All he’s written in years has been hospital reports and records. Files upon files of them. How’s he supposed to write something without those little guides that have been leading him almost all his life? How would he pen a story, or characters, when all the ideas in his head are organized by urgency? 

Will hates closing his eyes, hates stopping to be with himself. Because then he sees it all. Every mistake. Every brother and sister. Every soaked-through bandage. Every failure. When he looks back into his head, those are the pictures. So what would he paint? Broken ribs? Dead family? Because those are the images he works so hard not to look at. He can’t paint, or draw, because that will bring them forwards.

His hands sewed the shrouds that burned over so many of his siblings. So many. They’ve sewn shut cuts and slices and wounds on almost everyone he lives in proximity to. How can he try sewing, when every needle he’s ever touched has been sticky with blood?

What hobby would you give to Will Solace? Because he really doesn’t see an option.

Still, He’s not really sure how to answer the question. 

“How are you gonna care about me,” He breathes, still internally settling on what he’s going to say. “If I don’t even fucking know me?”

Nico breathes something that sounds sort of like oh, and he pauses. Will sits in that silence, thick and dense, and hysterically, somehow, he’s fucking crying again. 

“Shit. Hey, no- I’m not, like, contemplating you, or being with you, or anything. You don’t need to worry about that. It’s not gonna change. I promise. ”

Will just laughs welty, still crying. Doctor. Doctor. 

The thought isn’t really working, this time. It sort of has a cooldown period. He’s all numb in that cooldown period. He’s good at switching emotions quick, isn’t he? Maybe that could be my hobby. He’s not really present enough to register whether that thought is a joke. 

“I’m just, wondering if that’s something people actually need from a partner. I guess that makes sense, when I think about it. but I never really did before now.”

“You’re the one who asked me. You knew, subconsciously, that it’s something people are supposed to have.”

“Well, maybe. But the questions i’m asking you-“ he breathes a laugh before continuing, “They’re because that’s a part of all the advice I’ve got. Ask him what he likes to eat, and do, and what his favourite colour is. That’s what everyone told me I was supposed to do. I don’t know what I’m doing, here. I’m learning. You’re learning, too. But I’m not learning how to, like, figure out your pastimes. I’m learning how to love you. I don’t need you to have a favourite colour for me to love you, Will.”

“Love me?”

His head is raised, suddenly. Eyes still teary and breathing still choppy. But he’s looking at Nico. His face goes red, but stony as ever, Nico doesn’t falter. “You’re my best friend, even if you’re my boyfriend, too. Of course I love you, Will.” 

Oh.

He’s still. Crying. And that really just makes him cry harder, dropping his head again, his lungs all full of something that won’t go through his blood. 

“Hey. Will. Hey, look at me. Look at me. You know what?”

He looks. 

“Neither do I.” Beat. Beat. Beat.

His heart feels like it’s about to burst. Like it’s full of light or tar.

“Huh?”

“I spent, just, so long. I spent so long seeking kiddie vengeance, and looking for some emotional band aid. I’ve been, like, nothing but angry, for years. I don’t do much, Will. I haven’t picked up many hobbies while feeling like that. So if you can’t be cared for, because you don’t know everything about yourself? then I’m just the same. And you tell me all the time I need to accept care. There’s nothing making you any different from me, Will. You deserve this, too. ”

And it’s light. 

Light.

It’s a stupid thing.

And he’s not fixed.

But it’s every fear in his body made just that little bit smaller, that little bit less loud.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“I love you too.”

Nico grins. “I know.”

Will raises both of his eyebrows. “Was that a Star Wars reference?”

Nico laughs. “Gods, what have you made of me?”

Will laughs, too. “You do know me.”

His smile softens. “You know me, too. Hobbies or not.”

And they sit with that, for a bit. Will’s breathing is uneven, but not with panic. It’s a good feeling.

They sit next to each other, right until sundown, fingers entwined, and maybe. Just maybe. This is something Will  can have. Maybe, he’s not too beat down or busy for that. 

He’s one assurance closer to believing it.

[littlelovelunette]

Ambessa and reader who has mommy issues? Mostly in the sense that their mother blamed not being able to live her own life on reader and it shows with a need for validation and praise, extremely touch-starved yet touch-repulsed due to how foreign it feels?

Touch

I have mommy issues. I'm projecting <3

Contains mentions of parental abuse, mommy issues!r

The first time Ambessa Medarda laid a hand on you, you flinched. It was barely a touch—just the back of her fingers ghosting over your jaw as she tilted your face upward—but your whole body locked up, breath halting like an animal caught in a snare.

Ambessa withdrew immediately, her golden eyes sharp and assessing, but she made no comment. Instead, her fingers drifted away as if she hadn’t noticed the way the you had recoiled from something so simple.

She knew better than that.

She noticed everything.

Ambessa was not a woman who pried. She was patient—not in a way that was gentle, but in the way a predator knew when to bide its time. She let the you orbit around her, let you take the space you needed. She did not demand. Did not push.

It was infuriating.

Because that was all you had ever wanted. Space. Permission. Someone who didn’t see you as a burden, a weight shackled to their ankles, keeping them from flight.

Your mother had always made sure she knew.

"You ruined my life."

"I could have been something if it weren’t for you."

"Do you know what I sacrificed?"

It hit hard.

