#i just think people should write more filthy stuff

[briliantlymad]

In this house we love soft fluffy obikin.

But we also absolutely adore unhealthy toxic obikin. Oh they're worst to each other they're the best to each other nobody can compare, they know each other inside out and know where it hurts the most.

Also dead dove obikin. I will never tire of Dead Doves. I love dead doves.

[capslocked]

KINKVEMBER DAY: 9

[prompt: problematic relationships]

male reader x nana

10k words

"Do you have any idea how long I've thought about it?" Nana slips a finger between the buttons of your shirt. "You, me - us?"

And here, you actually, truthfully do not want to know.

So, go ahead, cue up the sound of a mental rolodex spinning out while you start to list the very real, very valid, very adult reasons you should never, ever put your hands on her. (1) She's too young for you, (2) you're kind of a community figure, or at least someone who has to appear to be one, and more pertinently (3) she was your student not long enough ago - in your ethics class, the irony of which is not lost on you - and that makes it the kind of dirty, low thing you'd feel guilty for even masturbating to. Let alone actually attempt to live through, no matter how insistent some parts of you might be to the contrary, a point emphasized by the pressure of her finger against the dip just below your sternum.

"These... oh, how should I call them." Nana hums softly just before easing a bit of distance between the two of you, head tilting like she's in a trailer for this summer's romcom, and not, you know, trying to drag you into hell. "Filthy little fantasies?"

-

You're a high school teacher, interdisciplinary. Sometimes history, other times philosophy, you've also taught math - and once, egregiously, home economics when the faculty member whose usual duties consisted of teaching the class was out on a very sudden and scandalous maternity leave. But it's your love of literature that finds you in a bookstore near enough to the high school to sell more used copies of intro textbooks than actual novels.

You're paging through a book you'd say you're considering buying - if any of the store staff were to push the question onto you - when she appears at the other end of the fiction aisle.

You catch the look first of her dyed hair, this perfect shade of chocolate, to the edges, the fade-to-brown, cascading over where a more formal shirt would ostensibly have shoulders.

She smiles; it's pretty.

Then, you make the mistake of glancing down and seeing the modest rise of her chest beneath a crisp-collared sleeveless top; all your typical college-age tells but for the red flannel, rolled back down around her waist. Her fingers, long and thin, dangle from where a uniform button-down would taper off around her wrist, thumb rubbing lazily at her forearm. The briefest glimpse of her nails, all done up in acrylic - perhaps the most potent way to show contempt for an old dress-code.

You have, admittedly, also noticed the length (appropriately, the lack thereof) of her pleated skirt and those frilly stockings that ride so far up the creamy curves of her thighs that it has your stomach rolling and tightening when she shuts closed the book in her hands and says -

"Isn't it weird how most of the novels in the romance section are written by women?”

- she speaks with a slow deliberateness, like she'd only ever hoped to find one of her old teachers alone and slightly vulnerable in a used bookstore -

“Like, how do you think a man would even go about writing those kinds of stories?" She grins, because maybe this isn't really a question at all - not one meant for you, certainly. And for one wild moment, the rush of relief (she's not actually talking to you), then panic (she's actually talking to you.) surges through you.

But then the girl pushes another couple books along the shelf and continues.

"Because I'll tell you what, Professor - all this stuff," a flip-flip-flip of her fingertips against a leathery dustjacket, "about just feeling it, not being able to control it. It's all women, always women." Another wave of her hand to set another row of spines a-shuddering. "Do you ever think maybe people will get tired of listening to girls talking about feelings when what they really need to see is what guys would do?"

There are so many reasons you should turn and run. 

So many little flags, flickering wildly in your mind. This is one of your students. Was it this fall? Maybe the last; she had sat front-center. Never slept in, was one of your best by several measures - not simply in regards to the simple repetition of classroom work, but by her insistence on getting in the kind of heated discussion where one might dig their fingers through the innards of your lectures. Not just good - fantastic.

"Nayeon," you end up saying, flat as your suddenly paper-dry mouth can make it - with just the tiniest hint of unease. "It's been a while, hasn't it?"

And almost as if she knows that you're trying not to let your eyes dip any lower than the collar of her shirt, her shoulders do that lilting little move (hiking up and away just so), the one that your girls tend to learn a long, long time before your boys ever manage to figure out. She laughs out this pleasant sound, adds: "not that long, sir."

"Well," you're clearing your throat, looking around the bookstore like it might contain a way out, and eventually landing somewhere on her skirt, "you know how fast it all goes."

"Nana, by the way."

“I’m sorry?”

“Nana,” She gently corrects you again with this mischievous slant to her smile, and you start remembering: all the gossip and rumors, how she was being courted by these talent-scouts and labels. A prodigy, or as close to it as anyone from this town could ever get.

Your eyes are starting to sting again when she, this perfect-fit model of your worst impulses, runs her hand through her hair, tugging at the roots a little bit, a silver wristwatch falling slightly down the perfect length of her forearm. It almost hurts not to reach out and steady her. And it definitely shouldn't, but it has you breathing a bit faster. The rationalization: you are a man, and there is a perfectly ordinary part of you that might be aroused by any amount of smooth, inviting skin. That's fine. You're fine.

"Just for the record," Nana starts, still looking like she wants to put a hand forward and hook one long fingernail into the buttons of your shirt. "You were, like, absolutely one of my favorite teachers."

"I guess it's nice to hear I'm not a complete lost cause," you say.

She snorts. "Oh, definitely not." And maybe because, after all of the years you have been teaching these soon-to-be lawyers, politicians, and doctors, you've come to not look down on them for saying the wrong things so much. Though you do envy their absolute ability to say the wrongest of things - just so - just on purpose.

"Are you," you nod at the thick stack of paperback novels that she is still holding, and with which, suddenly, she's bashful and flustered - this perfect shade of pink blossoming through her cheeks. "Actually here to buy those?"

The response: a demure little shrug. A drawl. "We all have our vices, professor."

"I'm not your teacher anymore," and remembering at the last moment, "Nana, you can drop the honorifics, please."

She holds a book out, cover turned toward you, and your mind stalls - even your fingers slip a little where they are resting on the spine of your own paperback purchase. The title is an affront to literacy, and the art on the cover seems to have been produced only with stock photos, gaudy.

"Have you heard of it?"

"Can't say that I have."

"Well," she laughs and has the courtesy not to lay it at your expense, "it is so good." Then, without missing a beat, she twists her lips together, and finds the book flush against your chest. "I'm sure it beats reading textbooks and essays about the merits of Locke and Hobbes' life-after-death stuff all day, anyway. An hour if you can spare the time? I'd love to hear your thoughts on it"

And - ah, there it is. The push.

-

There is a zero percent chance that, after any of this, things will end neatly for either of you. 

You still wonder, slightly, how long Nana will keep up the charade before breaking character - because there's no way in hell she doesn't see what she's doing: wrapping you around her pretty fingers, her shiny, manicured nails, twisting every chance you get to reject her into an excuse to linger that little bit longer.

But it's well over an hour spent at the cafe-end of the bookstore, where she orders an iced-coffee and fills you in on the details you don't really need to hear, what she's been up to these last couple semesters - playing twenty questions; questions about other faculty members, the school, if the school newspaper is still anything like it used to be (for the record: no), then coming back to if you've been seeing anyone lately. That last one slips in so naturally you can't stop yourself from taking a slow drag off of the straw in your drink and answering: "not recently."

Because no honest deed goes unpunished, or however the saying goes.

"Hey," her hands splay out over the tabletop, pushing the cold, condensing water of her glass, smudging where a finger drags a line through the pool.

Maybe she knows. How you're already caught, and there's no going back, which is to say you're perfectly free to watch, hungrily, where her throat moves, and then where her lips part.

"I’ve got the perfect thing for that," and for one unhinged, hysterical moment you picture it, Nana: lying back against a counter or maybe in the cushions of a sofa, panties thrown carelessly over her shoulder; heaving out this soft, heady gasp. You: pushing inside of her for the very first time, both of your legs bracing, the heel of her foot pressed into the small of your back - but before you can convince yourself that she can't be talking about that, and just barely before the air gets stuck in the back of your throat and you realize that you might be so thoroughly, tragically fucked -

"Read this." A snap back into the here and now. She is looking at you very pointedly, not naked - but beautiful and perfect as she leans a bit into the table and crosses those lovely, lovely legs of hers, and tilts the copy of that awful, awful filth at you.

"Nana, respectfully, this is drivel," you say, immediately and plainly, listening to Nana laugh out loud as you glean more than you need to know from the info on the inside cover. "They've crossed like five major genre boundaries for a hook-up. Why should anyone bother?"

"Come on." She waves it off with a careless gesture of her hands. "There's plenty of things to like. Maybe you should give it a chance - broaden your horizons, teach. Besides - the sex scenes?" She rolls her shoulders with the same shrug you remember watching so carefully all those times she made her way, out of the hallways and back into that front-and-center-seat she was always occupying whenever the bell rang. "So filthy. I can show you one of my favorites."

"Doesn't really seem like appropriate reading material for -"

"You said it yourself," her voice has a bright, saccharine tone, just on the right side of strained. And between sips of that straw stuck in the purse of her pert, little mouth, she draws that next sentence - the ice cracking, thinning under your feet -

"Not my teacher anymore."

Nana smiles; this brash, cock-sure thing that reminds you, as you try to clear your throat of the nerves making a bed there: you are actually so, so fucking gone on her. So far gone it hurts, when, with a flourish and a bounce and a complete, reckless lack of discretion, she starts paging through the first chapters.

"Who says you can't study these kinds of stories on an academic level? Think about it: sex sells. Whoever ends up writing, it's a whole lot easier and a hell of a lot cheaper than trying to do it all yourself." She looks up, this mischievous twinkle in her eyes, as she angles her fingertips down on the book and opens it - page after page of very obviously poorly-written sex. You look, not even consciously.

But of course, her fingertips drift lower and lower along the pages until it's evident: she doesn't have an exact page in mind, but only a particular passage -

"Here. Let me show you, just one."

"Alright, fine," you start - trying for an effect of exasperation, something to mitigate this god awful throbbing, "whatever - you get one, one sample paragraph and I'll, you know, whatever."

"Yeah, you'll definitely see. Just trust me. Just the one."

She drums her long, gorgeous nails against the table, then eases back with a finger highlighting the text.

You're screening and scanning the words as she tells you about the heroine in the story: a pretty girl who comes down with a bad case of infatuation for her teacher - unrequited, of course. And then, into a passionate affair, of course; all the most raucous, explicit details laid out over the table for everyone else to hear. She says it is about as nonchalantly as though she had been reading you the daily weather forecast and not an elaborate metaphor for - and here, you stop her.

"He cums on her desk?"

"Fucking hot, right?" She nearly snorts and gestures you onward, her eyebrows jumping - go on, go on.

So, you skim along: a heavy rush of nausea (alongside another) pulsing down around your gut at the thought of actually doing such a thing, your ears going hot and your legs crossing on instinct. There's not so much a breath of hesitation as Nana, cool, unfazed, and utterly unaware of the uncomfortable churning of your stomach and the simultaneous thrumming in your cock, takes another deep swig of coffee.

She hums, thoughtful. "Honestly? Kinda wished it happened to me like that. You were a good, good teacher, professor. I wouldn't have minded your hands all over me." You hear her laugh, and the entire universe collapses like the end-days. You are struck down with feverish conviction: this girl is the worst. 

"Anytime you wanted," she adds, so carelessly.

There's a clunking sound, of glass on wood; a half a second where you almost lose control over yourself.

“Nayeon,” you let slip, the old name - a mistake of an invitation she grasps like a weapon. All coming to a glint in her eye that says she knows how you see it, how you can still picture her sitting with her hands folded over the skirt of her uniform, chest rising and falling beneath her cotton shirt. Studious, taking notes, acting every bit the naive sweetheart everyone believed her to be.

You shudder out some pretense of composure and settle back a few inches as she continues to coax a reaction out of you, prodding: "how many girls did you make confess back then, hm? Did it ever do them any good?"

"Dial it back, Nana."

Her expression is all feigned, gentle surprise. "But sir," she looks at you so innocently, "you said I should drop the honorific."

You want to argue that, you also want to tell her off for being such a brat - to demand that, instead, she cut the shit, sit back, and remember who you both are, but when, with a wink and a smirk, she's getting up out of her seat, Nana sets a gentle, reassuring hand on your shoulder as she pushes her chair back beneath the table. You get onto your feet, and when the two of you are stood close together like this - she's really and truly that much smaller than you remember. Waist so tiny you think you could almost, almost wrap two hands all the way around her; skirt rising all too easily when she tosses her weight between her heels.

"I hope you know what you’re doing," you tell her, sternly - the voice of a teacher whose patience is running thin.

But no matter where you look, the consequences are dire and immediate: an abject fascination, a kind of debilitating greed; the absolute fucking loss of ability to look her directly in her eyes. Not like Nana isn't staring right through you. There's no doubt some part of her relishes the feeling.

"Hey, what do I know?" This sweet, demure-like chuckle follows. "It's just porn, right?”

-

Eventually, Nana says to call it a night because the sun's long set into the horizon and the chill starts getting at the both of you.

She tells you while you're packing up your belongings to come by again sometime, her voice teasing as she explains that you should pick out a new novel to read for your benefit.

Which is possibly the ideal outcome, all things considered, if it wasn't for the way she found herself in your hands just a few paces into the parking lot - no one around to catch you, where you're gripping fast onto her wrist and pressing the lines of her body into door of your car, looming and ready to give a piece of your mind.

You know what you ought to say - things like don't bother, you've enjoyed her company, she's fun and sweet, and in a dozen different ways: be a good girl, and go home. You had your fun, didn't you? But she's practically begging, those huge, wide doe eyes that stare straight up into your soul.

"C'mon,” her voice lilts into a deeper, more purposeful register, “you wouldn't turn down a student on her way home, would you?

(This fucking girl.)

She speaks of propriety, like you aren't a man of your own principles - like you aren't reaching down to press a kiss to the swell of her lips like she undoubtedly deserves. To lick into her mouth and pull and kiss and bite until she's trembling, teeth caught in a delicate whimper. Or, that you aren't running your hands down her sides to find the backs of her knees and draw them upward, hooking your hips flush against hers.

She's all too breathless, watching you draw off her lips, fingers fast in your shirt, your hair - holding you close.

Then finally, a true, honest reflection of your heart. Nothing less than sheer and utter capitulation: "let me take you home."

Nana just nods before wrapping her arms around your neck and kissing you again.

-

It's definitely on you for expecting anything different, but Nana fucks like she talks.

Conceited. Brash. A little selfish.

The girl's sitting there on her kitchen counter with one leg hooked over your shoulder. She's stripped herself down to near nothing save for those fuck-off ridiculous panties: slick, shiny with a thick strip of satin between her lips, complete with white lace frills and all; the same ridiculous pattern as the thigh-high stockings clinging tight around the soft-gentle fat of her legs and the lace top of her garter. Her pussy - all tight and pink and soaked - has left this shimmering, shiny mess that's trailing down the insides of her thighs.

Your fingers are in the elastic of her panties, near bruising the curve in her waist where she's rocking, flushed and keening against your grip.

You tell her, "take these off."

"Off?" She repeats it back to you with the same little grin: playing dumb, the smart, charming ass she's been all night.

"I'd tell you what I really want to do to you," you start, pushing your fingers in a little harder, eliciting another pretty moan. "But I'm really, really sure you can fill in the blanks yourself.

"I hope you're not planning on being rough with me," she teases, running her hands all through your hair as she pulls herself against you - and of course, it's her audacity to insist, "no marks." She drops a chaste little kiss along the underside of your jaw. "At least, nothing that might show up on a camera."

Someone with a little less baggage might have done just that. Might have jerked her panties down a couple inches further - ripped the cloth, exposed her even more. You might have followed the waistline further along the perfect round of her ass, found those dips and dimples that, maybe, no one else has ever gotten to explore. You may have grasped at the ends of her hair and gotten your fingers in her pussy without ceremony - driven Nana to the very brink of her climax just before palming two greedy handfuls of that ass - shoving yourself right there between her lips and, lost to shame, put a fucking kid in her.

All the things she must be dying for you to do.

"Something the matter?" She pushes her mouth into yours for a kiss that has all the urgency of a lazy Sunday morning. Your tongue against hers, languid and gentle at first; wet-sloppy, kissing and sucking on her bottom lip. You can feel her smirking when she says, "don't tell me you've forgotten how."

It's a lot, the effort you're putting in not to crumble - to crack at her taunts, snap your restraint, the temptation. You just wanna grab her pretty tits in both hands, shake her, and say: "shut the fuck up." But no - even in your wildest fantasy, you want to hear her first - beg you to make a wreck of her. So you force the words between your lips, dry and cracking:

"Not a fucking chance."

A laugh. "Guess I'm in good hands, then. Have to admit," Nana slides her hands down to hook under your own, bringing them lower. She grinds your fingers in slow circles over that one, aching, perfect little bud - a shock that has her curling tight inward until she's whining, clutching at her waist. "Not the - not the situation I had in mind."

Nana shifts her weight a bit more on one hip, guiding you through rubbing along the entrance to her slit - sloppy with precum, silky and aching - and when you place just the lightest pressure over all that hot skin, she opens her mouth: 

"Ah."

Her eyes, her hair, her fucking mouth - you can’t look away - she’s so gorgeous it hurts.

Even the way she pants; the perfect furrow between her brows. And then, you dip a finger inside her, just to the first knuckle. It’s enough to make her whine, all shaky and high.

"Go on then, with how you’d pictured it," you press, already easing your digit in and out; slow, slick pumps that she is growing hotter, needier around. "I'm sure you've touched yourself to it more than a few times. The details and - stuff - must have been vivid."

"You haven't the slightest clue."

A brief kiss. You coax another shy sound from her, drawing a long sigh against her mouth -

"Try me, Nayeon."

"This is a lot closer to the truth than you’d think, professor." This time, no correction, she just smiles wide and tosses her head back, asking, sweetly, as if to absolve you of the responsibility. "Do you have any idea how long I've thought about it? You, me - us?" 

Nana slips a finger between the buttons of your shirt and starts to pull.

On that detail, you actually, truthfully do not want to know.

"These... oh, how should I even call them." She hums softly just before easing a bit of distance between the two of you, head tilting like she's in a trailer for this summer's romcom, and not, you know, trying to drag you into hell. "Filthy little fantasies?"

"You know," you start. And by this point, her cunt's that much tighter. You've managed two fingers now, but no further, and she's making these desperate, punched-out gasps. Her clit's a swollen pink nub, jutting out from its soft hood. "I really had you pegged all wrong."

"Not - not at all. You can fuck me just fine, trust me - ah. Please, you can fuck me anyway you want."

And here, you grab a little higher on her hips, pinching her on the outside of a thigh, and begin working your fingers fast. You've never cared much for teasing, not really, but something about the way she squirms in your grip, tries to lean up and grasp onto your shoulders with shaking hands, it gets you smiling. It gets you grinning, even, especially the way she makes these pretty noises: a long, desperate little, "ah," at each press and thrust, her breath going high and uneven. 

"Listen, Nana -" She squeals out loud when you push your fingers just a little deeper, a little bit harder. "I'm not going to talk about what a slut you've been today or how badly I want to spread you wide open," you can already tell it's affecting her: the sudden change, the subtle hitch in her breathing, the tremor where her thighs press together. "Tell me about you, about your little ideas. Let me help."

"Wouldn't be fair." Her pussy's getting tighter, urgent with want. And still:

"C'mon now. Humor me a little. There was probably-" you say, sliding down that ridiculous pair of underwear along her ass, tugging them over the curves of her legs - so slow and easy, all while you're not bothering with easing off. Nana moans again; voice pitched. "Lots. Lots and lots of dirty things - and, I'm willing to bet my career that they made you a hot, mess - an awful, soaking fucking wreck. Who could've guessed? You, of all people, with just the right kind of teacher's-pet-appeal, hm?"

And you meant it to be a joke, just some ribbing. But the question has her immediately tensing, looking at you very intently, no trace of shame as she snaps back -

"Your mouth." She rocks forward. "Your fucking mouth."

You shouldn't keep touching her, you shouldn't keep staring, you shouldn't push her flat on her back and shove your face right into her cunt, you should pull away before this goes too far - it shouldn't be your fingers drawing out sopping-wet gasps out of her pussy, nor should you press your tongue to her cunt, your mouth to all that delicate flesh and, at your first taste, shiver.