You grew up knowing you were an obligation, not a daughter. That your presence was something to endure, not cherish. And it showed in the way you sought approval like a starving thing, the way you craved warmth and shrank from it in the same breath.

It made no sense.

Or maybe it did.

You had learned that love was something conditional, something that had to be earned with good behavior, with silence, with obedience.

And touch… touch had been nothing but a means to an end. A slap to silence you.

A hand squeezing her wrist too tightly when you stepped out of line. A perfunctory pat on the head when your mother remembered she was supposed to pretend.

Nothing about it had ever meant comfort.

So why was it different with Ambessa?

Why did it burn through you like an ember catching dry wood, leaving you both raw and wanting?

"You hold yourself like you are bracing for war," Ambessa observed one night, her voice low, considering.

You were in the privacy of her chambers, where the rest of the world could not reach. Ambessa sat in her chair, legs spread comfortably, a glass of wine held and tilted between thick fingers.

She was relaxed, but there was something in her gaze—something that pinned you to the spot like a blade to the throat.

You exhaled slowly, a forced breath. "That’s just how I am."

Ambessa hummed, unconvinced. "No. It is how you were made to be."

You stiffened. Looked away. Ambessa did not press.

Instead, she set her glass down, pushed to her feet, and approached slowly, deliberately. She always moved like this around you—never sudden, never careless. It made something inside you clench.

When she stopped in front of you, she didn’t touch. She simply looked down at you, a titan made of flesh and steel, war-hardened and unshakable.

"Tell me," Ambessa said, voice quieter now. "What would happen if I touched you?"

Your throat went dry. Your hands curled into fists.

"I don’t know."

Ambessa’s brow lifted, but she nodded. "Then let’s find out."

She raised a hand, slow and open, giving you every opportunity to step away. When you didn’t, Ambessa’s palm came to rest against her cheek, warm and solid. But it wasn't a slap.

It was soft, caressing.

You sucked in a sharp breath. Your instinct was to pull back, to flee—but you didn’t. You stood frozen beneath the weight of Ambessa’s touch, overwhelmed by how foreign it felt. There was no demand in it. No expectation. No hidden blade beneath the surface.

Just warmth.

Your lips trembled. Ambessa’s thumb brushed over your cheekbone, barely there, and you shuddered.

"You are touch-starved," Ambessa murmured, more statement than question.

You girl bit your bottom lip. Swallowed hard. "It feels—" your voice faded.

Ambessa’s hand did not leave your face. "Unfamiliar things are not always bad."

You squeezed your eyes shut. Every instinct screamed at you to run, to shove the touch away before it dug too deep, before it uncovered the ache you had spent years trying to bury.

But you didn’t.

Not this time.

[asce-of-hearts]

Hii omg i love your content SO much and i was wondering if you could write some nsfw headcanons for toby, masky and jeff with an inexperienced darling who’s all eager to please them :(

Eager

contents: NSFW Headcanons of yan!Ticci Toby, Yan!Masky and Yan!Jeff the Killer with an inexperienced darling who's eager to please them.

more content of Masky and Toby here

more content of Jeff here

TAG LIST

WARNINGS: NON-CON/DUB-CON, YANDERE, KNIFE PLAY FOR JEFF, SORT OF GUN PLAY FOR MASKY, MENTIONS OF VIRGITINY FOR TOBY, NSFW.

Jeffrey Woods - Jeff the Killer

Jeff likes it because it makes him feel in control, and also because in his eyes that gives him permission to do anything he wants with you.

He likes that despite your trembling and whimpering, at how you're crying and trying your hardest not to flinch away from his cruel and bruising touch, you're still eager. Like a kicked puppy, you still look at him with those wide adoring eyes, asking for more even when you don't want to.

Trying your best to stay still as he draws blood out of you with his knife, its the best thing ever. He can cut and carve and mince as much of you as he wants and you won't complain, won't put up a fight.

And if you ever refuse he just has to manipulate and coerce you into agreeing, into thinking your refusal and dismissal of his desires its equivalent to murdering him in cold blood.

He's always very rough and harsh, very mean, very cruel. Not minding when you plead for him to slow down in the softest, meekest voice. He doesn't care, as long as he's getting his pleasure you come in second place.

Doesn't mean he's not grateful. He just doesn't care enough about it to say it. But he loves the way you behave, he loves the way you try.

You're the perfect victim.

Timothy Wright - Masky

Tim is relieved. Saves him the god awful job of having to force you. Not because it would make him guilty, but because having to fuck you while pinning you down or pointing a gun at you seems just so troublesome.

Even if he won't say it out-loud, it's cute, it's cute how you try. How your legs always end up trembling because he makes you ride him and you just want to bounce up and down over his cock faster, or how you gag as you try your best to not choke around his fat cock, or how you tear up as he forces you in the most strange and uncomfortable positions. All in the name of pleasure.

And he's... nice about it. Calling you a useless whore only the first couple of times you're unable to put less than half his dick inside your mouth. Degrading names morph into words of condescending praise whispered at you as he grins and pulls your hair, using you however he pleases.

He's not the best teacher, but not the worst entirely. He takes his time, wanting you to enjoy yourself at least a little bit.

Also because when he tried to shove his cock inside you for the first time without any prep you were so tight he felt like he was fucking a hydraulic press. Mmm-hmm, not the most pleasurable experience for either of you.

He's happy to have you willing to learn what he likes or needs.

Tobias Rogers - Ticci Toby

You're eager? Ha! He's eager!

His heart beats so fast when he sees you naked, he feels like he's going to burst when you kiss him. Too much tongue, and teeth and drool between the both of you, from both parts. You're equally as virginal and inexperienced.

A time of experimentation, even with the pains and embarrassments that come with it. Sessions that can last hour after hour, condom after condom, bed broken after bed broken. Some of those end up without either of you able to cum, others with both of you so overstimulated you feel like you'll die if you have another orgasm.

Very sweet, always mindful of doing his best to make you feel good. Definitely a very reciprocal scenario. He wants to please and you want to please, win-win.

His tics make it hard at times, sometimes you're about to cum and he just has to have a spasm that throws his rhythm off. Or accidentally shoving his cock inside your mouth too fast and too hard due to a tic that seemingly came out of nowhere. As long as you're able to overlook it or laugh it off with him, there should be no bigger issues with that.

hope you enjoyed this!!!!!!

have a great day/night

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[syoddeye]

cygnet, plucked | price x reader | part one part one cw: clothes stealing, forced transformation, coercion, familial abandonment, non-consensual touching/manhandling, restraints, masturbation mention, forced marriage forthcoming cw: dubcon, forced marriage, blood, mild injury a/n: reader is a swan shapeshifter. she retains some feathers as a human. based off this request, obvs influenced by swan-maidens, swan lake.

The first time he touches you, it's your wrist. A firm grip, just below the joint. Testing. Feeling the few feathers that sprout there, thumbing over the delicate, individual rachis.

You don't move. Don't speak. Torn between the instinct to flee and the paralyzing fear that you cannot. You watch his face. The thick brows, the kempt beard. The wrinkles that pull at his forehead when he frowns.

He is older than you—older than you look, at least. His arms are burly, heavy with muscle and hair, his shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows like he means to get his hands dirty at any moment. Willing to. Blue eyes, your favorite color until this second, framed by crow's feet and speak to experience.

He looks at you with expectations you wish you didn't understand.

"Can't leave without this, can you?"

Your dress, spun from feathers and thread, drapes over his shoulder like a pelt. As if it were a thing he hunted, caught, claimed—that he did not simply steal it from the lakeshore when you were distracted. It doesn't belong there. It doesn't belong anywhere but on you.

"Come along. Don't make this harder than it needs to be."

Your sisters are gone. Fled, shrieking into the oncoming sunrise. You do not blame them. But it hurts. 

The lake is still. Empty.

He lets the silence stretch, patient. He has all the time in the world. You don't.

You've watched human men before, from a safe distance, tucked among the reeds with your sisters. You've seen what they do when they think no one is watching. The way their faces shift at the sight of a woman. The way their hands reach, take, ruin.

You are a flightless bird, exposed. Not much of a swan. A sitting duck.

What choice do you have?

You follow.

You learn his name is John. That he has lived in this cabin for almost a year. That he built it himself. That he traps and skins, chops wood, salts fish, keeps a gun out of reach, hidden like your dress.

He tells you these things in pieces, the same way he feeds you. A bowl of soup set down in front of you with no ceremony. A tin cup of well water. A torn hunk of bread.

He talks a little, asks a little.

"Never seen anything like you," he says on the second night while you cower behind his chair by the fire. Where you slept after tearing out of his arms and screaming yourself hoarse. "Wish you'd talk to me. Awfully shy, aren't you?"

It galls you. Shy. As if he is not keeping you here, naked. Vulnerable. You ache for your wings. The sky.

You say nothing.

He exhales through his nose, it sounds like a laugh. "I suppose it's not an easy thing, coming from a life like yours."

You want to ask him what he thinks your life was. But you don't want to know what he would say.

He keeps the dress in a chest under his bed.

You desperately search and find it while he is outside splitting wood. The latch is loose. Stupidly unlocked. You lift the lid and your breath catches. There it is. Your feathers, your escape, the lifeline that made you you.

Your fingers graze the fabric. It should be soft, but it feels wrong, foreign and unfamiliar under your hands. You wonder if it is altered. If it will still fit. If it's too late, tainted by his handling.

"Looking for something?"

You slam the lid shut.

John stands in the doorway, hands on his hips. Forehead slick with sweat. The axe is outside, leaning against the chopping block, but his knife is at his belt.

He'd hurt you if you tried to run, maybe kill you. You are not so sure you want to die.

You don't answer.

He crosses the room. He doesn't look angry. He looks—wry. Pleased. Like he had been waiting for this.

He kneels beside you, one arm resting on his knee, and tilts his head. Reeking of pine and tobacco smoke. "That's not for you anymore, darling."

You swallow. This is the closest you've been since he entrapped you. "It is mine."

He nods, as if conceding the point. "And what would you do with it?" he asks. "Go back? To what?"

He reaches out, wiping away a single, hot tear. The fireplace pops, and you feel the warmth of his skin before you feel the roughness of his fingers. You hate it.

"The lake is still empty. They've not come back."

You think of your sisters. You think of the wind under your wings and streaming over your back, the open sky. You think of the sound of John reviving the hearth in the morning, how he dropped a blanket over you the first night, and said, You'll freeze like that.

Of course, he thinks nothing of the fact that he's the reason why you're naked. Blind to it or willfully ignorant.