Nana laughs: shaky, nervous. Then, your fingers sink back into her pussy alongside your tongue, your lips, the way even your hot breath against her aching pussy has her all stunned, breathless - and -

"Please."

- right before she breaks off into a beautiful sound that catches her hard in the chest.

(A sound like you’re all she could ever want in this life, maybe the next; it’s this wordless plea.)

"Hah, I had - ah, had so much - hah - dirt on you, used to masturbate thinking - ah," and there, she arches her spine, forcing a sigh out, "thinking about how you might punish me." She laughs - nearly choking. "How you might break down all your veneer of being a good, moral man and fuck me raw and rough and - ah - fuck. Oh god, fuck."

You twist your fingertips up just so, right against this perfect spot in her, and all the sudden the entire line of her body seizes - stiffens up, the muscles in her thighs twitch as you both moan through the moment, the spasms reverberating in your own ears, loud and unashamed, right against her wet, wet clit. Your fingers are fucking and fucking and fucking away in her cunt, harder and faster and sloppier, every word, every groan, every gasped breath only making it easier to forget. To give in. And with every heavy slap and squelch of your fingertips digging in as deep as her body allows - you're sending her that much closer.

You pull back long enough to bite out: "cum whenever you want, Nana.”

She can’t, she can’t, she can’t, is what she’s trying to say, bracing against how your tongue moves around her clit, and she knows, there’s no use fighting it.

A kiss against her swollen mound and she writhes. “There you go sweetheart, cum for me.”

Nana comes undone. Gradually at first, then vaulting over that edge all at once. She lifts and lowers her hips - pushing your fingers into the smooth, velvety muscles of her cunt; rocking up and up again. It's a torturously slow kind of grinding, and her feet find purchase on either side of you as her toes curl, one heel digging into your shoulder. An assurance; a promise; a lifeline; that she might tremble and shake through it, moaning.

“Fuck,” and, “god,” and, “you’re gonna make me-” slip past her lips alongside all the assured gasped-out cries for relief - the orgasm sweeping through her, tearing her apart.

Back pitching, shoulders narrowing, face twisting, cinching tighter and tighter -

Until she collapses.

Until it’s over.

As she lays there, chest heaving, arm draped carelessly across her forehead and half over a kitchen cutting board - her thighs splayed open, fucked and spent - she's so, so beautiful.

And it’s in that sort of fucked-up-noodly-state where she just slides right into your arms - those long, slender legs wrapping tight around your middle. "Here's the deal," you say, grabbing hold of her hips and steadying her, as best as either of you can.

"Hm." This lazy, sated look, the way her tongue's dragged out - slow and slick - across the top of her teeth and bottom of her lips. "Go ahead, sir. I'm listening."

The lip service - that coy little appeal to authority that maybe you’re actually plenty fond of - it makes you stop for the barest of moments. This girl, she's unreal. How hard could you ever be asked to resist her?

She lifts a brow. "Professor."

So you continue:

"I'm going to get out of these clothes, and we are going to see what happens after that - if you have a preference for the bed or the sofa, now's your chance to pipe up. Or else -"

"Or else-" She repeats, shifting her weight around again. You can feel how she adjusts her heels to hang higher up your ribs, rocking her weight against your abdomen, against your cock - and the instinctual twitch that runs through your spine is turgid and rough. Like a shot. If it had a smell, it'd probably remind you of gasoline.

And then, maybe just to rile you up even more: "the dining room table makes a good impression of a teacher's desk, no?"

You slide your hand along the backs of her thighs until you have a good, tight, high hold on them and pick her up, leaving the panties, the stockings, all of it down where they can gather dust or whatever - she giggles, and tightens her hold around you like she doesn't need to worry about falling.

"I'd rather fuck you into a mattress to be perfectly candid."

Nana throws back her head and laughs - this real, honest-to-goodness peal of laughter, a hint of playfulness where there was usually just a practiced ease. "Oh. So forward."

(In all likelihood, you're both going to hell, and on the off chance you meet down there, you figure you'll fuck her then, too.

You've read the myths, the Greek tragedies, the ones that have these gods descending from the heavens on human women, for pleasure and nothing but, you've read those stories and plenty more - the details don't matter: it's always a bad, bad end for everybody involved.)

She takes you upstairs. And the two of you fall through the doorway to her bedroom, stumbling all the way.

Her apartment is simple and clean in the way all young adults try to emulate, all white countertops, but with pictures hanging in little, neat rows on the walls and the space void of anything with some sort of character or history.

You know because you're fumbling toward a dresser or desk or bookshelf in an attempt to orient yourselves, bumping and tussling, half-blind, on your path forward and all of a sudden there's a goddamn framed photo in your hand - not of her family, thank god. Though just about every other person in the picture is familiar to you, you remember every single one - but all you're capable of focusing on is Nana, Nayeon: not quite the same. The same glint in her eyes, the way her smile has a timeless kind of quality, the faint dimples in her cheeks. 

And some wicked part of you is all too willing to ignore the whole timeline of events that has led up to you, Nana, like this: you want to pull her hair. You want to shove her around like she doesn't matter - is in any way disposable or replaceable; the most selfish parts of you wishing you could keep her pinned down by her slender neck; pressing a palm, bruising, into her collarbone as you start to work at your belt buckle and slacks with your other hand.

It's hard, getting a grip on yourself as Nana, sliding onto her bed and rolling across the sheets, pulls her stockings down the length of her legs - only stopping herself long enough to meet your eyes. Her throat bobbing.

“Of course,” she says, because your cock is hanging out by that point, straining and a little pent-up. "I fucking knew you would have a perfect cock."

"Flattery or sincerity?"

"Um, let's say both." She shifts around the pillow - that sweet little pout on her lips. Her gaze dropping from your mouth and running all along the length of your torso, lower and lower. Like her hands. And when her eyes flick up to meet yours, just when you're stroking at your cock, base and shaft, teasing yourself, well past the point of pretense, a devious smile spreads wide across her pretty, beautiful face. The implication: you aren't leaving here until you're cumming inside her.

And with a glimmer in her eyes, the sheer audacity, her fingertips ghost the underside of your cock as she draws up toward the head, "you're going to ruin me with this thing. You know that right?"

"A bit dramatic."

Nana moves to rest with the tops of her knees at the edge, her chin resting against the insides of her wrists, elbows propped up - poised, playful, everything she should be as the both of you regard each other a moment longer. "Can you blame me? It's not just that it's huge, I mean - I've barely even gotten a hold of it, and yet... god," she snorts. Her eyelids are heavy, mouth curved, almost a snarl as she drags her bottom lip through the grip of her teeth and sinks down onto the mattress.

"Say something filthy again," and this is a test, this is Nana testing you to see what exactly you'll get away with.

(Hint: it's a whole lot.)

She sighs. The image of indigence, innocence, everything pure and good you couldn't hope for. "Should I suck it or not? Or maybe, I don't know. Would you prefer me to beg for it first, ask if you'll put it in? Like, I think if you ordered me to put it in my mouth, right now, I wouldn't be able to say no."

"Really," the most sarcastic answer.

"Really," she continues. "For instance. If you came over here right now and guided me up and onto your dick and told me, specifically, that you were going to face-fuck me? I couldn't say no. No sir."

You could have her any damn way. You could have her, and you both know it.

"So tempting," you tease, mostly in earnest, "maybe another time, when my self-control isn't quite so lacking."

Nana hums a low, flippant sort of noise - like: whenever you're ready - and just how much trouble it gets you in, the mere suggestion, is what she is banking on.

"Hey," is her invitation, "I won't beg yet. You still want me to put my mouth all over it," and to emphasize, she slips her fingers between the plump pillows of her lips, smiling at how that makes you reach over the nightstand, accidentally pulling open a drawer, possibly reaching for the first aid kit, "or would you rather watch me stuff all these fingers in my wet, little hole."

A sharp inhale: it really would be fun, probably, but you can't take it.

"Nana," this voice, gravelly-ragged and harsh, "if you're planning to make me snap, you are, without question, on the right track."

"Then before that happens," she says, pulling you down into the bedsheets beside her. Your body flush against hers, the beat of her heart loud against your own; this gorgeous, pristine girl, so nakedly giving - this is an honor and a curse all rolled up together, no doubt.

And after a hot, wet kiss: "fuck me like I always thought you would."

(She was made to be like this; it's the only explanation.

Made for wanting. Made for fucking. Made to be loved and made to have her cunt fucked full - ruined by your fingers, your tongue, your cock. This absolutely perfect body, and all the delicious parts of her; this thing of desire, bashful and coy and that deserves all the world and, having none of the grace or courtesy to actually beg, orders, like she always knew she could:

"Like, right fucking now."

Or else.)

Then you're there - her hot mouth, her cunt, your fingers digging in bruising-tight all along the curve of her thighs where they meet her ass, hips, thighs, waist. She's pumping her soft palm and delicate fingers, slick with her spit and yours around the length of you and this isn't going to last long; not that there's any doubt you're going to leave her sore. But still, you drag the head of your cock across the swollen lips of her pussy, down through the plump swell of her clit until it rests where the ridge just begins and every slide, every pressure along every inch of your cock, the thought of being enveloped entirely in all that silky warmth is nearly the end of you.

A whimper, "professor."

You wrap your hands tighter around the smooth, firm muscles in her thighs; dragging your fingers back and forth across the supple skin there - just firm enough to elicit a reaction from the tension in her legs, until you have her flipped over on her stomach. Because if you're going to fuck her properly, it's going to be with her face buried deep into a pillowcase and you perched above her, holding her down against the sheets.

You watch her get her elbows underneath her, laying almost flat. Watch her trace the shape of her own jaw, her nose, her neck - the smooth expanse of her chest - as you straddle her thighs. With her ass pointed right up at you and the heel of her ankle gently grinding into the underside of your leg, you groan, placing both hands just above her ass. And once you're gripping the whole shape of her, you push your cock into her, just an inch, listening to the shift in her breathing.

She shudders, "don't tease - oh, please, sir-"

"Is this what you expected, Nana?" You grab onto her hair. Then again, when she tries to get her hands on herself. Her shoulders are high, tight. You just don't give her a chance; pushing yourself another inch, a couple. The pace, so gradual she starts making these soft, little breathless sounds as you stretch her tight pussy open. A few moments when she stops trying to bury her noises, her gasps - stops trying to angle her hips or squeeze or resist the thick shape of your cock where it is so, so hot and full inside of her - and there you stop. "What is it you had in mind, hm?"

"Ngh - oh."

Her cunt's clamping tight around just the first few inches of you. The tightness, the wet heat is staggering; how it pulls and begs with the words she seems reluctant to spill out.

So - you lift a hand, bringing it back down again onto the pale, rounded flesh of her ass with a smack, a gasp, and this wet sound from the sopping heat of her pussy, all aching and sobbing, "don't, fuck, stick it - fuck, put it - just. Just fucking get on top of me and pin me down - make it hard for me to breathe - do it, just. Like I, fuck, like I always wanted, sir, please-"

And you sink all the way in.

"Fuck." She bites into those consonants, a whole-body motion that pulls at the tension in her spine, the muscles in her legs. But her hips angle right up, and she presses her ass into the hollow of your abdomen and says, "thank you. Thank you. God."

"Don't get lazy on me," you say, grinding the tip of your cock in little circles; pulling it out and angling it down until it's prodding at all the right places to make her arch and shiver.

"Please," she says again, louder this time, almost a moan. "That. Fuck. Yes. It's."

"Yes, yes, I know. Nana, you-"

"Just use me. Whatever you like," she pants; then, once you've pulled yourself out to the tip, slowly filling her again, "use me like a fucktoy, alright. Because - fuck," Nana shivers, pushing her hips into yours. Her shoulders lower, as if by degrees, "please. Use me. Make it rough. Please, professor - use me however you want, I don't care - anything's fine with me - use me, as long and as much as you need, I. Please."

The real difference here, beyond anything else, is that this is no longer the game it was; the very instant she was sprawled across the mattress with a line of drool dripping into the sheets, all her bright, polished glory has vanished, leaving this bare edge of her exposed - the girl who lives solely to be fucked and used by your cock, her cunt leaking, begging for more. Reduced to the basics and nothing else.

"Your fucking cunt, Nana, the goddamn clench - you feel - it's-" (So fucking good, is what you can’t quite say, because she’s tight and wet and her tiny pussy is quivering like mad every time you bathe your cock in its scorching heat. Over and over.) It’s hard to think; you’re truly - truly - fucking her, but you can’t ignore the tautness in her spine either, bent below you. There are probably tears beading down her cheeks, but there's no helping the raw instinct screaming through the core of her being, pleading with you to pull yourself free, before sinking hilt-deep into her again, again, again - to a chorus of sloppy, loud, nasty, fucking whimpers and moans.

Like music. 

It's easy after all, how her pussy gives way to you. How she molds around you - sleeves onto you like a glove - like there was only one cunt in the world you should ever be fucking up and fucking apart. 

"It's incredible. Fuck. Just that perfect."

Nana, as best as she can, trying to stay steady, braced against her hands and knees, is raising her hips.

But it's clear with the way she's slipping all over, slicking the sweat off her palms and rocking her ass back into your thrusts, a cry falling out of her, unbidden, when she speaks and not.

"Please," she pants, through tears probably, this breathy-shivering. A renewed enthusiasm for your grip on her - where, in another place, you'd worry about leaving marks behind - for the feeling of your weight slamming down into her, driving the air from her lungs.

The sheets are a crumpled mess, pillows knocked from the mattress, where the two of you are shaking it apart.

You're pulling her apart, slowly, thrust by thrust into her sopping cunt, and in a promise of how you'll put her back together, you get your mouth on her shoulders, her neck, kisses in her hair, behind her ear - Nana just whimpers, curling her toes and ankles along the backs of your knees, her face against the pillow and gasping, "thank you - thank - thank-"

And when your palm smacks against the generous swell of her ass, again, she keens so perfectly for you.

It's a breathtaking sight, so good, so perfect: her flawless ass pitched high, round and flushed pink. The flutter of her eyelashes and the tears and drool. The outlines of her pale white cheeks sent into ripple after ripple, and then the way you can slide one hand forward between her shoulder blades and slip it into her hair, nails raking her scalp, grabbing a handful of hair in your fist and tilting her face - to the side, enough for her cheek against the pillow and the way her hips try to press against yours; try to chase the pleasure; this brash, gorgeous, slim-waisted, well-curved, exquisite young woman - like everything.

"Please," is all she says as you fit your chest up tight to her back and mouth at her neck - lick all along the sweat. "Please."

You can't take it anymore, can't keep watching this masterpiece, can't stand the molten heat wrapped around your cock every time the drag in and out of her pussy pulls sets every nerve on fire. Right in her ear: "I'm cumming, Nana, I'm cumming inside this tight, little pussy."

A short gasp, "yeah."

"Yeah. Inside, Nana. Cum inside, you -" You twist your fingers against her scalp and find purchase, an excuse - a means to yank her head around and lean into her, teeth against skin, that familiar coiling in your gut and the burning sensation that flows right alongside every slap and smack of her hips on your skin.

"Fuck me." You watch her bite down, swallow a sound, try to say: "fuck your load so deep inside me it’ll be all I think about for weeks, let me feel it, all that hot, all that sticky, fucking cum"

And you drag your hips, these final, punishing drags through her drenched cunt. Her fingers are white knuckled and fisting the sheets, until the very second you've pressed every ounce of your own body's worth into her own, when you're collapsing her spine and pushing her face into the bedspread, this wave rushes through your ears like the buzz and hum of insects and waves and things out of sync - the high, the peak -

And then:

Sobering, subjugating silence.

In fact, you're shuddering; You're cumming, spilling pools of thick cum deep inside of her. It's all in that warm, filthy sensation, a heady, hazy, desperate thrill when her own cunt seizes in its climax around you, trembling, throbbing, quivering, clenching; drawing everything out and taking your cock deeper - even while the whole of her is thrashing and bucking, all of this messy with her pleasure and her voice caught up, writhing and breathless.

"God-" is the last thing out of her mouth before you can kiss it quiet, tug on her lower lip and open her up like a present - messy and breathy, crying out, you're making this mess inside, this beautiful fucking mess - as the whisper you feel against your lips:

"Inside me, like that."

As you groan, deep and hot, "filthy fucking cumslut-"

Right on the verge, riding out every twitch of your cock and each flex of your hands at the skin around her ass, her waist, back and shoulder blades; even after you've caught your breath, you keep pumping more and more inside of her, you don't stop, won't, and even when you manage it, pulling out the head of your cock - you can feel every slick detail - just the slit and rim, resting the throbbing head of your cock at her swollen little mound, feeling the length of her fucked-out pussy spasm at the emptiness and trying to grasp around nothing - empty, tight and aching, sopping.

There's her hips, just this, right there; the line, the silhouette. Her thin waist and the curvy swell of her ass, jutting out straight - the cream-colored flesh dusted pink. The lithe, soft line of her stomach and the insides of her thighs a little farther along, sweaty and inviting.

She's so pliant in your grip, even though she's trying her best to curl herself backward - to angle your spent cock back into the ready, welcoming warmth of her slick, wet pussy - and once the afterglow has begun to wear away, that same greed and yearning takes its rightful place. A glimmer in her eyes. The unmistakable need and drive.

"One more," she says, wiggling her hips back into your stomach. "For me."

(The truth: you can't refuse her, not as she bites her lip and twists, all that soft hair splayed across her face, stuck to her tear-damp skin.

One more, because you both still want it. One more, because in the dim glow and evening air of her bedroom, everything that happens now matters just as much as anything that happened before.

One more, because you need her again.)

-

When she wakes in the dark, you figure her bed will be empty.

Nana will realize that you're gone. Of course you’ll be - it was never going to go differently; the sex had to end at some point. After all, if you stayed, eventually she'd start saying something you'd find a fault in or your skin would be so sensitive she couldn't stand not running a finger up your spine and maybe kissing your hip.

The reasons to go always outnumbered the reasons to stay.

The world would catch up and someone would find out and that's the sort of gossip that might leave both of your careers in shambles. Or else, you'd do something you couldn't come back from, the moment the heat of the sex left your body and her cunt, god, her perfect little cunt was spent - slackening - and the moments-after-haze, her legs locked up and her arms a bit sore, would clear up. Then you'd look at her, or else the shame would win out - the guilt and you'd call it quits. She won’t blame you. She can't.

-

But then again,

Her heart won't fall completely to pieces, because:

You've stayed. And it isn't an easy position, even if she is easy.

Here she is, though: sleeping on her side with her wrists crossed in front of her face - peaceful and quiet, probably tired enough to sleep without dreams. The dark has long since settled across her bedroom, save the pinpricks of stars in the sky out her window and a sliver of moonlight. You can see her, or you could reach out and run your hands all along her calves and thighs, but you don't.

Nana's shoulders slump forward in the faintest of sighs, and there it is - the slow, gentle swell and fall of her chest.

-

Here's how you got here:

In this scandal-in-waiting of a relationship. Here's the stupidest possible path, where a bright-eyed student with a crush fucks her older professor just once, and somehow you both find yourselves coming back for more, like maybe your very, very bodies belong together - a maddening compulsion.

Even once you've managed to work through the idea of your cum all inside of her, a seedy, twisted corner of your mind murmurs how it makes the most sense. To stick your cock inside of her again.

Where she can show you the way it can look; the mess and the texture of the slick, white spill - dribbling out of her pussy in the afterglow, onto her palm, and down the crevice in her ass and lower.

It's the phone calls probably - and not just the phone sex - late-night talking, conversation and every once in awhile, the kind of hot, hard fucking that gets you in trouble, but also a reason to be with each other again. Not just the quick fucks but the nice ones - the days, the late nights and mornings and what have you: all the casual intimacy of it. All the sweet nothings exchanged.

The after-sex cuddling, with her straddling your lap;

The sensation of her thighs sliding into place around the tops of your legs, her arms tucked around your neck;

The kisses you don't take and kisses you'd be okay with, all the promises made to love you as many times as necessary, however necessary, wherever.

That's all here too.

Again:

She is young. But, who the fuck are you to say? Who the hell can tell you she doesn't deserve the least rotten, least painful, most promising love she can find in this particularly fucked-up world?

Who else is going to keep the both of you safe and hidden?

And who else, despite everything, seems to like having a secret that they're sure only you know; every glance or accidental touch with her eyes brimming, alive, and the whole of her bent like a bow-string - all held back and wound-up tight.