"It's just you and me now. I'll take care of you, Shy."

Shy. That isn't your name. But you'll be dead before you give your real one to him. At least something will remain yours.

You look at him. He is a big man. Broad shoulders and palms. Thick, hairy arms and a barrel chest. You've seen the thing between his legs—he's made no efforts to hide himself or alter his routine with you hiding in the corner. He touches himself in the dark when he thinks you're sleeping.

He could break you easily. But he hasn't.

Not yet.

He brushes his knuckles over your cheek.

"Can't believe I found you," he says. "A pretty wife, fished from the lake. Or the sky, I suppose." He smiles, chuckling as if you're both in on the joke. "Mm. Wife." He presses his thumb to your bottom lip. "Yeah, like the sound of that. I'll make you a proper wife."

The way he says it is careful. Thoughtful. It is a promise, or a threat. You cannot tell which. 

You look at the chest.

You look at John.

And you do not answer.

John returns at dusk, the door creaking wide to let in the last slant of daylight, and finds you trussed up where he left you. Your wrists are raw, delicate skin rubbed angry beneath the ropes that tightened with your struggling. 

His shadow spills over you, and a sigh slips from him, edged with disappointment. He crouches. Fingers press into your skin, prodding where the rope bit deepest.

"Damn near hurt yourself, honey," he scolds, massaging the worst of the raw spots. He touches you in the way you've seen him care for his axe. Slow, reverent, making sure nothing is too damaged. Unusable. 

A hand settles over the soft, feathery patch above your rump, fingers carding through it appreciatively, lingering before he unravels the last knot. He ignores your hissing.

The moment you're free, you scramble away, body aching. You tuck yourself behind his chair, peeking out with sharp, distrustful eyes. He lets you go, lets you think you've won some small mercy. 

Then he turns his back, shaking out his coat, unpacking the sack he carried in, setting out each item on the table. Dull, practical offerings—salt, flour, needles, twine. Things for a life you don't want. Things for a home you will never call yours. And last, draped over his forearm, a dress. Mundane. Plain, homespun, the color of stone.

But you are distracted. Staring at the chest.

He only addresses your fixation when he's finished, and hauls it out from under the bed. 

"Take a look."

You do. You don't want to, but you do. Your gaze flicks to him first, wary, waiting for the trap. You open it, and your stomach drops.

Your head snaps up, stuttering, eyes glossing over with hot, helpless rage. 

His smile stretches, knowing. Then, he produces the last item from his trip and draws a bundle from the sack.

He explains it's the reason why he's later than expected. A special order that took hours and a bit of coin, but was well worth it. The seamstress did fine work.

Isn't it pretty?

See the little wing pattern she stitched in?

They're the only wings you'll have now.

He holds it out, delicate feathers and lace draping over his hand, the ruined remnants of your freedom reshaped into something grotesque. A wedding veil.

"Try it on for me, darling," he murmurs, offering it with one hand and adjusting himself with the other. "Let me see my bride."

part two | masterlist

[exquisink]

anal, analingus

Yandere Birthday Boy Suguru Geto is the man of the hour. It’s his special day, and what better way to spend the occasion than with your face smushed into the pillow and your ass up in the air for him to feast on for hours?

You can’t wriggle your way out of his grasp. You have to bear it… after all, you can’t be let off without giving your present to him. The best for last, yeah? Besides whether you admit it to yourself or not, Geto knows you love the way his infuriatingly long tongue plugs up your ass and flicks over your spongy, gummy walls.

You have grown accustomed to the intrusion, sure. You have learned that you are quite adaptable since Geto stole you away. But that doesn’t mean—

“—don’t lie to me, filthy girl,” you’d hear him snarl between him plunging his tongue in and out of your hole. “You love this as much as when I fuck you here, don’t you?”

He twists the long muscle inside, and you practically squeal as you thrash about beneath him but something secures you in place. Two fingers rub your folds as more of your slick builds and builds. More and more swipes of his tongue against your crack and around your rim before he fucks the slimy muscle inside again and you’re crying, begging, but Suguru isn’t quite sold because you haven’t even come yet.

And who is to say he ever stops at one? Who is to stay he even plans to stop?

Not when you’re just the sweetest like this, drool slipping out of the corner of your mouth and dribbling down your chin, leaving a small pool on the sheets. Your face flushed such a brilliantly flattering shade of red that he has half a mind to snap a photo and make a polaroid of this moment. When you’re so utterly helpless, hapless, completely at his mercy. Nothing else you can do except beg or whine and babble completely incoherent things. His dick is so hard at the sight but he doesn’t even need to be touched. (Not right now anyway.)

“Suguru—!” you cry as you come, the hand on your cunt patting the sensitive skin. The lewd squelching of your slick makes you so embarrassed and you can’t even put it into words. You lose track of how long you're in this position; your body going numb until finally, finally he retracts his merciless tongue with a satisfied sigh.

But you're definitely not out of the woods yet; it's never that simple with Geto as he's patting the tip of his cock between your pretty cheeks.

"Aren't you forgetting something?" he taunts, staring down at you with that heinous twinkle in his deep indigo eyes.

"H-happy birthday, Suguru..." you rasp before you choke on a gasp as he sinks his cock deep into you in one go.

[mikkies]

「 THE WINNER TAKES IT ALL, THE LOSER HAS TO FALL. 」

Guest 1337 x GN! Reader┆Shedletsky x GN! Reader┆Two Time x GN! Reader

warnings: uhh I think projection is a warning

notes: I didn't want to write for fuckass two time since he's winning the hottest poll with builderman but I gotta do what I gotta do. ANYWAYS ANGST, heavy angst or light idk.

☆ — GUEST 1337:

THE WOODS ARE quiet tonight. Quieter than usual. The kind of silence that presses in from all sides, thick like fog, humming with things left unsaid.

You’re inside the small wooden cabin you and Guest 1337 share. The fire is down to embers.

Your hands are raw from cleaning the mud off his vest.

He said nothing when he walked in—just dropped it on the floor, collapsed on the bed, and stared at the wall like he expected it to blink first.

“You’re back early,” you offer gently.

He doesn’t respond.

Just keeps rubbing his thumb against a stain on his pants that isn’t there.

“Are you hurt?” you ask, trying not to sound too concerned. He hates that.

He flinches, like your voice pulled him out of somewhere deeper than the forest. “No. Not really.”

You sit next to him on the bed.

His shoulders tense. You’re used to that.

You’ve learned to be quiet when it counts. He usually appreciates that.

But tonight feels different.

“You said something earlier,” he murmurs suddenly, staring into the dying fire. “About how the trees look like bones.”

You blink. “Yeah?”

He’s quiet again for a long moment. Then:

“Daisy used to say that. She’d look at the woods from our window, say they looked like a ribcage trying to trap the stars.”

You’re not sure what to say. You didn’t know her—not really.

You only know the way he gets distant when her name is mentioned. Like it conjures ghosts only he can see.

“I never told you that,” he says, and his voice is thick now. Not quite trembling—but close.

“I never told you anything about her. But you keep saying these things. Acting like her. Laughing like her. Even your handwriting…”

He trails off.

You feel something cold settle in your chest.

“I didn’t mean to,” you whisper.

“I know,” he says. “That’s the worst part.”

He turns toward you. For once, he looks. Really looks. And what you see in his eyes isn’t love—it’s grief. It’s desperation.

“I think I started loving you because I missed her,” he says.

“I thought if I looked at you long enough, maybe I’d forget her face. Or maybe I’d start seeing hers on yours.”

You look away, heart lurching.

“I thought maybe the Spectre put you here for me,” he continues. “Some kind of mercy. Someone to keep me from going completely hollow.”

You open your mouth, but your throat tightens. You feel like you’re going to choke.

“But it wasn’t mercy,” he says bitterly. “It was punishment. Because now I’m holding a good person hostage in a story that was never yours.”

He stands. Walks to the door.

“I’m sorry,” he says again. “For what it’s worth.”

Then he leaves, letting the door creak open behind him.

You stay there by the fire, surrounded by the ashes of someone else’s memory.

☆ — SHEDLETSKY:

SHEDLETSKY IS QUIET tonight.

Not “funny quiet” where he’s holding in a joke, waiting for the perfect moment to strike with some dumb pun or impression. Not “tired quiet” after a long run through the woods with your hand in his.

This is a silence that hurts.

You watch him from the corner of the room. He’s sitting on the floor, hoodie pulled over his head, hands buried in his hair, wings twitching in his back like they’re trying to pull free and fly off without him.

The air in the cabin is thick. Like something is rotting between the walls. Something neither of you want to name.

“You’re not eating,” you say.

He doesn’t reply.

“I made your favorite. Well, as close to it as I can get in this hellhole.”

Still nothing.

You crouch next to him, gently brushing one of the head-wings. It droops, like it recognizes you, but not enough to lean into your touch.

“You okay?”

He exhales shakily.

“You laughed earlier,” he says softly. “It sounded just like her.”

Your hand stills. “Who?”

“BrightEyes.”

You feel your blood run cold.

“I wasn’t gonna say anything,” he continues, voice far away.

“Thought if I didn’t say it out loud, it wouldn’t be real. That maybe you were her. Or something close enough.”

You open your mouth, but he keeps going.

“You’ve got her smile,” he whispers. “Her warmth. That stupid thing you do with your nose when you’re thinking too hard.”

“I didn’t know I did that,” you say, voice fragile.

“She did.”

He laughs, a sound that breaks in the middle.

“And I let myself believe—just for a moment—that maybe I got lucky. Maybe the Spectre gave me one last chance.”

Your heart cracks.

He pulls back his hood. His eyes are glassy, dark, and distant. “But you’re not her.”

You know this. Of course you know this. But hearing it out loud shatters something inside you.

“I keep looking for her in you. Every time I hold your hand, every time you say my name, I try to convince myself it’s her voice. I make jokes because she used to laugh at them. I kiss you and close my eyes so maybe I can pretend.”

You feel your hands curl into fists.

“I’m not a replacement,” you whisper.

“I know,” he says. “And that’s why I hate myself for what I’ve done to you.”

The cabin is too quiet now.

“I should’ve stopped it,” he says. “Should’ve let you go when I realized.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

He looks at you finally. “Because I was scared. Because every time I looked at you, I felt warm again. Alive. Like maybe I wasn’t sent here.”

You say nothing. There’s nothing to say that won’t sound like begging.

He stands, wings flexing once, then folding tightly against his body.

“You deserve someone who loves you. Not the echo of someone I can’t let go.”