To the point her spine will shiver and shake; you know how it can be.

-

"Are you actually going to buy those?" Nana asks one day, dangling on her toes, chin rested comfortably in the sweep of your shoulder.

When she crowds the swell of her hip and her breasts and her entire body into your back and snakes her arms around your shoulders, you think there's nothing else in the world you need.

"You called them drivel," she adds, almost pouting - which is a look you're slowly trying to inoculate yourself against because the moment it comes up, you have a knee-jerk reaction to drop anything and everything and carry her off someplace else. To have a place where she could, could, could -

"Hah," you roll your eyes, not taking the bait. There's a shelf-full of campy, smutty romance novels in the dollar bin. "It is. The story was less than complicated, but I couldn't figure out what the hell two or three characters' plotlines had to do with one another, and sometimes you just want a little guilty pleasure, you know?"

"Ooh. So," Nana smiles, the devious sort. "I guess there is some honesty in you after all."

"Come on, this one at least has an original story," and it is a shameless attempt, "plus-"

"I know, I know. Fine. And if it is so terribly bad, well, I suppose I can use your chest as a pillow to take a nap," she says, before throwing this particular glance over her shoulder.

The cashier doesn't need to ask if the two of you want your copies of 'Wild West of the Heart' or whatever-the-fuck this one is titled, scanned separately.

All of that, those paperback-cover love stories and TV drama plots, these are the sorts of things you do just for Nana; as the two of you wait in long lines, get carried along, get bumped and pushed, like every other ordinary-person thing you've done for her ever since.

("Honestly, this isn't my kind of thing either," you tell her in the aisle of a grocery store once. The fluorescent lighting only accentuates the blush high on her cheeks. "don't make me fuss over something like this."

"Have a little sympathy," she insists, nudging the handle of the shopping cart against the inside of your shins. "A girl like me isn't good for much else.")

It's not romance, really, that's such a fucked up way to go about describing any of it, but then there's Nana, bouncing on her heels and prattling on, this girl in the spring of her life who is full to the brim and bursting with the most chaotic and eclectic sorts of thoughts and passions -

So, what.

"Really," she adds - another side, another angle on an issue the two of you had an hour ago while cooking breakfast. "Just, think about it. Would you honestly put all this effort into somebody who doesn't make you laugh at least as much as they irritate you? Because like, you would never tolerate some self-obsessed jerk long enough to eat their burnt, terrible pancakes every day of the week."

"Fine. Maybe." You sit across the table. "You're right."

Nana blinks and this look of wonder crosses her face as she grins. A moment of triumph for her and that was more than the honest truth. It's still strange, admitting defeat in any argument here or there, or that the two of you make an actual decent couple - together. The kinds of things that come naturally to other people.

"Any more caveats to all of this, professor?"

"You’re gonna end up bent over that counter again if you keep pushing it, kid."

The both of you break out laughing and then you finish your coffee, or she stabs the last few pieces of cantaloupe on her plate, or you kiss her neck, and just -

Everything.

[tojiscumdumpster]

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။||||။ toji fushiguro x his favorite customer (revision)

✧ summary toji has a little soft spot for his favorite customer that he can't get enough of.

✧ content warnings reader is a black woman who uses she/her pronouns. chubby!reader and inexperienced!reader. rich girl in her midtwenties, very needy! usage of profanity, standing missionary, oral - m!receiving, doggy style, mixture of praise and degradation kink, breeding kink, unprotected, creampie and squirting, terms of endearment ─ pretty girl, princess, baby, baby girl, etc. softdom!toji with rough, passionate, and filthy intercourse. told in first POV ─ toji's. i got reader calling toji TJ, and i think that’s so cute pls.

✧ author's note happy birthday to my baby daddy toji fushiguro! we've been going strong now for years. just a little something something to celebrate him. this fic has been in the drafts since December. talk about black people time, old sksk. also, if you already seen the original of this fic on tumblr, it's mine lol. this is just a revision, so don't go around saying i copied someone! my writing has changed so i wanted to redo this and add some adjustments. i hope y'all enjoy. support me by reblogging, liking, and commenting your thoughts. ♡ AGELESS/BLANK BLOGS AND/OR MINORS - DO NOT INTERACT.

 

 When it comes to women I fuck, I treat them the same because at the end of the day, they pay me good money to stuff their pussy with cock. 

 Don’t really care if they're married either. I usually get the old, desperate broads that aren’t getting any attention from their husbands at home, so it’s my job to make them feel good for the night. 

 I don’t do favorites. 

 I damn sure don’t give discounts. 

 And I definitely don’t get attached. But the moment I met Y/N that all changed. 

 My favorite customer. 

 Never did I expect a younger woman to pay me to get fucked, especially when she looks that good. 

 I’m almost positive she has a line filled with fuckers that’s desperately wanting to know what this tight, wet pussy feels like, yet here I am, living their fantasy. 

 I fucked Y/N once. 

 Then, twice. 

 Then, again.

 And again.

 And again…

 If I didn’t know any better, I’m fucking obsessed with her. Can’t even say it’s just for the money she’s paying me. Probably the best pussy I ever had.

 No. 

 It is. 

 So fucking warm, and she takes dick well, too. I usually give only an hour or two to my customers, but for Y/N? I reserved the whole night to relish her pussy. 

 The perfect fuck to end my day. 

 Those soft, sweet-sounding moans that slipped through her full brown and pink lips, having my previous cum shot staining them had me running wild. 

 But it seems like I’m not the only one who’s sex drunk. 

 Cock is all on Y/N’s mind right now. Whimpering and crying how big I am and thanking me for giving her dick. Tears pricks those chestnut-colored hues and I’m in fucking awe. She’s so damn pretty. 

 “You know how gorgeous you look taking cock like this? Being a good fucking slut for me, princess?” I ask, being met with a nod and her moaning in response. 

 Y/N’s pussy talks to me. Wet noises spreading throughout the room while I have my arms hooked under the fold of her knees, fucking her recklessly to push past any intrusion. 

 She’s jumping with me every thrust I make, causing her tits to bounce obnoxiously. I take one of her nipples into my mouth and suck on them like it’s my last dying breath, hearing that sweet whimper. 

 I belong in Y/N’s pussy, and she belongs to me, too, the way she’s gripping my cock and milking me. All of her cream and wetness drips between us and down my balls, and it feels fucking amazing. Every time I experience her velvet walls, I find myself becoming more animalistic, hungry and territorial over someone who should only be seen as a client. 

 But fuck, something in me says I would go batshit crazy if I ever found out she had other motherfuckers experiencing this. 

 Knowing how she looks when sweat coats her beautiful brown skin. How it feels to stretch her out and make her adjust to you. Just thinking about it makes me pound into her deeper and more aggressively. 

 “Toji, baby, yes. This feels so good,” she purrs. “Like that. Keep fucking me like that.”

 I hum. “Yeah? This is what you wanted, right? Paid me to please this good pussy?”

 By all means, Y/N isn’t a virgin, but she told me she doesn’t have much experience and I can tell by how tight she is. 

 Our sounds of pleasure resonate in the air, and I call her my good girl, praising how perfect her pussy is, to be met with her squeezing me and watery brown eyes. 

 “Toji… Toji… Yes. God, yes.”

 “Keep using your words, pretty girl. Tell me how much you love my dick in your pussy,” I ordered softly.

 “I love it so much. It’s so big, baby,” she tells me, slurring her words because of her lips still being on mine. “You’re going to make me cum.”

 I clicked my tongue, shaking my head. “Not yet. Come taste yourself.”

 Without hesitation, Y/N slides down to her knees and starts sucking my dick. I hiss at her swallowing me and the warmth of her mouth. She doesn’t take her time when sucking me off, immediately circling her head and throating me. 

 “Hot fucking mouth made to suck dick, huh, pretty girl?” I firmly grabbed her chin so she could look at me. “Eyes up, sweetheart. Open up your throat for me like a good girl.” 

 Y/N hollows her cheeks and bobs her head fervently on my dick, tightening her lips around me. 

 She sucks dick so fucking good, better than any other woman I’ve been with. And I just know I’m bound to bust quickly if she keeps doing this shit. 

 My hand finds the back of Y/N’s head to grip and I buck my hips deeper into her mouth, ensuring I hit the back of her throat everytime. I’m a fucking mad man when I begin fucking the gorgeous face, especially when she’s looking up at me with those big brown eyes. 

 A spoiled brat, prim and shy, who’s spending daddy’s money to get fucked and folded by an old bastard like me. Think I fucking developed a kink for this type because of Y/N.

 I pumped into her mouth more aggressively until she began choking and gagging on my cock. Drool and precum coating her mouth in the process. 

 Any type of control Y/N tries to take, I push past it because I want to use that pretty little mouth of hers how I want. She needs to get her money’s worth when fucking with me. 

 “Going to fuck my cum deep down that throat of yours, and you’re going to swallow it. Got that?” She nods and I softly tap the side of her face. “That’s it. Keep those lips tight around me.” 

 “Toji, pl—please,” she slurs, causing me to chuckle. 

 “Hm, look at you. Trying so hard to talk to me while sucking my dick. It’s cute.” I slow down my quick thrusts, but replace them with more fervent ones, pushing me and her head down until my cock outlines her throat. 

 My balls grow heavy and obnoxiously slaps Y/N’s chin, a clear indication I’m about to fucking cum. 

 Grunting, whining, gasping like a little bitch for air because head like this has a fucker like me sounding like a broken mess. 

 Blood rushes to my groin and I start getting sloppy, feeling my muscles tightening and ache burning between my thighs. I’m close, so fucking close to filling her mouth with my release, then I can finish fucking that fat pussy. 

 Everything about this damn woman is perfect. Her pussy. How she sucks cock. That fucking chubby and curvy body of hers. A pretty face with loaded cash.

 Yeah, she’s definitely mine after tonight. And I’m talking about anything lovey dovey. Meaning if I catch her being a slut like this to anyone else, I’d kill that fucker. 

 No hesitation. I-

 “Y/N, fuck!” I grunt while cumming in her mouth. This load is fucking heavy, but she’s trying her best to swallow every drop. 

 I groan at the sight of Y/N touching her tits and palming her pussy, knowing how much she’s turned on, too. It’s like the vibrations of her moans pulls more cum out my fucking dick.

 A mess I made on her face, but the joyful lust I see in her eyes tells me she doesn’t give a damn. 

 Good, because I’m not finished with her. 

 “All fours on the bed. Now,” I demanded. “Still gotta fill up your pussy.”

 Perfection is what I think when I see Y/N from behind, arched back, ass in the air and pussy dripping, ready for me to fuck. 

 I force an arch in her back and plunge my cock in her tight little pussy with one deep stroke. Y/N gasps in the air and I take the opportunity to pull her up by the throat and start pounding her cunt. 

 Why the fuck is she so goddamn wet? She takes cock well, bud shit, I abruptly slip out each and every thrust. 

 “Keep me inside that pussy, baby girl. Stop fucking letting go,” I gritted in her ear. She reaches behind her to hold my dick and push back into me with a tighter grip. “Hm, just like that. So fucking good to me, aren’t you?”

 “I need more dick, TJ. Fuck me harder, baby. I can take you,” she moans. 

 Begging for cock she’s already paying for… Shit, I get a kick out of how pathetically sexy she sounds. 

 I repeatedly slammed into her wet cunt, thrust after thrust, pussy creaming even further than before. If it’s one thing I can listen to for the rest of my life, it’s how Y/N sounds when she’s being fucked. 

 My name drips perfectly from her lips.

 Our skin smacking fills the air in the room along my hand striking her ass until I guarantee it’ll bruise in the morning. 

 “Look at this fat ass moving when I pound into this pussy. Fucking beautiful,” I growled.

 “Toji, please. I… I don’t care how much… I’ll pay more. Just keep fucking me like this.”

 I chuckle. “Atta girl.”

 I see why motherfuckers catch feelings when fucking pussy. I almost feel tempted to tell Y/N that I love her while fucking her. She has pussy that’ll make a fucker crazy… Possessive… Jealous.

 I applied more pressure to Y/N’s throat and pulled her against my chest. “You know who this pussy belongs to. Right, princess?”

 “God, yes, Toji. You… it belongs to you.” Her voice comes off as a faint cry and I know she’s on the verge of cumming. Especially with how her pussy is pulsating around me. 

 “Mhm, that’s right. Dreamed of my fucking dick pounding this tight little cunt, now I have you mindfucked. Huh?” I pinch her nipples with my free hand and increase my thrusts. “You’re about to come for me. Aren’t you, Y/N? I know you are. I can feel it. You should see the mess your slutty pussy is making between us.”

 “Fuck, I didn’t mean to, baby. It’s just… you feel good. So fucking good,” she whimpers, bouncing her ass back into me to meet with my thrusts. 

 “Maybe I should have you clean it with your mouth. Hm?”

 I release Y/N’s throat to shove her face into the bed and deepen her arch more than before. My single hand returns to her hips to grip, pulling her round ass back on my cock to kiss her center. 

 Can’t get over how wet—how tight and warm this fucking pussy is. The harder I fuck her, the louder her pussy gets and I grunt, curse underneath my breath at hearing the sound of her muffled moans. 

 I don’t give a fuck if one of us catches feelings after this. Actually, I want her to. I want Y/N to be dick hungry only for me. 

 I want her pussy to smell like I’m the only fucker that’s been running through her. I’m even fucking tempted to breed this pussy just so she’s mine.

 Why the fuck would I want to have sex with any other women after knowing what Y/N feels like? 

 “You take cock like a fucking pro. Look at you gripping me. Look at how this pussy is mine.”

 She spreads her ass cheeks to feel every inch of my dick. “Fuck me, Toji. Harder. Fuck me harder, I’m about to cum.”

 “Shit, me too, sweetheart. Such a perfect fuck toy. Going to fill you all the way up,” I rasped. “Fuck me back. Keep taking this dick.”

 My thrusts are sloppy. I throw my head back and swear into the air and moan her name. My balls grow heavier and heavier until I fucking but and empty my cum inside her pussy. 

 And she’s right there with me, crying my name and thanking me for giving her toe-curling orgasm. 

 Fucking enjoy hearing my pretty girl thank me for giving her cock. She just looks so damn pretty when she cums, too. 

 Dark brown skin sweating. The sight of her ruined makeup with mascara running down her cheeks. Moans sounding like a broken record. 

 Yeah, she’s a perfect fuck. 

 My favorite customer. 

© 2024 tojiscumdumpster Do NOT copy, translate, plagiarize, repost (sharing links is okay) anywhere. I only upload on tumblr and you will find some of my work in ao3.

[chrissdollie]

warnings/notes: suggestive, matt x tumblr writer reader, no smut (but there will be soon), unedited, incomplete, nicknames (baby, babe)

matt sighs, boredly scrolling through his phone while you are sound asleep next to him. your boyfriend uses his free hand to gently rub up and down your thigh. the morning sun tries to peak in through the dark curtains, but the room is still dull. comforting though. especially with the sounds of your soft snores, matthew couldn't be any more comfortable.

that is until a few minutes pass, and he decides to open an app called tumblr that he "jokingly" installed not too long ago. a small smug grin spreads onto his face as he searches up "matt sturniolo x y/n". many results come up, some sweet and fluffy-- and others disgustingly filthy. on camera, matt would completely disregard any "you should read smut" comments... but he can't help and listen to the inkling of interest inside him.

he finds a random blog where he scrolls down to the pinned introduction post to find where all of the fics may be. you sigh sleepily, matt's head immediately snapping to you with wide eyes. you reposition yourself slightly and fall back into your deep slumber. your boyfriend wouldn't want you to know about him reading dirt. especially if it's about him!

he looks back down at his bright phone, scanning the introduction post quickly. he pauses all of a sudden. "yn?" he thinks to himself, his eyebrows pinching. but they quickly rest again, there's no way you, his sweet little angel baby writes nasty smut. and plus, plenty of people can have the same name as you.. right?

he taps on a link that says "about me" which brings him to a cutely decorated page. it's very girly-- definitely reminds him of his unaware girlfriend sleeping right next to him. he reads through the bullet points that include: your age, where you live and where you're from, and a list of things you love! this has to be you. not to mention, your profile picture is your favorite photo of him. he'd know, the physical picture is in a cute frame right next to your side of the bed.

he doesn't feel too embarrassed about wanting to read imaginary sex scenes anymore. matter of fact, he feels like a saint compared to you, who actually writes them! he finds your "masterlist" and it's an entire page just about him. he taps on the first link that reads "daddy's home".

in the years he's known you, including the HOURS of time you two spent having fun in the bedroom, he would've never expected to see kinks like these! by now, he's already gone through most of your fanfictions under the category of "smut". so far he's read drabbles of daddy/breeding kinks, bondage, roleplay, age gaps, sub!matt (this got him feeling a little tingly), and more. he wears a smug smirk on his face as your pretty eyes blink open.

"hi babyy.." he coos sweetly as if he hadn't read your dirty thoughts for almost an hour. he brings you into a warm snuggle, his hand caresses the back of your head while you yawn into his bare chest. "sleep good?" matt asks in his raspy morning voice. "mhm.." you sigh, holding onto him like a koala. the smug shit-eating grin is back on his face when he randomly says, "i found your tumblr."

your body tenses. oh shit. you've been caught. there are two things you can do here: play dumb or ask him if he liked what he saw. you lift your head to look up at your boyfriend. comfortingly, he looks amused. before you can speak however, he reminds you of what you've written. "yeah i read all of your kinky shit. i didn't think you'd be into some of the stuff i saw there, babe."

you feel your arousal sticking to your panties. you gently bite down on your lip, bravely staring into your lust-filled boyfriend's eyes. you seductively lean up so your mouth is only an inch away from his. "so what're you gonna do about it?"

THERE WILL BE SMUT TRUST BUT THIS IS ALL IM GIVING FOR NOWWW!! UH NOT PROOFREAD LIKE ALWAYS XX

[jellicatty]

❝ JUST A STRANGER , MAKING LOVE ₊˚ ❞

It felt wrong to accept someone else's lust other than your husband. Five years have passed, yet you still feel sick when mingling with other people. Although your mind acted on its needs, your heart yearned for connection— for Nanami Kento.

╰┈➤ contains : nanami x female reader. takes place five years after his death. sex (but not with him). focuses more on reader. MASSIVE guilt. grief / loss. yearning. empty sex. betrayal. mentions of God. angst no comfort (never). nsfw.

╰┈➤ note : this was so fun to write ! totally enjoyed this and might make more stuff like this ! i might also rewrite this in the future since its a bit messy.

╰┈➤ tags : @lacyohlacyyy mwa

"Are you cumming, baby?"

You weren't betraying him since he was long gone.

God knows you weren't.

Yet, sharing laughter, touches, and pleasure with another man feels treacherous. And unfortunately, a woman's body can only go so far before succumbing to its needs.

"C-cant hear you, love. You want more?" He questioned, deepening his thrusts. You winced at his ridiculous attempt to turn you on, yet applauded at his courage for bedding a grief-stricken woman like you.

The man above you held your body closer to his, carried away by his desires to claim a broken woman— you. Gentle kisses were placed on your heaving chest as his thrusts steadily sped up.

The man above you was simply a stranger. Though going on dates and cuddling merrily under your heavy blankets— he was still a stranger. A stranger to your body, mind, love. A stranger to your soul you happily shared with your Kento. He was a stranger compared to him.

Imagination was the only thing helping you go further. Because, after all those lackluster meets, this man only showed his inability to make a woman finish. But you figured that it would just be the same with every other man because they aren't your sweet husband.

Nanami was different, you thought.

And so, wanting a release, you thought of him. Instead of the stranger above you, was Nanami. It was Nanami exploring your body tonight, caressing your curves, and whispering such filthy confessions.

His grip around your neck tightened, then his hand traveled to your clit. He quickly rubbed his thumb against your nub, desperate to see you crumble beneath his touch.

"God, you feel so good." He breathed out, exclaiming his satisfaction with how your pussy gripped his sex. Grunts erupted from him, but noise was not heard from you, too focused on your world— a world where Nanami is the stranger above you.

However, you should have known that no imagination can replace the feeling of sex with your late husband. And for so many useless nights of trying to fulfill your desires, you now only realized that making love with Nanami was something that could never be replaced.