“Shed…”

“I’m sorry.”

He walks toward the door.

You want to stop him. You want to scream. You want to cry until the night ends.

But there’s no dawn in this place.

Only darkness.

And two silhouettes—one that left, and one that was never truly seen.

☆ — TWO TIME:

IT WAS WEEKS before you found the photo.

Buried deep under the altar, folded in cloth soaked with dried candlewax and dark stains. 

The image was faded—Two Time, grinning, more human than you’d ever seen them, beside a boy with soft features and brighter eyes. 

His face had been gouged out with something sharp. Over the top, in black ink:

GLORY TO THE SPAWN.

You touched the torn edge. A chill ran down your spine.

They came back not long after. You were still holding it.

“Oh,” they said, softly. “You found it.”

You turned, photo still in your hand.

“This is Azure.”

It wasn’t a question.

They didn’t deny it.

They stepped forward, slow, like approaching something fragile. 

Their smile was sad now—gentler than you expected.

“I used to love him,” they said.

Silence stretched between you, thick and brittle.

“Why?” you asked.

They sat across from you, folding their hands. The dagger gleamed faintly in the firelight.

“He believed in me,” they said. “He believed in the Spawn like me. And he loved me enough to let me use him when the doctrine demanded sacrifice. He never begged. He just… looked at me. And smiled.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat.

“But you’re with me now,” you said. “You moved on.”

They looked at you like they didn’t understand the words.

“I didn’t move on,” they said, and the words sank like stones. “I found you.”

The silence turned sharp.

“You remind me of him,” they added. “Not just your voice or your eyes. But the way you hesitate before you speak. The way you ask questions even when you’re scared of the answers.”

Your blood ran cold.

“So that’s why you wanted me,” you said slowly. “Because I look like him.”

They didn’t deny it.

You stood up.

“That’s all I am to you. A shadow.”

“You’re more than that,” they said, quickly. “You’re his echo. His proof. The Spawn sent you to remind me that I’m on the right path.”

You stared at them, horror dawning like frost.

“I’m not a message from your god,” you said. “I’m not some ghost. I’m a person. And I loved you.”

They looked away, something bitter twisting their features.

“I know,” they whispered. “That’s why it worked.”

You felt your chest crack. “What worked?”

“This,” they gestured to you—your body, your pain. 

“The comfort. The feeling. The illusion that he never left.”

You backed away.

“You should’ve let me go,” you said. “You should’ve let him stay dead instead of pulling me into your grave.”

“I couldn’t,” they said. “Because when I’m with you, it’s like I never stabbed him. Like he forgave me. Like we’re still—”

“But we’re not!” you snapped. “I’m not him! I’m not his forgiveness!”

Their voice dropped to a whisper. “But you’re the closest I’ll ever get.”

You turned away.

They didn’t stop you.

You opened the door and stepped into the night—cold, still, endless.

Behind you, Two Time sat in silence, holding a torn photograph and the warmth of someone who never truly belonged to them.

And you left, knowing you were never loved.

Just remembered.

[reobsessed]

Unfamiliar Waters

Pairing: Tav X Astarion, Reader X Astarion. Gender neutral. Content: Bathing, kissing, hair washing, fluff, comfort, slight conflict that gets resolved immediately, no sex, minor mention of torture. 1500 Words. Summary: You were in dire need of a bath after a harrowing fight outside the inn you were staying at. Unfortunately you find the tub already occupied by Astarion. In an attempt to bond with and get him out of there, you offer to wash his hair. Another short Astarion fic I started a while ago. Wanted to do something fluffy and intimate without any sex. Thanks again to Suri for edits and help with lines and the title!

You flung open the wooden doors, uncaring as wood chipped against lavender painted walls. Just as you were halfway through discarding your shirt, an indignant cry caught you off guard.

“What in the sweet hells, do you mind?!” The towel and toiletries fell from your hands. You’d never been very perceptive and today was no exception. Already fully submerged in the tub was Astarion; chest bare slumped over the side, a dripping copy of the Baldur’s Mouth Gazette in hand.

“Astarion?! I haven’t seen you in hours, is this where you’ve been?” You spluttered. “We really could have used your help. There was a fight right outside the inn. There’s absolutely no way you didn’t hear the commotion.”

“Some of us take pride in our appearances and besides, I needed time away from that festering group of ingrates.” As if to emphasise his point he shuddered. “You know, you could all learn a lot from me, starting with regular bathing.”

“And how exactly are any of us meant to bathe when you’re in the bathroom four hours every day?”

“Oh I don’t know, Baldur’s Gate has plenty of scenic rivers and lakes. I’m sure the bear has no problem leading each of you to nature’s finest bathhouse.”

You rubbed your temples with a freehand. As much as you loved this man, he could really start to grate on your nerves after a while. You scooped up your belongings and made your way over to him, arranging your towel neatly on the floor beside you.

He looked up from the paper disinterestedly. “As much as I love your company, dear, I hope you’re not planning on joining me. I hardly think this,” he gestured disapprovingly at the tub, “can fit us both.”

“Astarion, if there’s anything I can do to cut this exceedingly long bath short, I would be more than happy to assist.”

His eyes widened momentarily. How stupid of you, you hadn’t considered the implications of what you’d said. 

“No, no, that's quite alright. I’ve still got my hair to wash and that’ll take at least another half an hour.”

Perching yourself on the edge of the tub beside him, you began rolling up your sleeves.

“Then allow me.” You smirked.

He flung the sodden paper to the floor and stared at you dumbfounded. “You mean you- wash my hair. I’m sitting here naked, dripping and gorgeous and all you want to do is ‘wash my hair’?”

“Couples do things for each other. Things outside of sex and combat, I might add,” you sniped back. Using your fingers, you began combing through his dampened locks.

“Without the sex, I suppose that leaves only the one thing we do together then.”

“That’s true.” His body tensed. “No, no wait- '' Flustered, you wrapped your arms around his shoulders and pressed your forehead against the back of his head. A feeble gesture, intended to soothe him and buy you enough time to explain.

“Just kidding,” you could hear the smirk in his voice, but you knew it wasn’t genuine.

“I like doing other things with you,” you mumbled into his curls. “I don’t care about the sex.” You relaxed your hold, allowing him to turn around to face you. Delicately, you reached out and wiped a stray piece of hair from his forehead. As you did so, his unnaturally pale cheeks took on a darker hue, perhaps from the heat or from your touch, you weren’t sure.

He cleared his throat and turned away again. “I see then. Well, this is as good a time as any to try something new.” 

“Really?!” your head perked up. “I’m so excited, haven’t washed anyone else's hair since I left home.” You began swirling a hand in the tepid water, carefully choosing a spot faraway from where Astarion sat. “Did you and your siblings ever do this for each other? Like my family did,” you asked without thinking.

He shot you an incredulous glare, which soon contorted into sarcastic glee. “Oh, of course we did! And then in between our torture sessions we’d paint each others’ nails! What good fun it was.” His smile dropped and he fell backwards into the bath, splashing you in the process.

You scratched the back of your head. “Sorry I-”

He waved his hand dismissively. “Leave it, my love. No use dwelling on all that now.” You nodded your head in agreement, not that he could see you. “Come now, we don’t have all day.” 

You hummed in agreement, looking over the various bottles that sat on a shelf beside the bath. Astarion was a very particular man and you didn’t wish to upset him by, god’s forbid, using the wrong fragrance. You gestured towards the selection of shampoo. “What’s your poison?”

“Hmm, I think today I‘m in the mood for jasmine- no wait- night orchid and ginseng- actually, that honey shampoo sounds positively delicious.”

“Might net you some unwanted attention from our camp bear,” you joked, hands sifting through the knots in his hair.

“Fair point. Alright then, I think I’d like to try that raspberry one, the one you got from that dear little market stall.” 

The same one you liked to use.

With a gentle firmness you cupped the sides of his head. You hoped it was enough to stop him from turning around and seeing the pure glee etched onto your face.

“Alright, I need to get it wet, lean back,” you instructed, as you scooped up a handful of water.

He did as he was told and reclined backwards, eyes closed and squinted, anticipating the stream of water. Doing this for your brothers and sisters had been easy. Hells, you could get away with lobbing them in the river and they’d be just fine. Astarion, on the other hand, required a more delicate touch (even if he’d never admit to it) and you were more than happy to cater towards him.

With slow precision you poured the cooling water over his scalp, immediately pushing back any stray drops that threatened to drip down into his eyes. 

Gods, how was it possible for such a man to be so beautiful and how was it that such a man had chosen you as his partner? Your hands stopped and your gaze lingered, as you took in his picturesque features.

An eyelash heavy with steam peeled open, giving you an inquisitive look.

“Enjoying the show, darling?” A thick, humid heat bloomed across your cheeks. “By all means, keep admiring me.”

“Shut up and close your eyes!” You grabbed the bottle from the side and began lathering it in your hands. The familiar fragrance filled your nostrils and despite having grown accustomed to having it as your own scent, you were looking forward to how it smelt on him.

You rubbed the foam through your fingers, fully enveloping his hair in a thick mousse. As your nails dragged across his scalp you heard him moan. 

“That feels positively wonderful.”

“Oh yeah, like this?” you asked, repeating the same motions as before. He mmm-ed softly, sinking further into your hold. You paused for a second, this might be the most satisfied sound you’d ever heard coming from his lips, not a bad thing of course, given his past experiences. 

His eyes were open again, staring up at you, face awash with bliss. 

“Itching for a taste are we?” he goaded lightly.

There was no use dignifying that with a response. You brought your lips down upon his, his head still clasped in your hands. It was brief and sweet, reminiscent of those first kisses you’d once shared with young lovers. Unthinkable that such innocent yearning could be reclaimed so late in life. 

Reluctantly you broke the kiss and pulled away.

“I do rather like that, you know…”

“I know and so do I.” You beamed. “Okay now can you please hurry up so I can have a bath,” you pleaded, peppering his mouth with more kisses.

“Always so demanding,” came his curt reply (the audacity). Nonetheless, he complied and finished up. 

A deep sigh of relief escaped your lips after finally lowering yourself into freshly ran water. About halfway through wetting your hair, a freezing pair of hands on your shoulders caught you off guard.

“Astarion!” you shrieked. The little rogue had snuck up behind you.

“Oh, do be quiet, and don’t splash me. Wouldn’t do to get me wet again.” You watched as he rifled through the shampoo bottles disapprovingly. “We must go to the market together again soon, darling, just the two of us. I know just the product that’s perfect for your hair type, might do something about that helmet musk too.”