Making love with Nanami was incomparable to this unfortunate encounter with the stranger. The taste was different too. With Nanami, it felt special. His kiss was indescribable, but familiar, rooted from the years of silent 'i love yous', selfless decisions, and countless of shared memories

You felt like a whore for even thinking that an uneventful, and distasteful evening would amount to what Nanami made with you.

"Open your heart to me."

A complete, and utter fool of a stranger. Such idiocy coming from his blinded mind; loving a woman's soul that died with her husband. His idiot self blinding him so much that he couldn't recognize your hurtful tears— looking at them as something that came from pleasure.

"Please, I love you." And he confessed so with a tone so alike with Kento's that you almost said it back.

I wasn't betraying him, not now or ever.

Please, God. Tell me I have not betrayed my beloved.

You weeped and bit your tongue, cursing at your own idiocy slipping. As his hips carelessly pounded into yours, you begged God to take this guilt you felt far away from you; to store it somewhere else because your heart can no longer be a storage for something so disastrous.

May God forgive you, because you could never, ever, forgive yourself. Never, when you opened yourself to his advances. Never, when you agreed for one night fun that turned into many. Never, when you now lay on your bed, moaning and weeping as you imagined him.

Never, when you betray Nanami like this.

© jellicatty | no plagiarising please (*ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)ꕤ*.ﾟ

[constantly0lost]

Okay I haven't written in literal months, but i was inspired by the little blurb about otter harvey at the bottom of @sashiavi 's goat Harvey post, so enjoy a ramble. Alot of my sleep tired brain escaped into this, sorry for how sloppy this is, i just wanted to vocalize my thoughts or my head would have exploded. I would carry 19 of Harvey's children if asked, peace.

CW: bit of a breeding kink, i reimagined/softened the mannerisms of otters during sex cause MAN, male otters SUCK, other otter things (harveys hydrophobic hair), lactation kink, me being a simp for this man, UHHh, shitty writing :)

Otter Harvey who gives you special things that made him think of you. From rocks to acorns to mushrooms to flowers to leave and so on, and being so blushy when he gives them to you, because its just acorns but it means so much to him. And he swoons when he finds out you kept them all.

Otter Harvey who holds your hand while y'all sleep, even though you're as close as two people can physically be without fusing together. He knows logically that you can't go anywhere, and even if you did, you'd be right back in his arms, but it feels so nice to have his hand on yours.

Otter harvey who eats sea urchins in secret, not because of someone finding out he eats them, but because he has to yank one out of Vincents mouth after he saw Harvey eating them, and he didn't want to cause anyone any extra undue stress.

Otter Harvey who has to take showers with slightly more intense temperatures so that he can actually wash his hair, otherwise it rolls right off of his hair. The only time he won't is when you take a shower with him, because he doesn't want you to be uncomfortable because of him, and even then, after you get out he'll change the temperature so he can actually get clean.

Otter Harvey who, if you end up having kids, is the best fucking dad. He teaches them literally anything and everything, and sits at the table responding to their toddler gibberish with full blown sentences. He takes them to school, plays anything they want, and is a total pushover sap for them, no matter what happens. (He is also 110% a girl dad)

Otter Harvey who bites higher up on you than he probably should, but he can't help it when you make him feel such mind numbing pleasure. So now you have hickeys on your cheeks, lovebites around your nose and mouth, along with all the marks he leaves along your body.

Otter Harvey who has such a rampant breeding kink that on "bad" days, he'd fuck you over and over until he's so drained he's lightheaded and overwhelmed, and he feels guilty for fucking you like that, even though he's still inside of your puffy cunt.

Otter Harvey who can't help but moan and whimper as he fucks into you, digging his nails into your hips as your pussy seems to suck him deeper, your walls clenching around him in a downright mean way as he bites and sucks anywhere he can get his mouth to.

Otter Harvey who often and loudly verbalizes how he wants to stuff you full right as he's about to cum, drilling the head of his cock harder into your spongy walls.

Otter Harvey who, when he gets jealous, will hold you down by your neck, or might even just hold you down by your hair, as he drills into you, harder than he normally would dare. His mouth turns downright filthy, spewing the nastiest words you'll ever hear in your life, as he hefts your leg over his shoulder.

Otter Harvey who can, will, and has spent hours buried with his face between your legs, looking up at you with those pretty eyes in search of your approval. He wants you to pull on his hair to guide him, wants you to pull until his scalp burns.

Otter Harvey who whines so damn pretty when you ride him, his cock kicking on your hand as he eyes roll back, his nails digging into your thighs. He mumbles whispered gibberish, which could almost be pleas, but are too garbled to fully make out.

Otter Harvey who will suck on your tits until you produce a few beads of milk, which he gratefully laps up and swallows like it's heaven on earth. Of course afterwards he gets anxious, wanting to make sure it's not galactorrhea, and wanting to make sure you're healthy.

Otter Harvey who would bend over backwards to make sure your happy, who would wait on your hand and foot so that you feel properly appreciated. He loves you, and knowing you love him back is all he needs.

FUCKING OTTER HARVEY IM GONNA RIDE HIM IN MY DREAMS TONIGHT AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.

[the-modern-typewriter]

Hello :) Can i request a mutually pining hero x villain piece where the hero finds out about the horrible treatment the villain goes through in prison (whenever the villain gets locked up) and they have an emotional confrontation where the hero apologizes and promises to fix the situation? a little bit of holding the villain's chin and asking them how much it hurts? just the heartwrenching stuff.

Whether you see this or not, I want to say thank you for everything you've shared with us. You are extremely talented, and an inspiration for people who want to improve their writing. Thank you, thank you. :') <3

"They hurt you."

The villain stilled. They kept their gaze fixed on the sky, their hands focused on the ember of a cigarette clutched between their fingers, their ears tracking the thump of music spilling out onto the street.

Inevitably, despite all of those efforts, their attention locked on the hero standing next to them.

Fury radiated from the hero, and something more. They didn't have to glance over to see it. They didn't have to glance over at all when the hero edged even closer to them, brow knitted, eyes liquid guilt in the pooling streetlight.

The villain took another drag of their cigarette to steady themselves, filthy habit though it was, before exhaling. "We're not doing this here."

The thin alley behind the club was empty except for the two of them, but that was hardly the point. The air was warm with the promise of summer and freedom. They didn't want to think about any else.

"Where are we doing it then?" the hero demanded.

The villain's jaw clenched. They stubbed out the smoke and began to turn away.

In an instant, the hero's hand was firm on their shoulder, pinning them in place. By all rights, if things in the world made sense, the villain should have flinched at the rough touch and the hero should have recoiled. The villain didn't flinch. The hero wouldn't hurt them, not like that. They knew it in their bones.

The hero didn't recoil. They ducked their head to try and catch the villain's eyes again.

The villains scoffed and slid their gaze away, throat tight.

"I want to fix it," the hero said. "This should never - if I'd known -"

"-You didn't know." It was forgiveness and accusation all at once.

"I should have."

"You didn't."

The hero had always been kind, in their interactions, in the complicated way that the two of them could be kind to each other. Not polite, not nice, not civil. But kind. Of course they hadn't known, and of course the villain hadn't told them. They would never have told them. Not in case, just in case, the hero had actually known all along. Not in case, just in case, the hero didn't care. Not in case, just in case, the hero thought they deserved it.

"You going to let me go free next time?" the villain asked.

The hero's jaw clenched too. "I'm not going to let them treat you like - like -"

"Like a criminal? You can say it. That's what I am."

"Like a monster."

The villain smiled. It didn't quite reach their eyes, but nor was it ungenuine. "Also what I am."

The hero's other hand shot out, seizing the villain's chin, forcing their gazes to lock. "No."

"Yes." The villain studied them. "Don't be obvious."

"You deserve better."

"Because you don't think I'm a monster?"

"Even if you are," the hero whispered. "And I'm sorry. I'm just - so sorry."

The villain didn't know what to say to that. The hero's sincerity, raw as an open wound, floored them utterly. They swallowed, pulse fluttering against the warm press of the hero's palm.

Contact. Firm, unflinching, not unkind contact.

"How much does it hurt?" the hero asked.

"This or the - before?"

The hero let go instantly, hand flying back to their side as if they'd been burnt.

The villain's hand rose to where the hero's hand had been, chasing the memory of it. The words 'you didn't hurt me' perched on the tip of their tongue. The villain swallowed them.

"I'm going to end up back there," the villain said. "You can't fix that, because you're the one that catches me. The only one who can."

"If you stopped..."

"If you stopped," the villain said.

The hero squeezed their eyes shut for a second, pained.

The villain reached out, despite themselves, to grip the hero's chin. Feather-light. "How much does it hurt?"

The hero laughed, a little raspy, a little not laughing at all. "This should never have happened."

"It happens to more than just me." I'm just the one you care about. The knowledge was as dizzying, as giddying and heady, as it was awful.

"If I asked you to tell me what they did to you, would you?" the hero asked.

"You already know."

The isolation. The power restraints that were always cinched a little too tight. The beatings. It was always better near the end of their sentence, to allow time for the bruises to heal, and it was never anything permanent. Nothing that could be used in a court of law. Nothing but words and hearsay.

"Yes." The hero watched them.

"But you want me to tell you anyway."

"Yes."

The villain dropped their hand and itched for another cigarette, and itched to continue touching even more. They turned their gaze away again and cleared their throat, because the hero's expression...

The villain had been hurt so many times before. The hero made it look new.

"I'll fix it," the hero said, less a wish or a want and more a promise. "This won't happen again. Not to you. Not to anyone."

The villain knew better than most that promises were easily-broken, fragile things. Still.

"What do you think I've been trying to do?"

The hero flinched.

The villain didn't recoil. Monsters didn't get to recoil from the worst that the world had to offer.

They started walking, and paused at the end of the alley where the shadows turned to light and life and the open world. They glanced back to where the hero stood, perfectly still and perfectly shattered, hands flexing like they were itching to touch again too.

Sometimes monsters got kind things too, even if it made no sense, even if what was theirs felt like it should belong to everyone else in a thousand different ways.

"We're not doing this here," the villain called out. "So. You coming?"

The hero followed.

The villain knew they always would.

[olderthannetfic]

I always see people who have never been antis, talking about/questioning how some antis even ARE antis when you look at their taste in media - ie the ever famous joke of "Hannigram is #problematique" "but it's a show where he eats people" or whatever.

I thought I'd weigh in as someone who could, hypothetically, be called an ex-anti (which, thankfully, nothing ever really came out of it - it was just very 2014 keyboardwarrior-esque behavior of me being a chronically online young adult who would share posts in a group chat making fun of certain shippers, or reblog posts about how 50shades is The Most Problematic Media Ever to exist -- basically I was an anti with anti-lines of thoughts, but i never, like, a ran a Shipping Discourse Blog or whatever)

For me, personally, it was a few different things. I can now see how it's incredibly hypocritical that teenaged me shipped Light/L, while still thinking that Dramione was Bad And Abusive. It ultimately boiled down to a) being pretentious, and b) just not understanding media or what proshippers REALLY believed, with a side of c) not realizing that nuance exists. like i was pretty late to join tumblr, I think I immigrated here during PEAK "yourfaveisproblematic" era which definitely did have an impact on my opinions and my tastes.

to elaborate, a.) being pretentious. i mean this one just kinda goes without saying. "I engage in media in a way more intellectual way than you do, don't you know that? You're a filthy and disgusting person who writes Snape/Hermione because you're an actually disgusting pedophile IRL who would probably date your own student that you're abusing if you could. Meanwhile, I'm a very smart, good, and pure person. When I read Uncle Vernon/Harry, I'm doing it in a G-d honoring whump way that clearly condemns abuse, incest, and rape. Unlike YOU who only writes harmful stuff as a way to get people off :/"

(as an aside, i think this line of thinking will ALWAYS be present in fandom and popculture in some way, sadly. ie the recent trend of people hating on booktok bc the books are 'trashy' and how these porn addicts should read real classic literature instead.)

as for b.), not understanding media - i cannot emphasize enough that i was GENUINELY stupid and disconnected enough to think that proshippers REALLY WERE pro-All Of The Degenerate Dead Doves That They Wrote.

why did i feel this way? why did i understand that Lolita clearly isnt pro-pedophilia, but for some reason i thought that someone shipping weecest was? well, first of all, i think that fanfiction is (generally) seen as Less Serious than classic literature, and fandom is a fun place, so i guess i somehow thought that every fanfic/fanartist who wrote Problematic Things, especially Problematic Things that they portrayed as Sexy, really DID enjoy the thought of that Actually Happening To Real People.

and i think THIS is the bulk of why antis ARE antis. i'm not calling them all stupid - i do think BEING an anti is stupid, but at the same time, there are people who are truly smart and good-intended people who just have some really off color opinions about, like, homestuck ships or whatever. Lawlight is okay because notebooks that kill people don't exist so it's IMPOSSIBLE for the Harmful Aspects of Light/L to be romanticized! but schoolyard prejudiced bullies DO exist and are a REAL problem so Drarry is BAD (*truly completely unaware of the fact that there's 'realistic' aspects of the Light/L dynamic and 'unrealistic' aspects of Drarry - such as, for example, Hogwarts arguably being even MORE of a fantasy setting than DN is.*) I know that media literacy is the hot buzzword of the year to throw around in 2024, but, like, i really did not have media literacy.

as for c.), not realizing nuance exists - ok "nuance" might not be the best word here, but i dont know how else to describe it. like, each time ive typed the word "problematic" out in this ask, i've done so in a very tongue in cheek/ironic/retroactive way, but, like, those posts about how Everything Is Problematic, Including Your Fave ARE true. and i didn't like the fact that my favorite media or favorite person might've Made A Mistake! i need to Talk About Its Issues Because I'm So Betrayed That My Dear Sweet Comfort Media Would Do This To Me. I Need To Prove I Clearly Condemn It.

like, i legit morally could not justify reblogging a twilight post without adding in the tags '#this is my guilty pleasure it sucks that the books were so racist though' or whatever. Most people were lucky enough to avoid that line of thinking, but there was an actual group of people who felt a genuine need to virtue signal all the time, partly bc, hey, they WERE passionate about talking abt #issues in media, but also bc of a subconscious fear of If You Reblog A Singular Piece Of Hetalia Fanart, You're Literally A Nazi And Will Get A Callout Post Written About You.

and during all of this i was at the tail end of my high school experience (yes i know im younger than most of your audience, ha). i was going through A Lot emotionally, going through a lot of life changes, and lived in a very . . . interesting household/place where i couldn't do ACTUAL good in the world that i was passionate about. so to make up for the fact that i was genuinely in no place to do legit activism, clearly i had to save the gay community by arguing about johnlock queerbaiting or whatever.

^ and honestly i do think that is the position of most antis. theyre isolated and cant seem to do Enough in the Real Scary World so they have to resort to talking about how bad of a person someone is for "shipping abuse", bc theyre not in a situation where they could, for example, ACTUALLY fight the good fight to end abuse or raise awareness for it.

There was way more to it and way more that I could say, if I wanted to, but this post is long enough as it is and probably doesn't make much sense.

I feel bad for antis, honestly, or at least the ones who are antis in the way I used to be.

--

Oh yes, passionate young fools who think they can at least fix the internet if not their lives make up most of the cannon fodder. Some of the ringleaders are just mini dictators and wannabe cult leaders, but most anti-leaning types are just traumatized or clueless, even a lot of the ones who do serious damage and don't just mock shit in private with their friends.

[gay-dorito-dust]

Hi, hope you're having a good day/afternoon/evening. Do you write stuff about Hellboy? If yes, could you plesase do gn!verytall!reader x Nuada, where he takes a dislike on them, but somehow catches feelings, but he can't and will not accept that and reader don't know why they're locked in their dungeons and just wait for their death. Nuada has a goal: eliminate all humans. However, he doesn't know if he should include reader. If you're not into Hellboy, forget I asked anything. I like your prompts by the way.

What’s up with me and liking these kinds of characters…I guess we’ll never know. 🦦

It probably wasn’t your smartest move in separating from the group to pursue a lead in finding prince Nuada on your own because whatever delusion you were riding on at the time that made you think that you stood a chance at besting him. A man who’s movements were as fast, swift and as fluid as a cold breeze.

It might as well be considered a death sentence to fight Nuada on your own. Something you should’ve taken into consideration for as soon after your brief one sided fight, which had Nuada dominating for most of it. But instead of delivering the killing blow with his lance, Nuada had decided to take you as a prisoner and had you flung into one of his dungeons until you friends come to retrieve you or for death to greet you first; So while you waited for either outcome, you began trying to find creative ways as to entertain yourself.

Meanwhile Nuada was finding himself to be at odds with himself over his resolve but mostly over you, a pathetic, greedy, hollow human being. No better then the others in his eyes and yet Nuada found his feelings of resentment, anger and anguish he held towards the human race, having dwindled the moment your eyes met his as he held his lance closely to your throat. Nuada knew that he could’ve finished you off like he had done to countless others but why were you the one to make him falter, to question his resolve, his purpose and cast an ember of warmth within his heart?

What made you so special in comparison to the others, whom he had so easily had snuffed the lives from? Why was it that throughout your fight did he not take full advantage of your openings, your weaknesses then and there? Nuada was given so many golden opportunities to rid himself of yet another filthy human, but something deep down inside was telling him to not bring you any more harm than he already had. Naturally Nuada assumed it was some magical trickery that you possessed in order to mess with his mind, however it was documented that you had no such gifted ability like Liz; You were just an ordinary human like any other who thought they couldn’t do no wrong, while simultaneously standing by and doing nothing to bring about change in the nature of your people.

This only proved to piss and confuse Nuada even more. You were rotting in his dungeons and yet you still manage to haunt his mind like a ghost. Hell he could visualise you so vividly and so real within his own head, making sure to get every feature of yours right, that he could almost reach out and actually touch you and be able to feel the warmth of your skin against his fingertips, feeling your muscles move beneath his touch, followed by your sharp inhale at the unsuspecting contact from him.

You distracted Nuada from what he felt was most important, form what he set out to do and he wasn’t one to leave any unfinished business, not when he was close to achieving his ultimate goal in eradicating all mankind, so much so that he could practically taste it on his tongue. However there was a slight problem with that, for if he were to eradicate all humans, that would naturally include you in that; The one human who had made a home within his unwilling heart and he didn’t know what to make of it because once again he was heavily conflicted, for his heart had grown to find some semblance of enjoyment within your company, much to his dismay.

‘How could I have allowed myself to become so weak!’ Nuada hissed to himself as his once relaxed hands became fists within a blink of an eye. ‘My head and heart have both betrayed me with their conjoined weakness towards that..human.’ He adds bitterly, adamant in even uttering the word human. It felt both vile and wrong to Nuada in naming those who’s inherent greed and corruption had put him in his current position; He felt as though he was doing a disservice to his own people for feeling any kind of way towards the enemy, and yet his heart couldn’t help but become more and more intrigued by you.

Had things played out a little differently just what would your relationship with him be? His heart would wonder aloud.

They’re a human, you fool! There will never be a relationship between them and us, for we’d only end with a knife within our backs. Nuada’s mind would reply, not wanting to ever show an ounce of weakness towards the enemy, not when he was so fucking close to finishing it.

It was within your human nature to be cruel, to lack empathy, kindness and compassion and yet Nuada felt an uncertainty in whether or not he wanted you dead with the rest of humanity. Would it be considered hypocrisy if he were to keep you alive while everyone else is dead? Maybe but he would deal with the consequences of his actions for a later date.

For now he had to confront you about how you’ve made him feel recently.

[proshipconfessions]

I fucking hate antis. I used to be one, and I am still SURROUNDED by all this “liking fictional CSA means you’re icky and one of the bad victims and YOU WILL DO IT IRL!!!!” Bullshit.

People I admire and look up to end up saying it. My “friends” end up saying it. It’s everywhere. I often feel like I can’t trust anyone, not even my close friends who have already told me they don’t care what I’m into.

it’s terrifying. ive seen what antis have done to us, I’ve seen how easy it is for people like me to be exposed. I’ve seen how people will see you as nothing but the filth that soils everybody’s shoes; or the sick, drooling predators just waiting to strike. I’ve seen how people are isolated, abandoned, and even driven to kill themselves because Society just doesn’t fucking like freaks. And everybody on this app says that “most people are proship!!! It’s the normal opinion!! We’re the normal ones!!! ”

I CAN NEVER BELIEVE IT. where the fuck do you live??? People abhor my gayness. People abhor my true gender identity. People abhor the way I carry myself as an autistic person. PEOPLE HATE, SO FUCKING MUCH, and they hate what they think is weird. People don’t even get that Lolita isn’t endorsing what the main character does. if it’s so normal, then why is it so much MORE normal for people to react to the concept of lolicon with “oh, they must be nasty hairy pedophiles living in their mothers basements with tons of CP. it should be illegal!”? if it’s so normal, why is it more normal for self-righteous video essay YouTubers to treat “booktok girlies” like crass, pitiful zoo animals for liking taboo shit in their spice novels? Why do they always come to the conclusion that they’re all stupid old cunts who could never tell the difference between fictional abuse and real abuse?

if it’s so normal, then why is it more normal for people to make this fake binary of “proper, real sexual violence fiction” and “filthy, romanticizing sexual violence fiction?”