You opted to ignore that last dig, instead choosing to relish in the satisfaction of a warm bath and your lover threading his fingers through your hair. “I’d like that,” you hummed happily. 

A contented silence descended over the room. You felt at peace and when you saw him hovering above you with that serene grin on his face, you knew he felt the same.

[sc3ptre]

Hello! Could you write something about a reader from Rio Grande do Sul and Daryl? He calls her a cowgirl because she wears a traditionalist hat and boots.

thanks!

Lessons in riding.

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x fem!reader.

Masterlist | Who am i? | REQUESTS ARE OPEN!

A/n: Did some research, i hope it lives up to your expectationc love!

Genre: suggestive fluff

Warnings: suggestive word play

Era: Season 2

Word count: 0.8k

The sun had barely dipped below the horizon, casting golden light over the Greene farm. You leaned against the fence near the barn, one boot propped up, hands tucked into your belt as you watched the horses graze lazily. Your bombacha pants were dusty from walking the fields, and your lenço was tied tight around your neck, but it was the chapeu tradicionalista, wide-brimmed, worn and proudly yours that drew attention more than anything else.

"Thought we had enough cowboys 'round here," a low voice drawled from behind you. You turned, unsurprised to find Daryl standing there, crossbow slung over his shoulder, eyes flicking from your boots to your hat. "Didn't know we were recruitin' from Brazil."

You smirked, already used to his half-teasing, half-curious tone. "I'm not a cowgirl, Dixon. I’m a gaúcha…different things.”

"Uh huh." He stepped closer, peering at the hat with an amused squint. "So wha's tha’ make ya? Pampas princess?"

You raised an eyebrow. "Do I look like a princess to you?"

He gave a half-shrug. “Definitely ain’t seen none carry knives like tha’.”

You tilted your head. "Don’t forget I shoot, too."

His lip twitched and for Daryl, that was practically a full grin. “I noticed.” He leaned against the fence beside you, shoulder brushing yours briefly. “Ya ever ride?”

“I was ridin’ before I could walk,” you said proudly, eyes flicking to the horse pen. “My grandfather had a farm… taught me how to lasso cattle and dance chula before I learned long division.”

Daryl let out a rare, quiet chuckle you loved. “Dance wha’ now?”

“Chula. You jump over sticks to the beat. It’s a southern Brazil thing.”

“Mmm…fancy footwork ’n dangerous weapons, sounds just like ya.”

You turned to face him fully, hand on your hip. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothin’ bad.” His eyes held yours for a moment too long. “Just sayin’ ya handle yerself. Ain’t many ‘round here tha’ do.”

There was a soft moment of silence between you filled by the distant sound of Carl laughing by the house, accompanied by a breeze lifting the corner of your shirt. Daryl cleared his throat, looking back out over the fields.

"Still don’t get the hat, though," he muttered. "Ain’t it hot wearin’ tha’ all day?"

You took the hat off and twirled it in your hand. “It’s tradition. Back home, if you wear boots and a hat, people know you’re proud of where you come from.”

Daryl was quiet for a second and then, softly… “Ya miss it?”

You blinked. He rarely asked questions like that. “Every day,” you admitted. “The food, the music, the way we’d sit around the fire and drink chimarrão…even the rain.”

“I miss the woods,” he said. “Back home. Me and Merle used to hunt squirrels with slingshots. Dumb stuff. But it's home.”

You gave him a knowing look. “This place starting to feel like home to you?”

He didn’t answer right away. “When’s quiet. When people ain’t screamin’ or fightin’….’n when I get t’ sit next t’ you and talk ‘bout nothin’.” He nodded to himself “Yeah. Kinda does.”

Your heart skipped just a little. Daryl looked away, ears a touch pink. You couldn’t help the grin that spread across your face.

“Well then,” you said, gently bumping his arm, “guess we’ll both just have to bring a little piece of home with us.”

He glanced back at you. “Guess that explains them cowgirl boots.”

You laughed. “Gaúcha boots, Daryl.”

“Righ’. Gaúcha.” He nodded, dead serious now. “Gotta get my words right. Can’t be insultin’ no Brazilian cowgirl.”

You leaned in just enough to tease. “Mhm, you’d be smart not to.”

He leaned back, eyes crinkling slightly. “Ain’t tha’ smart.”

“Noticed,” you shot back, playful.

“Watch it” He crossed his arms, mock affronted.

You tipped your hat back on and started toward the house with a sly smile. “C’mon, Dixon. I’ll show you how to clean a saddle the right way. Might even let you sit in it if you promise not to fall off again”

He followed close, the crunch of his boots in the dirt steady behind you. “Pfff I don’t fall easy,” he muttered.

You threw a wink over your shoulder. “Good. You’re gonna need stamina if you ever wanna get a ride from a real cowgirl.”

Daryl stumbled for half a second before catching himself, his ears immediately turning red. “Shit,” he muttered under his breath but he couldn’t stop the crooked grin spreading across his face.

You just kept walking, hips swaying with casual confidence, calling back over your shoulder: “Don’t worry, Dixon. I’ll go easy on you… the first time.”

Behind you, he groaned, muttering under his breath. “Damn crazy South Americans.”

But he followed and the smile on his face didn’t leave even after the sun dipped below the horizon.