People in general Might understand you if you just say you make art about dark subjects. They might be “normal” about that.

But I know full and well that it would be a different story if I bring up fictional incest or CSA. It would be an especially different story if I mentioned that its not to cope with trauma, just to get off on.

…I probably have trust issues, and I have antis to thank for that. It’s getting so common in the media. I’m so sick of people telling me it’s commonly accepted. It is NOT. What I write is gross, triggering to most and seen as immoral to SO many people. Even people I love.

I make new friends, but I don’t let them get close. I’m always terrified/constantly thinking about them discovering that I’m a freak and leaving me— or worse, outing me to others. it’s actually why I’m too scared to start posting like I used to on tumblr. I know what I am. I don’t try to delude myself into thinking I’m “normal.” I am not, and maybe that’s okay.

I hate antis for what they’ve shaped me into. How their rhetoric that I clung to in fear for so long had shaped me into an uncaring, virtue-signaling asshole. I hate them for how I crumbled when I discovered I had become the very thing that my friends and role models swear to destroy. I hate their logic for getting into almost every fucking crevice of the internet and even my peers’ beliefs. This stuff ruined my mental state.

———

[fitzs-trained-monkey]

🗒️ Vandal 🗒️

Word Count: 16,000+ (And nobody asked for any of it!)

Summary: A quiet high school student looks a little too closely at the tragic events afflicting their hometown. Can you uncover the truth while keeping your own secrets hidden? Or will a lapse in judgment expose you to a world of hurt? || Kol x disabled!reader || Here lies my Masterlist

Warnings: Some language, references to blood and gore, Kol being a psycho, and some dubious consent but nothing violent or graphic. This turned out a little more Yandere than I intended. Just expect ya gal's general tomfoolery.

A/N: Howdy-doo, this is your captain speaking. I know I promised a lot of you that I would have the sequel to Run for Your Life finished last week, but it's still not done and I'm really sorry. I wrote this instead. Please forgive me. I hate letting y'all down but inspiration has been really low as of late and, as some of you know, I've been facing some very serious struggles with people in my life. My sense of self-worth has been suffering, but writing this fic has been my best escape. So again, I'm really sorry to those who were expecting the Klaus fic, but I hope you like this one nonetheless.

🗒️ Story Begins Below 🗒️

When Niklaus Mikaelson confined himself to his studio, it was common knowledge among all parties of blood relation to the original hybrid that any sibling who valued their breathing privileges should promptly vacate the premises until such a time as that tortured artist ceased muttering his internal monologue aloud. 

Kol, for one, was quite fond of his breathing privileges, thank you very much. 

Ugh, breathing. 

The one thing he’d never thought would require adjusting to through the centuries was now yet another factor among a dozen others that required getting used to. 

The air of this new age he’d found himself in was thick and hazy with chemicals and other nonsense he didn’t care to think about. Drawing the filthy mixture into his lungs required significantly more effort from him than it used to. He wondered vaguely how the humans surrounding his seat at the bar of this stodgy town’s only decent restaurant did it with such ease. It must’ve been tiring. Perhaps that was why so many of the patrons around him seemed content to spend their morning religiously devoted to quaffing down as much of that - oh, what had Mary-Alice called it? - caffeine stuff as they could possibly contain. 

Though the name would suggest otherwise, Kol figured the only way the Mystic Grill, as the place was called, could remain in business was to serve breakfast, lunch, dinner, and drinks. Hence why the place was packed with half-conscious teenagers at the ungodly hour of six in the morning, stopping off for something to eat on their way to school. How did Rebekah enjoy this? Though she’d accompanied him to the grill, Kol’s sister had been quick to grab her coffee and ditch him. She wanted to arrive to school early so she could “talk”. (The notion tempted Kol to impale himself on a billiard cue.) 

Rebekah was also rather upset with him, or more specifically, his newfound enrollment in her high school. There was nothing he could do about that, however. If it was up to him, Kol would choose to spend his time literally any place else. Unfortunately for him, after that little incident with Rebekah’s date, mother dearest had been contemplating ways to keep him in line. High school was evidently what she’d come up with. It was Finn’s idea actually. Kol’s eldest brother - dull lout that he was - had suggested that perhaps attending high school with his sister would provide a convenient way for Kol to catch up on recent history, as well as assist him in developing some control over his appetite seeing as each family member had given their word not to shed the blood of any locals. As if that wasn’t bad enough, Esther had done more than just readily agree. She’d also cast a tracking spell on him. If he strayed beyond the town’s limits, she would know. 

Rest assured, he would find a way to weasel out of it - that was certain. But for now, Kol was stumped. This resurrected version of his mother wasn’t quite so dismissive of him as she’d been in Kol’s human life. He should have liked that - should have reveled in it. Yet, having her attention this time around came with a cold harshness he wasn’t so fond of. For now though, he would have to endure his punishment. Thanks to Klaus, he couldn’t even skip out.

Thus Kol found himself in an overly crowded restaurant, at six in the morning on his first day of school, surrounded by teenagers.

Kol desperately wished he could eat one or two of them. 

They were so rowdy and obnoxious. The whole world it seemed had grown significantly louder since he’d been daggered in nineteen fourteen. So much information assaulting his senses constantly. It was maddening. Being surrounded by thirty or so warm bodies didn’t exactly help. The chorus of their heartbeats fell on his sensitive ears like the cresting of ocean waves and like a riptide, he would surely be carried away if he allowed himself to listen much longer. 

The boy’s throat burned. He was hungry. Always hungry. He could practically taste the relief on his tongue. The high he could get from just one little cheerleader…

Kol got up from his seat, grabbed his bag, and shoved his way out the door, cursing Finn’s name to Hel and back. He reached the end of the street and stopped. Raking his fingers through his hair, Kol rolled his shoulders and took a deep breath.

Wrong move.

A gentle autumn breeze swept past and carried with it a hint of something sweet. No, that was too tame. That scent on the air was like pure sugar and spring water, something like berries and roses and cotton candy all rolled into one supremely tempting aroma so overpowering he nearly choked. White hot pain shot through him and his mouth watered. He was standing in the midst of town square before he even realized he’d moved. 

There, kneeling hunched over on the ground, all alone in the early morning, was a young woman who looked about the same age as he did. Any view of her face was obscured by the curtain of her hair as it fell around her in something of an untamed mess. Her clothes, nothing fancier than a t-shirt and shorts, were rumpled and irreparably stained with just about every color one could imagine as she focused intently on whatever she was doing. Scattered all around her were about a dozen cans of paint and at least a hundred individual sticks of chalk in a variety of shades. She was decorating the walkways, Kol realized as he watched her dip her hand directly into one of the cans of paint before slathering the color over the flagstones she was working on. Once satisfied that the area was evenly covered, she sat up.

The girl paused to wipe her hand on a wet rag before shuffling back around to a different section where the paint looked a little drier. 

Kol had just enough time to register the pattern of scrapes that decorated her hands and knees before that delicious scent washed over him again. It was stronger now that he was so close and like a punch to the gut, just a whiff of it knocked the wind out of him. His throat seared and his fangs ached. She was right there in front of him, trickles of blood seeping from her hands and knees - rivers of temptation. Whatever ichor was rushing through that girl’s veins would certainly be divine. Kol wanted it. He wanted to taste her warm human skin - wanted to lick the scarlet from those teasing little scrapes she’d made. No one was around. He could have that sweet, sweet crimson ambrosia all to himself. 

There was just one problem. This girl was a local. Her residence was clear from the tags dangling from her backpack which she’d tossed a few feet away. Kol couldn’t eat any of the locals, he’d given his word on it. 

Unfortunately for him, that boy’s sense of honor apparently wasn’t enough to keep his legs from moving. He was standing over her shoulder in a matter of seconds. His looming shadow must have caught her attention because the girl paused her work (she was rubbing lines of chalk into the paint now) and twisted around to look up at him, squinting against the rising sun at his back. Her cheeks were twinged with a delicious shade of pink, likely due to the warm, humid morning, and she smiled in a friendly, albeit slightly confused way.

“Hey!” She greeted - voice practically a chirp. The girl lifted a hand to her face in an effort to further block out the sun, but the offensive light couldn’t dampen her smile. Kol fought the urge to roll his eyes at her sunny disposition.

“Good morning, darling.” He flashed her a grin - the crooked one that made girls like her faint. Kol gestured to the swirling mix of hues currently stinging his eyes. “What’s this going to be?” 

The girl blinked and tilted her head. “Could you say that a little louder?” She asked. Her voice was soft but rich with a delicate, wispy quality to it like a warm caramel stretched apart. He supposed it wasn’t entirely unpleasant to listen to.

“Are you painting something specific or is it more abstract?” He wondered, raising his voice a little. Abstract was certainly the most polite term for eyesore, he thought. 

“Oh, uh, yeah! It’s Mystic Falls,” She said brightly. Then she paused. Her face scrunched up a bit and even Kol could admit it was a little endearing. “Um, I mean, not the town, but like, the falls as in the waterfalls… yeah.” Her voice tapered off into a whisper at the end and she cast her eyes away. 

Kol hummed. “I see.” He didn't actually care, however. He’d seen enough. This girl, tantalizing as her blood might be, wasn’t worth his time - nor his mother’s wrath should he break his oath. There was no thrill in chasing someone like that, girls like her gave in too easily. 

Without warning, the little artist stiffened and whipped her head back up to face him, drawing Kol from his thoughts. 

“Say, what’s the time?” She wondered, biting her lip anxiously. Her lips looked rather tasty when she did that.

Kol raised a brow and checked his watch. “Ten to seven,” He answered. 

She cocked her head again. “Sorry, what?”

“Ten to seven,” He repeated a little louder.

“Huh?”

“Bloody hell!” The boy huffed. “It’s six-fifty! Are you Deaf?”

She snorted. “Uh, huh. Yeah.” Kol’s eyes narrowed but the girl only turned her head, shoving a lock of hair back to reveal some technological array perched over her ear. The artist shrugged and faced him again. “It’s the accent, I think. Plus, it ain’t my fault you mumble. What time did you say it was again? I forgot.”

It wasn’t the disability that annoyed him, he wasn’t that shallow. It was her attitude he couldn’t stand. 

“Six. Fifty. One,” He ground out through clenched teeth.

Her eyes widened. “CRAP!” 

The annoying little artist sprang to her feet, scooped her bag from where she’d flung it, and dashed off just like that. He huffed at her lack of tact - not so much as a word of thanks. It was probably best for both of them if they never saw each other again. That mouth-watering ray of sunshine was unlikely to survive another encounter with him.

As he debated whether or not to just wander around aimlessly for the remainder of the day, Kol caught sight of an object that must have tumbled out of the artist’s bag. Only the slightest bit curious, he bent down to pick it up. Upon taking a closer look at it, Kol raised a brow. Well worn and faded, the sketchbook in his hands was nothing special - almost every artist had one, that was no surprise. What caught his attention, however, was the design on the cover, or more accurately, what had been made of it. Whereas the front of the sketchbook had once depicted a quaint scene from what he recognized to be the story Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, with little Alice looking up at the Cheshire Cat perched lazily in a tree, the girl had turned it into something far more sinister. 

For one thing, she’d given Alice a broadsword. Her dress had been redecorated with dirt stains and blood. As for the Cheshire Cat, the artist had transformed the feline into a marionette with blood-stained teeth and dreadful claws. The background had been scribbled out with a black marker. All save for a grinning silhouette, tugging at the strings of its Cheshire Cat puppet, and a line of bold, bloody letters spelling out the phrase: “We’re All Mad Here.”

It was a delightfully grotesque perversion of a story Kol had rather enjoyed reading when it was first published. Perhaps that girl wasn’t quite so boring after all. 

Kol smirked and slipped the sketchbook into his own school bag. Serves her right for being so disrespectful. Besides, the book was steeped in that exquisite aroma of hers, and if he couldn’t devour the poor thing then keeping a little memento was his next best option. If she wanted it back, she’d simply have to prove herself deserving of it. Until then, that little book of horrors was all his.

Who knows what he might do with it?

No matter what, this was bound to be… entertaining.

***

You’d never liked cheerleaders. They’d always seemed so shallowly chipper - the sort of nice that giggles behind a person’s back. Most people said you were just jealous, wishing you could have their beauty, body, or popularity. They were wrong, of course, cheerleading simply wasn’t your thing. As for appearances, at least you were confident enough in your looks that you didn’t require validation from fellow minors. You never corrected the masses though. You let them think whatever they want. (After all, you had other, more important things on your mind.)

All feelings about cheerleaders aside, they were excellent subjects for drawing poses. It was them or the football team and you couldn’t be paid enough to go anywhere near them. Besides, you had already obtained permission from the members of the cheer squad to sit in on their practices. They figured you must have been lonely and seeking their approval. You didn’t correct them either. The girls on the squad were nice enough, though you didn’t know any of them very well. Just some first names. 

Caroline, Bonnie, Amber, Laura, Rebekah. 

Now that Rebekah was an odd one. She sort of unnerved you. Like the rest, the British blonde was nice enough, but something about her wasn’t quite right. She’d just dropped off the map for a month and a half and then showed up today as if she’d never been gone. Then there was her relationship with the other cheerleaders. Half of them avoided her like the plague and the other half worshiped the ground she walked on. It wasn’t normal.

Life isn’t like the drama shows all over tv. Kids in the real world don’t act that way.��

You hadn’t grown up in Mystic Falls. Your parents moved your family into town one year ago. Though you were just a sophomore then, you knew enough to understand that something about this whole town and everything that had been happening within the last year just wasn’t right. Within your sophomore and junior years alone, no less than twenty-six kids were reported missing. At least six were later confirmed dead.

Was it really any wonder you kept to yourself? 

You were fine with being alone. It didn’t bother you. 

What bothered you was that you had somehow lost track of your sketchbook. That bundle of pages hardly ever left your person. You never went anywhere without it, and yet when you had sat on the bleachers and reached into your backpack to pull it out, lo and behold, it was nowhere to be found. Who knew what small-town hic had gotten their grubby little hands on it? 

Alright, that was mean. You just wanted your book back. The idea of someone else flipping through your sketches irked you to no end.

“Well hello again, darling!” A semi-familiar voice rang out from behind you on the bleachers and you twisted around to face him. Had that kid been up there all this time? The boy grinned down at you. “Fancy meeting you here.”

You offered him a tight smile. 

“Yeah,” You said quietly. “Fancy that.”

The boy was pretty, that was for sure. Dark hair, dark eyes, a strong brow, and a sharp jawline. Not to mention that smile, you’d sooner light yourself on fire than call it “dazzling” but you would like to draw it sometime. All in all, he was probably the closest thing to masculine perfection you would ever lay eyes upon. But you weren’t dumb enough to judge a person off of looks alone. 

Though you had nothing to go off of aside from your brief meeting that morning, you didn’t quite like that kid. On the surface, he seemed alright. A little impatient but still pretty normal. It was the way he looked at you… it reminded you of the feeling you got back in your old town whenever you noticed that your best friend's pet boa constrictor was watching you from inside its tank - how its eyes would follow you no matter what you did. It wasn’t an exactly pleasant sensation. Those onyx eyes of his - when you looked into them, you couldn’t see much of a person looking back. His eyes sparkled when he smiled but behind them… behind them there was nothing. A charming grin without a person inside.

The boy’s odd smile only broadened. 

“You know, I-I didn’t take you for the cheerleading type,” He said. You tucked a strand of hair back behind your ear, squinting against the sun in your eyes. Did he always have to position himself so you had to blind yourself to look at him?

“I’m… not.”

He chuckled. “Obviously.” Climbing to his feet, the boy hopped up onto the seat in front of him and walked gracefully down to your level - at least, as gracefully as one can while walking on bleachers. You should probably warn him about the-

“Careful, that next one wobbles,” You spoke up. Your voice never seemed to come out as loud as you intended, yet he didn’t seem to have a problem catching it. 

“Ah-” He tested the next row with his foot and stepped over it lightly. “Thank you very much.” He grinned again as he jumped down beside you.

The boy was much too close for your liking. 

“You’re welcome,” You mumbled, shuffling away slightly. He only leaned in closer.

“So, if you’re with the cheerleaders, but you’re not one of them, then what does that make you?” He wondered, oblivious or insensitive to your discomfort. You couldn’t tell which. “Unrequited lover or wannabe?”

He raised a brow, smirking in a way that appeared bemused but you could sense its condescending edge. You just shrugged. He could think whatever he wanted. 

He was baiting you, that you were sure of. The dark-haired senior wanted you to answer. He waited for you to answer. But his was a lure you weren't going to bite.  You just kept on drawing - filling in lines, and fine-tuning expressions. You were sure he would give up eventually, kids like him always did.

“Are those your chemistry notes?” He asked finally. 

You hummed and nodded. You’d never been too much of a talker. It had nothing to do with your hearing loss, or maybe it did. That was just who you were either way.

“And you’re sketching in them?”

You shrugged. “Lost my sketchbook.”

“Oh, that’s too bad.” At least he had the decency to sound sympathetic. “Did you have it this morning?” You nodded. This boy was persistent, you would give him that. He kept talking. “I see… Well, I'm sorry to hear that, darling. I would have loved to see it,” He said. 

Your lips twitched up in a smile. You wouldn’t have shown him anyway, but that didn’t matter.

“Thanks,” You whispered.

"You never answered my question," He pointed out. He was trying to get to you - get closer to you - and while any other girl would do backflips for the attention of a boy like him, you weren't any other girl. If he wanted to know you, then you couldn't let that happen. If you did, he might figure out your secret. Then you could lose everything - your education, your clean record, and the only money-making opportunity you were likely to get in this tiny, provincial town.

"I know." You sighed and closed your substitute sketchbook, just a little fed up. Maybe it was time to let the sunny, shy-girl facade drop. Perhaps a quick glimpse of who you really were would deter him. "But you're here too. So which are you? Unrequited lover or wannabe?"

The boy threw his head back and laughed, loud and clear. His laugh sounded like a stone splashing into a calm pond. Sudden and unique - one of a kind. When his gaze returned to you, he seemed to look you over as if reevaluating his previous judgment of your character. After a moment, he gave a slight nod and shrugged. 

"That's a fair point you make there, darling. I'll have to disappoint you, however, as I am merely here to pick up my sister." He gestured to the girls practicing on the field and then shot you a smirk. The boy held out his hand. “Pleasure to meet you, darling. I'm Kol, Kol Mikaelson.”

Your eyes flicked to his outstretched hand, weary.

"I…" 

Glancing up, you met the endless black pits that were his eyes. Your stomach felt queasy. Better to be safe than sorry.

You pushed his hand away. "I… don't particularly care." 

Without another word, you packed up your things and skipped down the bleachers. Exiting left of the football field. 

Perhaps you'd left him stunned. You didn't bother looking back to check.

You started seeing Kol quite often after that, which wouldn't have been weird had he not been a year above you. If it wasn't coincidence that saw you sharing both lunch period and study hall with him, then you didn't want to think about what it was. He kept his distance, which you appreciated. Kol didn't approach you for a while, but whenever you were in the same room with him you couldn't seem to shake a feeling that you were being watched. Closely. 

The day that pattern changed was the day you walked down the hall and found yourself greeted by photocopies of your art taped to every locker. A chill ran down your spine as your eyes landed on that first row of metal doors. The papers fluttered in the wind generated by passing students but you would recognize your art anywhere. 

It was one of the pages from your sketchbook - one of the sketches no one was supposed to see. 

This one depicted the football team, gathered on the field for practice. The sky above was dark and they had their helmets off. Each player's complexion was ghostly pale and their glowing red eyes all stared soullessly at the viewer. Their expressions displayed no emotion, but together they stood in a threatening formation. You had taken inspiration from both classic zombie movies and The Matrix for that sketch. In the top left corner, you had etched the title. You called it "The Hive." 

The only problem was, you hadn't exactly obtained the team's permission to draw it. 

To make matters worse, someone had added an inscription to the image that read: "Members of The Hive possess no individual thought or personality. Furthermore, they acknowledge only other facets of their collective consciousness." The words were scrawled across a crumpled sticky note attached to the top right-hand corner of the page. You hadn't written those words, but it sure looked like your handwriting. Your name was even signed at the bottom.

Someone had stolen and altered your sketchbook, and now they were using it against you.

Panic and paranoia welled up inside you. Clutching your books to your chest, you quickened your pace, catching glimpses of more and more hallways decorated with your sketch. Whispers followed you as you rushed down the hall to your locker, hoping to escape and find solace in your first class of the day, but you had no such luck. Reaching your destination, you gasped at the sight before you, recoiling in shame and confusion. It was like a shot taken straight from a television drama. This thief - whoever they were - had covered your locker with copies of that picture. 

Who would do something like this? You had only been in town a year - you wouldn't have thought that long enough to garner this degree of animosity from anyone.

"What the actual hell, Y/N?" A student exclaimed from down the hall.

Your mouth hung, gaping in shock and you floundered for something - anything to say. There was nothing. No defense. 

"Yeah, Y/L/N! What did Matt and the team ever do to you?"

Your eyes widened. "What?" You shook your head, blinking rapidly as you tried to explain, but your voice refused to rise over the commotion, accusations, and judgment. "N-no, they didn't. I mean, I wasn't trying to-to…"

"You realize how sick this is, right?" Another kid demanded, closer to you this time. "Like, seriously. Judgy much?"

"No, it's not like that," You insisted. It felt like your whole world had been tossed upside down. "I-I just-" You stammered, hapless. For once, it was the people around you who couldn't seem to hear.

"What a creep," Muttered someone else as they passed close enough for your hearing aids to register. Was that what everyone thought of you?

"No! Y-you don't understand! I-I didn't mean it like that. I-" Your heart sank. Shame overwhelmed you and you buried your face in your hands, sliding down the wall to the floor.

Your heart felt like a voodoo doll, impaled with all sorts of pins. You'd never felt impressed to explain yourself to anyone. You had never cared what anyone else thought of you. But when you had imagined all the ways your life might fall apart, this wasn't one of the ways you had envisioned. That drawing and the dozens of others like it - they were yours. 

You wished you'd never made them in the first place.

Shaking your head, you switched off your hearing aids and hugged your arms around yourself, perfectly content to stew in your own misery. A dull roar met your ears as students passed by. None stopped to address you. A few of them tossed crumpled-up photocopies of your sketch at your head but you ignored them.

Then a hand settled itself on your knee. 

Startled, you peeked between your fingers, expecting someone like the assistant principal or guidance counselor to be kneeling in front of you. Instead, you were met with the concerned countenance of none other than Kol Mikaelson. 

You froze, staring at him with wide eyes. 

He proffered a gentle smile and said something, but his words were lost to the prattling hum that encompassed your world without hearing aids. You preferred it this way. It was your natural state. You saw instead of listened, it was what made you such a good artist. Or so you'd thought.

You shook your head at him weakly, pointing to your ears, and mouthed, "I can't hear you."

Why was he here? Was he just going to tease you as he had a few weeks ago on the football stands? 

Kol nodded. "I know," He signed. His movements were small and lax - nonthreatening. 

Unsure how to interpret his sudden kindness and understanding, you shifted to sit up a little straighter, eyeing him. Kol's lips pressed into a thin line that tried to look like a smile. Without warning, he removed the textbooks resting in your lap and stood.

"Let's get you out of here, yeah?" He sighed, offering you his hand. Hesitantly, you reached out and took it, allowing him to pull you to your feet. You stiffened as the boy let go of your hand and instead wrapped his arm around your waist. He pulled you swiftly against his side, shielding you from the view of others in the hallway as he hastily but gently herded you down crowded hallways and out the heavy steel front doors. 

Just outside the school, there were picnic tables set up where students could sit to study or eat lunch. Those were deserted by now as first period was speedily approaching. Kol guided you to one of them and dropped your books on the table, gesturing for you to sit. You weren't overly fond of being told what to do, but you figured this was probably Kol's best effort to be nice so you obliged. He sat down in front of you and cupped your jaw in his hand. With his brows furrowed and expression drawn the boy seemed to be inspecting your face, though for what you couldn't be sure. 

Absently, you noticed that his hands were very warm despite the changing season. (Why that thought made your stomach queasy was a question for another time.)

Kol's thumb brushed over your cheek and you wanted to look away to hide the flare of heat that consumed your cheeks, but he wouldn't let you. 

"Well, you're not panicking," He observed after what felt like an eternity. "That's good." 

His words were muffled without your hearing aids but now, away from the commotion of the bustling hallways, you could understand him well enough. 

You gave a small nod and, refusing to meet his eyes, focused instead on the grass beneath your feet. 

"I'm fine," You whispered. Your voice was a little hoarse but he didn't know you well enough to recognize that. 

"Are you sure?"

The question was inevitable, yet you found yourself scowling anyway. 

Of course you were fine. You were always fine. 

You wanted to tell him that you didn't want his pity, that you weren't some distressing damsel and that he needed to mind his own business. You weren't some charity case he could use to prove to all the senior girls that he could be a sensitive boyfriend. (You'd been there once. You weren't going through it again.) But, as always, the boldness in your head could never seem to leave your lips.

"It's not your responsibility to take care of me," You told him instead. In your lap, your hands fiddled and tugged on the too-long sleeves of your sweater. You'd gotten chalk on your jeans again.

He let his hand drop and the swirling autumn winds cooled your cheeks. You sort of missed the warmth.

"I know that." Kol's concern morphed into a smirk. This was it. You prepared for the incoming ridicule. It never came. "You don't like anyone getting close, do you?" He guessed, casually leaning back as though he already knew the answer. (And respected it.) "Makes you uncomfortable, I'd imagine."

You shrugged and picked at the loose threads on your sleeve. Honestly, he was right - you were just a bucket of trust issues in a Technicolor wrapper. But was that any of his business? No.

"Why are you here?" You wondered in lieu of an answer. 

Kol raised a brow. "Apologies, darling. I was unaware that it's illegal for a bloke to be a good friend 'this side of the pond." 

"It's not illegal," You said. Your eyes narrowed. "But we're not friends."

You'd made a handful of friends since moving to this town. None of them had come to your aid. Then again, none of them knew about your sketchbook.

Kol smirked. "Consider this an application then!" He surmised, eyes glinting. Those unnerving tar pits seemed a little less dead today than they had before. What changed? He chuckled, amused at your loss for words, and continued. "Besides, I get the feeling I'm just about the only one who knows that sketchbook of yours was stolen from you. The only thing I want to know is, what made you draw that picture?" 

Maybe… if you told him the truth about the sketches, he wouldn't look any closer. 

"I don't like Stefan Salvatore," Came your quiet answer. 

That didn't seem to be what he was expecting, but he didn't look disappointed. Kol's lips twitched and he wet his lips in a way that betrayed a certain excitement. 

"Go on."

You took a breath.

"He and I were the only two new kids last year," You began. If you said this, you were going to sound like a lunatic, that was why you'd always opted to draw it out instead. "Strange things happen in this town, and they happen around him. No town has as many "animal attacks" as this one and those only started when he showed up. People started going missing. Some were found dead. Mr. Saltzman is our history teacher because the guy before him got ripped up right over there in the parking lot just before Stefan's first game as part of team. The police said it was a mountain lion, but I was there; I saw the body and there were no scratches. Then there's the way some of his friends a-and Mr. Saltzman look at him sometimes - I've seen them do it - like he's about to murder everyone in the room and they don't know how to stop him."

Kol stared at you. His expression had grown increasingly weary the longer you kept on rambling. When you finally closed your mouth, he nodded slowly, brows furrowed. You bit your lip, awaiting his response.

"That is…" He trailed off. To your great surprise, however, he nodded as if he actually believed you. "Deeply disturbing, darling." Kol's eyes narrowed and he leaned in closer. "You say you saw your teacher's corpse?" He asked.

You nodded. "The "bite" on his neck looked a lot more like buck-shot to me."

His eyes widened. "You think someone killed him?" He hissed.

"And the police covered it up."

"So why draw the football team?"

You hugged your arms around yourself. "Because Matt Donovan is in on it. It's him, Tyler Lockwood, and Stefan Salvatore - they've been acting so weird. Two months ago, Tyler and Stefan started acting really mean all of a sudden and the rest of the football team just started acting like zombies, doing anything they said. It was really freaky."

"And you drew it so you wouldn't have to be afraid." Kol nodded, smiling softly. "Put all the horrors in a little book and out of your head."

This kid had you dead to rights.

You tugged on the sleeves of your sweater. "I never meant to hurt anyone," You sighed.

"I know," He said. "For the record, I quite liked your little interpretation."

"You don't think I'm crazy?"

"I'm not sure yet," The dark-haired boy admitted with a shrug. "Honestly, I've never known another town to have as many functions as this one."

"Right?!" You exclaimed. Finally, someone else saw it! "Smells like organized crime to me…"

"Or cult activity."

"Or that."

"Or maybe you're just a little paranoid," Kol surmised. "But if that's the case, then who am I to judge?"

For the first time in a while, your shoulders shook with a genuine laugh. 

"Thanks Kol."

"Anytime, love."

And that boy lived up to his word. Over the span of the next several weeks, more of your sketches were spread about the school. It wasn't long before your so-called friends had all cut contact. Kol became the only person in town willing to talk to you. Every time a drawing was leaked, no matter how dark, twisted, or gruesome the image, Kol was always there to comfort you and compliment your art style. 

Each drawing that circulated the school was more damaging to your reputation than the last. Anyone you thought was in on the secret of Mystic Falls' suspicious deaths, you turned into a monster in the pages of your sketchbook. 

Jeremy Gilbert became a tortured Voodoo doll. 

("Well, there's an odd comparison," Kol commented idly, inspecting the array of pages that had overtaken your locker. "I quite like it."

A student shoved past you on their way to class, ramming painfully into your shoulder. You winced, aware that the action was purposeful, but you didn't say anything. Kol, however, glared at the kid - a cold, chilling sort of glare. 

You shrugged, readjusting your backpack.

"He just always seems so pained lately. 'Looks at everyone like they're gonna kill 'em.")

Elena, his sister, you portrayed as a prim, psychotic puppet master. 

("I'm sorry, but have I done something to you?" The popular and gorgeous former cheerleader asked when she confronted you about the sketch she clutched in her hand. Seniors Stefan Salvatore and Matt Donovan stood with their arms crossed, flanking her on both sides. The sight only served to reinforce the role your imagination had given her - the girl wore her ex's around her like accessories. They were always there to cover for her strange behavior.

"N-no, it's not like that. I-I-I swear!" You stammered, eyes flicking between her broad-shouldered bodyguards. You swallowed thickly. 

"Look, Y/N," Elena sighed. "I'm not mad at you, but whatever is going on in your life, you can't take it out on me. Or anyone else." 

"That's not what I'm doing," You mumbled, shuffling your feet. She didn't seem to hear you. 

"You know, if there's something bothering you, then you need to tell someone about it," Elena said. You were only a few months younger than her, yet she talked down to you as though you were a toddler. You wished the anger that flared and frothed inside you, didn't look like shame as it stained your cheeks. "I know we're not close, but you can always tell me if something's happening, okay?"

"No thank you, I'm fine." 

"Y/N, it's okay to let someone in." The girl pressed. 

You gritted your teeth, wishing she would just go. "I-"

"Pretty sure she doesn't have to tell you anything, sweetheart," A melodiously snide voice hummed from behind you. Glancing over your shoulder, you shot Kol a relieved smile. He dropped a quick wink in return before focusing on his fellow seniors. Elena and her posse seemed to tense up around him for some reason. 

"What's it to you, Kol?" Stefan demanded. 

"Oh, I dunno. Basic human decency? Nothing much," He replied. The dark-haired senior shoved his hands in his pockets and smirked, smug as a bug. 

"How 'bout you mind your own damn business for a change," Matt snapped. He almost made a move toward your friend but Elena stopped him with a hand on his arm.

Kol snorted at their reactions. "Why so defensive? 'Weren't expecting this lovely young lady to have some back-up?" He slung an arm around your shoulder and began twisting a lock of your hair around and around his finger. You sort of liked him tugging on it the way he did.

"We were just a little concerned," Elena claimed.

"Right." Kol smiled thinly. Releasing his fingers from your hair, he took a threatening step forward. You hadn't realized before just how tall that boy was. "Well, as Y/N said, she doesn't need your concern. So why don't you run along and take your puppets with you." 

The three seniors reluctantly surrendered under the force of Kol's steely glare and you watched them go, hugging your arms around yourself and shivering. Kol turned back to you. His hands found their way to your shoulders and he stopped down a little to look you in the eyes.

"Are you alright?" He asked. His eyes were still dark, but not the pits of tar they'd been before. They were more like soft dirt now, holding the promise of future life. 

Kol gently smoothed his hands over your arms, spreading a gooey, molten warmth everywhere his skin touched. There was something bubbly in your lungs and the shudder that ran down your spine this time wasn't from nerves. 

You took a breath and tried to ignore how his touch made you want to melt.

"I'm fine," You lied. You were fine. You were always fine.

The boy smiled as though he didn't quite believe you. "That's good." He tilted his head in the direction Elena and the others had disappeared to. "You were right about them, though. There's definitely something strange going on there."

You nodded. "Thanks."

"Of course, darling.")

Bonnie Bennett, by the grace of your overactive imagination, had been transformed into a wicked witch. Ancient runes glowed in the air, surrounding her dark ritual. Oddly enough, the thief had changed a few of them, though you weren't sure why.  

("If I might ask, why a witch for that one?" Kol asked as the girl herself scowled venomously at you from the other side of the gym.

He sat with his arm wrapped firmly around your waist, leaning in close so you would hear him though he spoke softly, having stayed a little longer after school to help you with your chemistry homework now that no one else would. You could smell cinnamon and something tangy on his breath as his lips brushed over your ear and you tried not to shiver. The whole school probably thought you were a couple, but you knew that wasn't the case. 

"There's some weird looking stuff in that girl's locker," You whispered back, pretending to be blissfully unaware of the daggers she was glaring at your head. If you didn't know better, you would have sworn the temperature of the room dropped a few degrees. "At the fundraiser we had last year, there was this car that just caught fire outta nowhere. The thing wasn't even running and it just exploded. Everybody was freaking out and running but Bonnie just stood there, staring at it like she was possessed."

Kol glanced up at the Bennett girl again. "You know what?" He decided, tilting his head. "I can see it." He sent Bonnie a little wave and turned back to your homework. "I loved the runes you included in that drawing, though," The boy added. 

"Yeah?" You couldn't help but smile.

"Absolutely. Most of them were even correct," He shot you a crooked grin. "It was impressive."

You raised a brow. "Can you… read Runic?"

"Mmhm," He hummed, checking off another problem on your homework. "Remind me and I'll teach you sometime."

You were about to ask where and when he would have learned something like that, but the question was plucked from your brain before you got the chance.

You drew in a sharp breath as his hand, which had previously rested like a ghost's on your hip, slipped deftly under your shirt. Unsure whether you liked it or not, you couldn't decide as your brain had simply quit functioning properly. All you could seem to register was that Kol was touching you and it wasn't a "just friends" sort of touch. Your cheeks felt like they'd caught fire as you glanced up at him, blinking owlishly, only to find that he was already watching you with an unexpectedly sweet smile. He studied your expression, waiting for you to protest - to say no. 

When you remained silent, that sweet smile twisted into a smirk. Leaning down, you felt a soft, tender kiss to your cheek just as Kol pressed his fingers firmly into your skin, wasting no time before he began to explore. His hand was warm, gentle, and soft as he stroked and petted your stomach. Something warm and jittery built up in your chest. It climbed up your throat, threatening to spill out. You whimpered quietly, unable to hold it back. Yet, that only seemed to encourage him. Kol hummed and slid his hand lower with another kiss to your cheek. What was that boy doing to you? Your whole body burned as he continued to fondle and caress you shamelessly. Shuddering, you bit back a moan and curled yourself closer to him, fisting his jacket as though he could hide you from the world. Kol just smirked and continued going over your homework. 

He didn't let go of you - didn't stop touching you - until the bell rang. Then he just got up, shot you a wink, and left without another word.)

Slowly, that boy earned your trust because, though you didn't know exactly how to define your relationship with him, he was always there for you. It was nice to have someone who knew why you had drawn those pictures. Not because you were self-righteous and judgemental, but because there was something very real and very disturbing going on and you needed a way to purge the constant fear from your mind.

Kol believed you. There was something wrong with this town. You weren't crazy.

But no one else could see that. 

The day a sketch of Sheriff Forbes - Caroline's mother - made its way around the student body was the day you were called to the principal's office. The picture displayed Sheriff Forbes as a creature like the Other Mother from Coraline, dutifully sewing shut the mouths of townspeople and stitching buttons over their eyes. The Sheriff was a kind woman. She didn't deserve to be depicted that way. But at the same time, you knew she was hiding something.

So there you sat on the wrong side of the principal's desk, eyes locked firmly on your lap as the graying woman watched you with a disappointed frown.

"Y/N, this is not acceptable," She said, tight-lipped with tired eyes.

"I know," You mumbled.

"Then why did you draw these pictures in the first place?" The woman demanded. 

You shrugged haplessly. She wouldn't believe you if you told the truth. She'd probably recommend you to a mental health institution. 

The principal sighed. "Y/N, it's not my business what you do in your free time, but this has to stop. You need to stop."

"It's not me!" You protested. "Someone stole my sketchbook."

"Well, then you had better find a way to get it back, and once you do I highly recommend you burn it. Otherwise, I will have no choice but to suspend you," She said, folding her hands atop the desk. "The mayor has also been made aware of these sketches and she asked me to warn you that, should another one of these offensive images appear, you can consider her commission canceled."

Your heart stuttered and sank. 

You wanted to scream and cry and tell the world it was all so unfair but all that came out of your mouth was, "Okay."

The principal nodded. "Good afternoon, Miss Y/L/N."

That was your cue to leave. 

You exited her office and shut the door behind you, letting go of a long sigh. Kol was sitting outside, waiting for you. He was always there for you. Upon seeing your distraught expression, the boy got up and wound his arms around you, holding you close. You clung to him, squeezing your eyes shut and grinding your teeth as you buried your face in his chest. 

Kol pressed a feather-light kiss to the crown of your head. “Are you alright?” He asked, just as he always did.

You took a deep breath-

(You were fine. You were always fine.)

-and let out a string of cuss words so foul they’d make a sailor blush.

He hissed in sympathy and hugged you tighter. “I take it that’s a no.”

Kol was a good friend. True, his words sometimes carried a sting to them and some of his touches lingered a little too long to be just friendly. But he was good. The two of you had come a long way since you'd first met him. When he pulled away, he probably should have rested his hands on your waist but Kol grabbed you by your hips instead. His hands were very warm and you found yourself blushing. But if you were being honest, you liked the way he was touching you - the way he had been for a while now.

"Do you want to talk about it?" He asked, hesitantly watching your face though you refused to meet his eyes.

"No," You answered. 

Kol offered you a strained smile and tugged you back into that tight hug. "You know you can tell me anything, right?" He said, gently.

Kol had been such a good friend to you. The least you could do was show him some trust.

"I'd rather show you." 

***

Her hand slid down his arm to his hand which Kol reluctantly lifted off her hip. Then, without another word - because she didn’t talk all that much - she led him off down the hallway. He allowed her to pull him along, amused (and two other things he was trying really hard to ignore.)

There was this funny feeling he got when he looked at that girl sometimes, with her chalk and paint-stained clothes, messy hair, and tired eyes. It was warm and pleasant and it reminded him of how he felt after a really big feed, except not like that at all. He felt satisfied, content… full, but there was nothing sinister about it. Kol found himself unsure how to label that sensation seeing has he’d so rarely felt it and when he had it was fleeting - gone before he could enjoy it. 

This time, however, when it came, that feeling lingered.

And not because he’d killed anyone recently! Kol Mikaelson had not rubbed out a single soul in that miserable little town. (A surprise to all, certainly.) That odd feeling stayed with him day to day, and he tried to ignore how pleasant it was because surly it would disappear any day now… But it never did. Kol knew it had something to do with his little artist but, honestly, that just confused him further. More baffling still was the notion that, over the past few weeks, he hadn’t found himself craving the high that exacting death always afforded him. Sure, he felt a little… hungry (that didn’t seem like the right term) on the weekends, but then he’d see her in the hallways and he felt content again. It wasn’t the sort of satisfaction he took from any of his games either.

That’s what this whole thing had started as - what it was. (Just that he had to remind himself of that fact was unsettling.) It was just a game. He’d played it hundreds of times before with hundreds of girls like her. It was the game where he came into their lives from out of the blue, stripped away every single thing they cared about - robbed them of their friends, their reputation, their comforts, their dreams - and did that all while making them love him for it. Then, once he got them into his bed, he shattered their illusions right before he killed them.

He was so close to winning this one too. Her friends had all abandoned her, half the town was convinced she was schizophrenic, and her dreams were one little sketchbook page away from being crushed. There was just one problem. 

This time, he didn’t want the game to end.

This time, he felt an uncomfortable stabbing sensation in his chest (not unlike the point of a dagger) every time she flinched. Every time she switched off her hearing aids, every time she hugged herself and sighed, every time she pursed her lips on the verge of tears - Kol felt something he hadn’t felt in well over nine hundred years. Guilt. Because he was the one spreading that girl’s naughty little pictures through the halls just so she would want him around. 

Kol simply didn’t understand what made her different. She was human. She wasn’t strong or powerful or even witty. The girl was shy, she hardly said a word to anyone but him, and when some kid shouted abuse in her face she just stood there and took it. She was so plain and boring that Kol often found himself wondering why he hadn’t eaten her yet. 

Sometimes though, she surprised him. 

She surprised him when she shoved her way though the front doors in the middle of the school day. Previously, Kol was convinced that girl had never broken a rule in her life.

She surprised him when she cussed like a sailor and didn’t apologize one bit. Was a girl like that even allowed to say those words? Legally?

But most of all, she surprised him when she tugged him along by the hand in the drizzling rain through the backwoods of Virginia, off the hiking trails, and down into a ravine where she only stopped in front of a looming chain-link fence. That fence had a big, red “No Trespassing” sign attached to it.

She suprised him when she was always fine. That girl accepted his hugs, his touch, his comfort - but she didn’t need it.

Thus, Kol was well and truly floored when his tiny sweet, delicious little artist dropped his hand and scrambled up and over that fence like a monkey scales a tree. He couldn’t believe his eyes. She had absolutely, positively, and without a doubt just broken a law. That couldn’t be right. She was too shy to break the law. This was the same girl that apologized when she broke her bloody pencil.

"You coming or not?" She challenged. And then... Then, she smiled.

The sight of it took Kol's breath away.

That smile. He didn't understand it. Y/N was no witch - he knew that for certain. But somehow there was something magical about that smile.

There were moments - only a handful of them - like the one he was in right then. Those times were so rare but when they occurred, Kol's tiny, sweet, piquant little artist would look back at him, usually over her shoulder, and send him this... this smile. The twist of her lips he'd seen her wear when he'd first met her, the one she passed out to her so-called friends, was a fake he came to realize.

This real one was so much prettier.

Words had so rarely failed him, but there was no language Kol knew that could quite describe just what that smile looked like - what it made him feel or why. That smile of her's was just so real - so deeply heartfelt - that it always made him want to smile back. Her's was never never a silly or obnoxious grin that she gave to him. It was this tiny quirk of her lips that made her eyes sparkle and her cheeks glow a subtle, appetizing pink. Her beauty wasn't like that of the models in those magazines Bekah liked - she wasn't spectacularly eye-catching. That girl's smile didn't light up a room, but it lit a fire in his chest the likes of which he'd never known. It twisted his stomach and Kol felt so hungry every time he got to witness that smile. Except that hunger wasn't the sinister kind he was so familiar with. When she smiled at him, he didn't want to hurt that girl.

He just wanted to pin her against a tree and kiss those beautifully curled lips until the taste of his extraordinary artist was seared into his infallible mind for all eternity.

It wasn't just lust either. It was more than that. Kol didn't want her just because she had a pretty smile. He needed her because that smile only appeared for him - no one else. Kol could make that girl smile and it had nothing to do with his physical appearance. His little artist's smile was reserved just for him simply because he was there to see it. She smiled because he existed and that idea was one he couldn't help but revel in. After all, when was the last time he got something all to himself without having to fight tooth and nail for it?

“Say, love, are we getting close to the bridge?” He wondered. It was the bridge or the falls, but he couldn’t be sure. Y/N didn’t reply. Her lovely, perfect, scrumptious little laugh was all he got in response. After a few more minutes of walking in silence - which he found he liked better than all the other girls he’d ever played with who always felt a need to fill the gap with meaningless prattle - they reached their destination.

So, Kol grinned. That was his real smile too. Only she could bring it out. "Of couse, darling."

He jumped and scaled the fence with the same ease as his quiet companion who took off again as soon as his feet hit the ground. It wasn't long before his enhanced hearing caught the sound of water rushing nearby.

Once free of the tree line, Kol glimpsed the dreary silhouette of Wickery Bridge breaking through the haze of rain and gloom. His little artist glanced back at him with something wild and ferocious gleaming in her eyes. For a moment, he was taken aback by the sight. But that moment was swiftly overtaken by sheer, lucidious excitement. He returned her smile and she bounded off down toward the water. He followed, enraptured and curious as she came to a stop underneath the bridge. 

“Alright, my sweet, I think I’ve let you go on long enough,” He said upon catching up with her, not that doing so was any struggle. “What’s so important that you brought me all the way out here?” 

The girl didn’t say anything. Instead, she began climbing up the mess of rocks and driftwood that had collected on the banks of the river, making her way up to the crevice where the bridge split from the shoreline. As she did, her hand slipped on one of the rocks and she spat out another string of cuss words that would peel the scales off a snake. Normally, Kol would have been impressed; however, he was a little too busy focusing on the minuscule part of him that didn’t want to rip out her throat. 

She’d cut her hand on those rocks and it wasn’t just a little scrape, like the ones he’d grown accustomed to. This was a long, jagged slit across her palm and her all-too-tempting blood was spilling down her arm in beautiful crimson rivers. 

And terrible, awful, horrid reality came crashing back in on him.

For a while there, Kol had almost forgotten the two of them weren’t the same. Somehow he’d felt full enough - full of something, full of her - for long enough that he’d forgotten he wasn’t who and what he was pretending to be. He’d forgotten about what he was doing and why he was there and what he was supposed to be doing with her. He’d forgotten that he was the predator and she was the prey. 

He was there solely to charm her into surrendering her blood and her body. That was it.

THAT. WAS. IT.

Kol hurt people. That was what he did. He screwed up, and he hurt people, and he laughed about it.

So why did the thought of sinking his teeth into that artist’s pretty little neck seem to tear his lungs to shreds? No - not his lungs - that thing between them. That thing he ignored. That thing he didn’t have. Most people call it a heart.

What was that about? Kol was a monster. He hadn’t felt anything in years, aside from rage, hunger, and the occasional apathy. One thousand years of never giving a damn about the value of human life. And now what? His heart suddenly decided to garner affection for one lonely, miserable, pathetic, perfect, baffling, innocent, gorgeous, plush, soft, disillusioned little artist? Now?

Why now? Why her?

(It had been so long. And he’d had no one.)

She was the only one who ever smiled just for him. The only one who ever trusted him enough to let him see how terrified she truly was. She was scared, so scared all the time that something would spring from the shadows that lurked around every corner to snuff out her soul. She should be, he knew. She was right to be scared. Because Kol was right next to her and he was the only person not in her sketchbook. Sure, she’d never had the chance to put him in there but he’d asked her once what he would look like if she were to draw him like she did everyone else, and his tantalizing little artist had told him she didn’t see Kol that way - that he was her friend. She didn’t know it, and he didn’t want her to know it, but she should be scared of him. 

Kol wanted to kill her - needed to kill her. He craved so desperately to ravish that appetizing girl right where they stood. Bloody hell, she should be terrified! 

Yet, he didn’t want to scare her - didn’t mean to. He was just hungry - that was all. No one was around. No one could stop him. She didn’t need to be afraid. He could make her feel good. She might like it. Kol was just hungry - he didn’t want to hurt her. One taste wouldn’t hurt her so bad, would it? She would forgive him. One bite would be enough and then he’d stop. Except he wouldn’t and Kol knew that. He would drain every last drop of scarlet from her body and he knew she would be the most exhilarating high he’d ever get. But he didn’t have to feel bad about it. He could dump her body in the river and he’d never see her again. 

Oh.

That was it.

He’d never see her again.

No. No, he wanted to see her smile again. Wanted to hear her laugh. Wanted to listen to all of her secrets and wanted that girl to let him touch her for real. No. No, no, no, nonononononononononono.

And all this ran through his head before his artist had even finished cussing. 

Y/N waved her hand in the air, displaying her cut. “God hates me!” She called down to him cheerfully. That sunny demeanor that had once annoyed him so now brought him a laugh.

“That’s on you, darling. Perhaps if you were to tell me what it is that you’re trying to achieve, I might be able to assist,” He pointed out, still chuckling to himself. The girl shrugged and reached into the crevice, feeling around for something. “If you get bit by a snake, I’m going to laugh,” Kol mused. She twisted her other hand around and flipped him the bird. After another moment of watching her grope around in a dark hole, his little artist let out an exclamation of success and retrieved her arm which was now attached to a large, black duffle bag. Carefully, she climbed down and tossed the bag on the ground. 

“Ta da!” She grinned at him. It was an odd expression - like her face didn’t quite know how to express her current joy to another being.

Kol raised a brow. “Wow,” He deadpanned. “Color me impressed.” 

Her smile didn’t falter.

“The council just finished renovating this bridge,” She said as though that explained everything.

“And?”

Instead of answering, she simply bent down and unzipped the bag at her feet. Meanwhile, ever the gentleman, Kol forced himself to turn away from admiring the exquisite view of her cleavage this action presented him. He wanted her, yes. Kol delighted in reducing his little artist into a blushing puddle when he touched her. But if he was going to have that girl, he was going to have her everything. Her smile, her heart, her mind, her body, and her respect. Everything. Not just empty lust.

From out of the bag, Y/N drew a pair of gloves, a mask, and two cans of what Kol now recognized to be spray paint. Then, donning the gloves and mask, she marched down to the concrete trusses of Wickery Bridge and got to work. The giant concrete slabs were practically one perfectly untouched canvas for her to exploit.

Suddenly, all those strange behaviors made a whole lot of sense.

“Bloody hell, the girl’s a vandal!” Kol barked a laugh. "I wondered what it was you were so desperate to keep me away from,” He said, shaking his head. “I had my suspicions but this… was not one of them.”

“Oh really,” His artist scoffed. She started out her mural with layers of red. “And what were those suspicions?”

“Abusive parents was number one,” He listed, stretching out casually on the ground, back against a rock. Not the most uncomfortable position he’d ever held. “Self-harm was number two, and number three was a sordid drug habit.”

“Do I really come off that pathetic?” She wondered blithely. 

“Most of the time, yeah.”  

The girl snorted. “Good for me!”

“That desperate to hide your little crimes, are you?” He chuckled.

“Yep!”

“Why?”

“Well, mostly-” She paused to switch colors, going with black now. “-because if Mayor Lockwood ever found out I was the one painting her little town red, I’d lose my commission to paint town square and uh… I like money.”

“Understandable.” He nodded. “I sense an “and” coming.”

“And,” She continued with a slight laugh. “I might have possibly tagged a few properties worth a lot more than a bridge.” She hesitated. “Or a town… or a castle.”

That last remark was enough to have Kol sitting up straight. “So you were the miscreant who wrote out “Blood Money�� on the side of my house!” He exclaimed, wide-eyed. It was impressive as no one in his family had heard anyone approach the house that night, yet the message had been there in bright red the next morning. How had she pulled that off?

The girl froze in her painting. “That was your house?”

“Indeed it was.”

“Whoops.”

Kol waved a hand. “Eh. No harm done.” 

“So… not a mafia base then?” 

He wished she was wrong. Kol really wished he wasn’t everything that terrified his precious artist. But he was. And that wouldn’t change.

So he laughed.

“Well, if I told you that, I’d have to kill you,” He joked. Except it wasn’t a joke. But he could let her think it was. He could pretend he believed that too. He could pretend he was just a normal kid, enjoying the company of a beautiful girl. He could pretend that.

She threw her head back and laughed. 

What a beautiful thing.

“Okay! I’m done talking now!” She announced without providing any segue whatsoever. He liked that about her though, that she was blunt and direct. It amused him. 

“Well, what am I supposed to do then?” He protested. He wasn’t all that broken up about it. Just being around that girl was enough to sate his hunger for her. That's what his little game had turned into. 

She shrugged and flipped her hearing aids off, so he supposed that was the end of it. 

“You know, I’m actually a vampire,” He told her. Kol knew she couldn’t hear him and his words fell on deaf ears. He figured he should tell her the truth though. Even if it was only this once. At least then he could say he had. 

“I’ve murdered hundreds of thousands of people - plenty of them for no reason at all. As for you…

“Well, I’ll probably kill you one day. Hell, I almost did just now. I’m not all that great at self-control, you see.” He let go of a bitter laugh and scooped a pebble off the ground, laying back he tossed it over his head and caught it again and again. “But I’m really great at screwing things up!”

“I stole your sketchbook,” He admitted, a little quieter. “It was just supposed to be a bit of fun, but it’s not fun anymore. I-I don’t like to see you hurting. I could stop. That bloody school would never see another picture.” 

He lifted his head, watching her back as she continued painting. 

“But would you still love me if I did?” Kol sighed, shaking his head. “I don’t think you would. You don’t need me.”

This time, when he tossed the rock, he didn’t catch it. The stone flew and landed in the river, lost to the moving water.

“Nobody does.”

He was glad she couldn’t hear him. He could talk to her and she would never know. Blissfully ignorant, he could watch with a lazy smile as she swung her hips and just kept on painting, without a care in the world. His horribly lovely artist sang quietly to herself as the light of the setting sun bounded off the water and carded through her hair, casting an ephemeral glow all around her. He wondered if her quiet verse might be meant for him. He knew that wasn’t the case. For someone so observant and suspicious, she could be quite blind. He doubted she could be in love with him or that she understood how he felt for her. But like with the rest of this bittersweet scene, Kol could pretend. 

“Sunshine, lollipops and rainbows

Everything that's wonderful is what I feel when we're together

Brighter than a lucky penny

When you're near the rain goes, disappears, dear

And I feel so fine

Just to know that you are mine…”

***

Robert Frost had been right, you decided the day your world fell apart. You would have preferred your world had been destroyed in one giant, raging fire. Of course, you didn't get to choose. Your world froze over slowly. The cold strangled your opportunities and relationships one by one until you were left entirely alone.

You stood in front of your locker that day, staring at the final nail in the coffin of your reputation and future. This was how it was to end. In ice. You felt like ice as you stared at that final drawing - cold and despondent. 

That sketch was of Alaric Saltzman, your kindhearted history teacher who believed in infinite chances for a student's grades. He always wore a pained smile - it was a smile for everyone else because he was still hurting but wanted the kids he taught to look forward to the rest of their lives as he no longer did.

You had drawn him differently.

No smile. Just the pain. Pain that had morphed into bitterness and bitterness into hate. He was sitting in his desk chair, facing towards the door - toward the viewer - with a bottle of bourbon in one hand, and a gun in the other. Smoke rose from the barrel of that gun, and the viewer's perception was tinted red.

You had drawn your history teacher murdering you in cold blood. 

Who does that?

"So…" The silky lilt of Kol's gentle accent tugged you from your thoughts and brought just a little relief. Even if you had nothing, you had Kol. "Do I want to know what inspired this one? Or would I rather sleep tonight?"

You shrugged, apathetic. The weight of the moment yet to sink in.

"I saw a gun in his desk," You answered tonelessly. 

"No shit?"

"Uh, huh." You nodded. "Right next to the colored pencils."

The boy whistled. "I'm regretting some of the things I put in my essay now," He said. 

A tiny smile tugged at your lips. "As if you did it."

"Ouch, darling. That hurts." He chuckled lightly and you felt his arms encircle your waist from behind. He tugged you close, resting his head on your shoulder. "You don't know everything about me."

He was trying to joke, for your sake. But nothing could make this better.

"What do I do now?" You asked with a sigh. Kol pressed a kiss to your cheek - light as a feather. For whatever reason, it felt like an apology.

"Well, if I were you," He said. "I'd go out with a bang."

You nodded and shrugged - indifferent. "A bang sounds good."

Kol released you as you slipped your backpack off your shoulders. Eyeing you with a mix of confusion and anticipation, your best friend's eyes flew wide as he watched you wander over to the nearest window, arms reeling back. 

With all your might, you flung your back through the window.

It shattered into a million tiny pieces.

The raucous hallway fell silent and a few dozen pairs of eyes locked on you.

"One of you bastards stole my sketchbook," You told them, not bothering to raise your voice in the slightest. "Is that what you wanted? To see me fall apart?"

No one answered of course as you glanced between stunned expressions.

"Well, I hope you're happy now," You rasped. Shoving a few kids out of your way with the harshness that had been building inside you for months now, you left that school behind you and didn't look back.

The only sound to be heard was Kol's low whistle as the heavy steel doors swung shut. The tears streaming down your face were silent.

You sprinted home through the driving rain, the sky dark and close, almost like a blanket. Perhaps the whole world was crying with you. After all, it always seemed to rain when you were sad.

To your relief, your parents were still at work. You had the comfort of crying in peace. Slamming the door shut, you pressed your back against it, slid to the floor… and screamed.

This was your life and it was crumbling in your hands. What else were you supposed to do?

A light knock tapped against the door. So quiet you wouldn't have heard it if the vibrations weren't centered right next to your ear. 

"Y/N?" Kol's voice called from the other side of the wood. You didn't say anything, though your ragged breathing was far from quiet. "Y/N, I know you're in there. I can hear you crying." He laid his hand flat. You could hear that ring he always wore scraping against the wooden surface. "Please let me in?"

You shook your head. "I'm not some charity case," You choked out, throat raw.

"Perhaps to someone else you are," Kol said. He must have been kneeling on your front porch. "But not me. I don't have charity, darling. I'm rather selfish actually."

You huffed a laugh. It was humorless.

"Then why come?"

"Because I'm selfish," He replied. Then quieter. "I don't like to see you cry." His ring tapped against the door a few times. "Darling, please let me in? I want to help."

Your teeth clenched like a vice.

"I don't need you."

For years you'd longed to say those words. Finally, in this haze of fury and anguish, they weren't so hard to speak.

"I know." He sighed. "I know you don't, darling. It's part of why I like you so much."

Well as long as he understood, perhaps it was alright 

You scraped yourself off the floor and opened the door. Kol stood outside, drenched to the bone, same as you. His eyes weren't dead anymore - not the distant black holes they'd once been. No, his eyes were warm chocolate now, melting with something sad. He really did care.

"Come in," You signed, too worn out to speak. 

Kol's brows furrowed. He seemed worried for a moment, though you couldn't guess why. Then he took a tentative step through the door, smiled, and stepped closer, closing the door behind him. 

You watched him take his shoes and coat off through the dim light. Your house was dark. You hadn't bothered with any lights. Once he'd finished, Kol glanced up at you questioningly. You regarded him for a moment. After all, these sorts of situations never seemed to turn out well in the books you'd read and the shows you'd watched. The characters in those stories always seemed to end up doing something they'd regret.

Or maybe they didn't regret it. 

You thought you would though. 

So, contrary to what Kol was likely expecting, you didn't throw yourself into his arms. You just turned and shuffled into the kitchen. You finally switched on some lights. After a moment, he followed you, watching intently. Milling about in science, you collected the supplies required to make the two of you a cup of tea. Your quiet nature combined with your parent's distrust of humanity meant you'd never really had a friend like Kol before - someone you brought to your house and shared food with.

"You hungry?" You asked, waiting for the water to boil. Your hands shook a little, but you didn't feel like speaking. He leaned against the counter opposite you and offered a thin smile you felt you didn't quite understand.

"I'll be okay," He signed back after a moment. He took a deep breath. "I'm more worried about you."

You grimaced involuntarily, eyes shifting to the kettle on the stove. Inside, the pressure would be building until it all rushed out.

"I'm not broken, Kol," You whispered, voice hoarse and thick with more emotion than you'd ever known how to say.

"I know that-" He began, lifting his hands defensively.

"Then why do you look at me like I am?"

Kol's lips pressed into a thin line, nodding. You'd caught onto his ways a long time ago. That boy had been eyeing you like no one you'd ever known since you'd first met him. The only difference was now you were brave enough to call him out on it. So what if he saw you for who you really were? He'd seen enough of it by now. You were sick of hiding anyway.

Kol sighed and pushed off the counter. He made his way toward you with soft eyes and tentative steps until he stood just inches away, boxing you in. You met his dark chocolate eyes and refused to back down even though you knew your cheeks were stained pink. You'd never let anyone this close before.

Pursing his lips, the boy glanced down at the space between you and lifted his hand. He trailed his knuckles hesitantly over your side, then met your eyes again as if to ask permission. You swallowed thickly, but didn't tell him no. With a ghost of a smile, Kol laid his hands on your hips and squeezed firmly. You couldn’t withhold a shudder. His thumbs slipped under your shirt and rubbed your skin softly as he'd done for you a few times before, knowing how much you liked it. His hands seemed to fit perfectly over your hips as though he'd been made to hold you. 

Your eyes fluttered shut and you relaxed into his touch, letting go of a sigh. His searing hands felt nice when the whole world felt so cold. You needed him closer. 

Reaching up, you fisted the collar of his shirt rather harshly and dragged him toward you, pressing your whole body against his. He flinched slightly, surprised by your newfound eagerness, but he quickly reciprocated. Kol chuckled softly and you felt his lips graze your temple before he clinched your hips tighter and lifted you to sit atop the counter. Your heart stuttered and raced in your chest and you gasped sharply, drawing back enough to catch the smirk dancing on his lips. Your cheeks reddened further as he urged you to spread your legs so he could stand between them. His arms circled around your back and you hesitated.

So what if he was a senior? So what if you were a couple of months younger than he was? He'd been a good friend to you. 

Shaking your doubts away, you wrapped your legs around him and rested your head on his chest. Kol hummed quietly and pressed another soft kiss to the crown of your hair.

"I know you're not broken, darling," He said. His hands ran up and down your back, massaging a blazing heat into your bones. "I'm just trying to figure out what it is that you really are."

Your hands on his shirt clenched tighter.

"I'm angry,” You admitted. 

“Why?”

His question prompted your lips to twist into a scowl as a hysterical laugh bubbled past your lips.

“Really? You’re asking me why?” You huffed, shaking your head. “How ‘bout why not? I’m sick of it, Kol. All of it. The lies, the expectations - nothing is right in this town and I hate it! I’m seventeen! I should get to feel safe but I see people and they’re dropping like flies. And you’d think I’d at least get the luxury of being terrified, but no! I have to act like nothing is wrong!” You looked up at him, tears returning to sting your eyes. “I tried to. I really did. But it was too much and I couldn’t and I had to put it all somewhere. Now some idiot who thinks they’re funny just up and ruined my whole future. I’ll never get a job here now, not like it matters because mom and dad are shipping me off to some mental institution-”

“What?!” Kol cut your rambling off suddenly. Reeling back, he stared at you with wide eyes. You just shrugged. “Your parents are sending you away over this?” He demanded.

You raised a brow. “Kol, this is kind of a big thing.”

“How?!” He exclaimed. His grip on your hips tightened. He seemed agitated - more than you would expect. “You drew some creepy pictures. So what?! Who cares?!”

“A lot of people care,” You deadpanned. “I drew the likeness of people around me without their consent. That's a big no-no. My parents are worried I’m overstressed, narcissistic, and paranoid. They say I need help.”

“No, that’s not-” He cut himself off this time, teeth grinding. He wouldn’t look at you, just squeezed his eyes shut tight. You waited for him to gather his thoughts. 

“They can’t take you away from me.” 

Finally, he looked up. Smoldering black eyes met your own with a determination that couldn’t possibly have belonged to an eighteen year old boy. It was etherial - hard to capture and even harder to understand. His eyes seemed darker all of a sudden. An odd trick of the light. 

“That’s a nice sentiment,” You said quietly. “But unless you’ve got some hard-core magic up your sleeve, it’s not gonna change anything.”

Kol nodded stiffly. “Magic, eh?” His voice was dry - strained almost. He let go of you and took a step back, bracing his hands on the counter. The breaths he drew were long and deep - shaking. His eyes flicked back to yours, blazing with something needy. He cursed. 

“Screw it.”

The boy surged forward and his lips caught yours before you could even blink. His arms wound around you again and held you tight and close. One hand wove itself into your hair, tugging on the strands greedily. You couldn’t seem to focus enough to keep your eyes open, they fluttered closed as Kol pressed closer to you. You weren’t sure what to do or how to react, so you just tentatively kissed him back.

Kol flinched. Actually flinched, like he hadn’t expected his affection to be returned.

He pulled away, chest heaving with ragged, uneven breaths. 

Had you done the right thing? Would you regret this tomorrow? Would he?

“Kol, wha-”

His lips on yours shut your doubts up pretty quickly. 

“I’m so sorry about all of this,” That boy whispered into your mouth. “But it’s okay. You don’t have to worry anymore. I’m going to fix everything, darling. I promise.”

He left you no time to think. He just pressed you closer - as close as he possibly could and you felt warm. Warm and safe and wanted. His fervent kisses grew increasingly heated and desperate by the second. It was like you were in a haze, possessed almost. There was a sweetness and hunger to him that you were entirely unaccustomed to. Holding the back of your head with a gentle hand, Kol was tender and patient yet determined as he licked at the seam of your mouth. You gasped, flinching as you felt his arm around your waist constrict almost painfully. Seizing the opportunity, Kol swiftly deepened the kiss with a hum of satisfaction. He wasn’t harsh or forceful about it. You just weren’t sure. A tiny whimper escaped your throat but he just swallowed it eagerly. Did you really want this? Were you ready? 

You felt suffocated, trapped, and unable to breathe. You pulled back, trembling. But Kol wouldn’t let you go. He broke away, shaking his head.

“No, no. Darling, shhhhhh.” He combed your hair back with his fingers. It was comforting. “You’re alright. I’m not doing anything.”

“Kol, please-”

“No, you’re fine. Everything is going to be alright. Just trust me,” He promised. The boy smiled and settled his lips on yours again. You didn’t fight him. All you could seem to do was shudder as he captured your lower lip and bit down. On his shirt, your hands relaxed. It was almost as if he’d drugged you. Something about that was disturbing, yet you clenched your thighs around him nonetheless.

“See?” Kol flashed you a soft grin as he broke away this time, pressing a sweet kiss against the corner of your mouth. “You’re okay, love. This isn’t me hurting you.”

Then what was?

Kol’s hands slid beneath your shirt and they were so warm as he ran them over your waist and higher onto your ribcage. You had half a mind to let him do anything he wanted, but something wasn’t right. The realization hit you like a ton of bricks at terminal velocity. 

On the stovetop, the tea kettle screamed a warning.

Magic was your first clue. That and he’d said he’d fix things. 

What if he already had?

You stilled. All the warmth in his touch faded in an instant and you let go of him. You didn’t cry out or shove him back. You just quit moving.

Kol’s mouth slowed soon enough. He pulled his hands away and stepped back. The boy eyed you for a moment, but you wouldn’t look at him. Then he cursed. 

“Y/N, I’m so sorry. I-I don’t know what happened.” Throwing his head back, he scrubbed a hand over his face and groaned. “I don’t even know what I was thinking. I shouldn’t have pushed you. That was a disgusting thing to do. Please forgive me?”

You didn’t. You just drew your knees up to your chest, curling into a ball. The tears came back. Your ribcage shook with your pained breaths. 

“Y/N?” His voice was faint and far away. “Y/N, please look at me?”

You hardly heard the words that left his lips. You were too busy processing his greater sin.

The declaration came out as hardly a whisper. 

“It was you.”

Kol blinked. Then he frowned. 

“Darling… what are you talking about?”

You shook your head. Tears streamed down your face.

“Why?” You seethed. “Why would you do it?!”

He took a step back, seeming hurt. “Sweetheart… I’m sorry but you’re not making any sense.”

You weren’t going to play that game. Wordlessly, you hopped off the counter and strode over to the kitchen doorway. Kol had dropped his backpack there. You tore it open and rummaged around until you found it. A little book covered in black Sharpie. 

“How many high school students do you think know Nordic Runes?” You challenged softly.

“I dunno.” He shrugged. “Probably quite a few. I suspect it’s a relatively common niche interest.”

You hummed. “Let me rephrase then: How many high school students in Mystic Falls do you think are fluent enough in runic languages to correct it when they see a mistranslation?” You whipped around, displaying your oh-so-precious stolen sketchbook in your hands.

The color drained from Kol’s face.

“Darling… I can explain that,” He tried, voice raw - desperate for you to believe him. You wouldn’t. 

You offered him a smile. That same fake, hateful smile you offered to all the people in this town who lied to you. 

“Leave.”

Kol looked as though he’d been shot. 

“Y/N, please. Just let me explain.”

You shook your head. 

“I won’t say it twice,” You spat. Then, switching off your hearing aids, you turned away and started for the stairs. “You know where the door is,” You called over your shoulder, half growling the words. “Don’t let it hit you on the way out… bastard.”

Upstairs in your room, you locked the door and cried. This time you didn’t make a sound.

***

Kol had screwed up. Royally. 

In fact, he was convinced that this was even worse than that time he’d accidentally played god on the continent now known as Australia. (Mammals shouldn’t lay eggs and none would if not for his hubris and an escaped lab rat. Or in this case, a lab platypus.) However, this time, Kol couldn’t just run away. Of course, there was mother dearest’s spell to consider but, that wasn’t the only thing keeping him from leaving that girl and her stupid precious tears behind. For whatever reason, he couldn’t stand what he’d done. He knew this for a fact because he’d had all night to think about it.

Her face, sparkling with fresh tears, was an image burned into his memory. Kol couldn’t seem to forget the tremble in her voice as she’d pulled that bloody sketchbook out of his bag. He could still hear her crying on the other side of her bedroom door. No matter how long he’d begged her to let him in, that door had remained locked. 

This wasn’t how things were meant to go - not when he’d been so close. He couldn’t stand it. 

She’d almost been his. Kol had finally held his sweet little artist in his arms and nothing, nothing - no drug nor blood-induced high he’d ever experienced - could ever compare to finally getting to touch her. He could have had more. He could have won his prize - could have kept her forever.

But he’d screwed up. Now, she loathed him.

He could stand losing a game every now and again. That was what kept things fun. But this wasn’t a game anymore. It hadn’t been for a long time. He couldn’t lose. Kol refused to lose.

Luckily, his delicious little artist was very, very human. 

He would go to her one more time, he resolved, to try to explain things. Truthfully, he knew there was no excuse for what he’d done, but that couldn’t change the facts. Kol needed her. He wouldn’t give her up just because he’d been dumb enough to let her snatch that sketchbook from his satchel. It wasn’t her fault. Had their roles been reversed, he wouldn’t forgive himself either. But luckily, his steel-spined artist was human. Luckily, Kol could erase his little mistake. 

Perhaps he could grab a quick bite from her too before he wiped her memory. A little taste might aid his patience for her - he didn’t fancy slipping up again like he had the night before. If he hurt her without realizing what he was doing, Kol knew he would kill his little artist far too soon.

He’d made his decision. The only thing that gave him pause was the wrinkled sheet of paper Bekah found that morning. 

“Kol?” Her voice rang through their brother’s mansion carrying confusion and worry. “I think you might want to see this…”

He’d been at her side in a split second, snatching the paper from her hands. It was a drawing, and Kol recognized its style of it instantly. Her lines were intimately familiar to him now, even as harsh and erratic as they were in the sketch he held. 

His beloved artist had finally drawn him. 

The twisted image was startlingly and horrifically accurate. Something clenched in his chest at the sight. She’d drawn his countenance pale, his hair was a wild mess and his eyes were black, empty holes. A vicious snarl warped his lips, accompanying razor-sharp fangs that looked all too real. In the picture, he knelt in the driving rain, cradling a limp corpse. His lips were coated in thick, crimson blood. Enamored as he was with his nightmarish likeness, Kol’s eyes were drawn to the most lifeless part of the image. He would have recognized those paint-stained clothes anywhere.

Now, Kol had added little notes to the drawings he’d stolen from his sweet artist’s sketchbook. This time, she had included her own. 

The harsh, hate-filled words read: “Vampire - a creature that feeds off the misery of others.”

At the bottom of the page, his artist had left him one more note.

“I hope you’re satisfied.”

Rebekah, peering over his shoulder now, whistled lowly. 

“That’s not Nik’s work,” She noted.

“No.” His voice came out sharp, clipped. “No, its not.”

“So who’d you piss off this time?”

Kol shrugged and tucked the drawing in his pocket. “No one important,” He lied. 

Shortly after that, he arrived beneath the trusses of Wickery Bridge. He knew where that girl would be - knew his artist couldn’t leave a piece unfinished. If she noticed him coming from a far ways off, she gave no inclination. Kol, however, noticed quite a few things. The tremor in her hands as she moved a can of paint back and forth in front of her. A used sleeping bag laid out among the rocks. A banana peel displaying the only proof she’d eaten any sort of meager breakfast. He noticed. He always noticed. 

His feet crunched on the gravel as he approached but he doubted the girl heard it - more than likely she had her hearing aids powered off. He could see the appeal in it. After all, it got quite loud in his head sometimes. Turning off the sounds of the world might be nice, but such was not his curse. 

Kol wound his arms around her waist from behind and leaned down. Her skin was so smooth and perfect, it was hard to resist simply biting down and taking her all to himself, but instead of piercing her throat he opted to kiss her a few times, gently. He knew how she would react by now. Y/N wouldn’t fight or squirm, she wouldn’t even scream. 

She just relaxed. 

Fight, flight, freeze, and fawn. 

A spitfire when angered, she could be quite impressive; however, when confronted she would always resort to that last option.

He could scent her fresh tears as they slipped down her face, while in his arms her body shuddered, though not quite the way he would prefer. Only one word could seem to manifest through her pain. 

"Why?" She didn't say it out loud, just signed it. Kol held her tighter, shrugging.

"Because I'm an attention whore," He answered simply. It was the truth too. "And I don't know when to stop."

He would always need that artist more than she needed him. From the first moment he'd met her, that was how their story had gone.

If it was even possible, that girl melted further into his embrace. Her head rested against his collarbone and she sighed.

"So you think I'm crazy too, huh?" She smiled and it was a miserable thing.

"I never thought you were crazy, love," He admitted, pressing a kiss to her temple. "I just didn't care for a while at first."

"What changed?" She wondered, brows furrowing.

"You smiled at me."

The girl barked a laugh. "Oh, well that's nice." She rolled her eyes.

Kol pulled her closer to him, as though he could make her feel the emotions he couldn't explain. "Don't believe me?"

"Nope." And she never minced words.

"It does sound rather cliche, doesn't it?"

"Ya think?" She scoffed. Her chest still shook with sobs she tried to suppress. He twisted her body around to pull her into a proper hug. Again, she didn't resist. She'd completely given up. 

Kol didn't like this hopeless, hysterical version of the strong, dagger-sharp artist he'd come to adore. He'd seen this sort of apathy before and typically it bored him. In her, it only seemed to hurt. It impressed him to hold her close until she finally understood that he was bloody sorry!

"Can you ever forgive me?" Kol found himself asking. Funny, he couldn't seem to remember another time he'd wondered such a thing. 

Y/N snorted humorlessly. 

"Maybe in a million years," She replied sourly. "Or maybe when the nut-house straightens me out - whichever comes last."

Those words stung like poison. It had been so, so long since he'd made a mistake he couldn't fix with a snap of his fingers. Accountability was a nasty, uncomfortable thing. 

A voice in the back of his mind reminded Kol that he could always compel his pretty little artist. But… he'd rather hoped her affection for him might be real. He didn't want to ruin that just yet.

Kol groaned quietly and tucked his face into the crook of her neck, fixing his lips over that girl's pulse again. The effect was somewhat calming despite making his fangs ache like nothing else. 

"I care about you, darling," He mumbled into her skin. 

"And I trusted you."

He understood. That girl didn't trust anyone. Now he was just another reason why.

A police siren flared to life in the distance, drawing closer. The artist in his arms chuckled dryly.

"Sounds like my ride's here," She observed, void of all life or emotion. The wheels of a police cruiser pulled to a stop not far off. She'd be caught in the act and Kol happened to know the police force had been set on vervain. 

"I won't let them take you," He swore, tightening his grip on his little artist. A car door slammed shut. Footsteps began approaching.

"And what are you gonna-"

Kol picked her up and ran. Consequences be damned. That girl was his. 

He stopped on the pretentious front porch of his brother's mansion and allowed her to absorb her new surroundings. She trembled in his arms, eyes round as saucers as she glanced around.

Her eyes met his and she shook her head, taking a step back. "Kol?" Her voice was thick with dread. "What… just-"

"You're okay," He assured her in lieu of an answer. He spoke calmingly, but she wouldn’t allow him to step any nearer. "You're safe now."

"No." Her voice was bold and firm. She held out a hand, increasing the space between them. “Tha-that wasn’t right. We-we-we were, uh… We were there… a-and now we’re here. What happened? Tell me. Tell me what you did!”

“Relax darling, there’s nothing to be afraid of,” He lied. The boy smiled disarmingly, voice a honeyed guise - it had worked before, back before she’d trusted him. “It’s just me.”

“No… No, y-you’re not-” She bit her lip and retreated further, blinking rapidly. 

He took another step closer, shushing her disoriented protests. “You’re alright, love. It’s. Just. Me.”

“NO!” The girl cried out with a tone forged from steel, but Kol watched as her resolve warped and cracked. He could see it rise to the surface - that all-consuming fear in his delectable little artist that he so relished and despised. “No… Kol, stop. Please.” Her sweet melody of a voice came out as a hoarse whisper now. “Y-you were my friend, and… I-I still want you, I do. But you need to stop. You’re not supposed to be like everyone else. Stop lying.”

Kol sighed heavily. His artist had been betrayed, time and time again. He couldn’t be like the rest of this godforsaken town - not if he wanted her. Yet… If he told her the truth - if he revealed himself to be everything that terrified her so - how would she possibly stand his presence?

“Do you truly wish to know?” He asked, unable to meet her gorgeous, all-too-perceptive eyes.

"I have to,” She whispered, almost to herself. “I’m not crazy. I-I didn't just imagine that!"

“You’re right.” He nodded and offered her a slight, halfhearted smirk. "You see too much for your own good, sweet thing. But please remember, you asked to be shown this part."

Kol thought about her - about his gorgeous, perfect artist. He inhaled deeply, taking in her mouth-watering scent. He focused on her heartbeat - wet and strong - let it lull him. He pictured that adorable, appetizing blush that always spread across her cheeks when he touched her. Kol allowed himself to imagine just how sweet, how lush, how devastatingly succulent that girl would taste just beneath her soft, warm human skin.

Then, welcoming that corrupt temptation, surrendering to it, he opened his eyes. 

His little artist screamed.

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[fqeriemin]

𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐈𝐓 '𝐒 𝐌𝐀𝐆𝐍𝐄𝐓𝐈𝐂 . mark lee

O1 . THE PARK | nct master list

⇇ previous ✹ next ⇉

synopsis : Sitting on a bench in the middle of a random park in Seoul, you didn ‘t mind the fact that a stranger sat next to you. But you didn ‘t expect it to hit it off with him. au : nonidol!mark lee x fem!nonidol!reader requested? : no trope : friends to lovers pronouns : you / your type : just pure fluff <3 warnings : reader is a hopeless romantic , small mention of ab**e. word count : O822 ( originally 14O4 ) play list : magnetic - illit sparks fly - taylor swift maroon - taylor swift

just a little mark drabble because who doesnt love mark <3

YOU GAZED AT THE pink cherry blossom petals floating through the air and falling delicately to the ground. It was late March , just around the time that cherry blossom trees were blooming. You were reading the novel you’d just picked up at the bookstore. Seoul was chilly at this time of year , and you had wrapped yourself in a windbreaker before stepping out. With the zipper straight up to your chin , you sat there , content with the hum of the city as your company. Page after page , you let the city calm you after a long day. 

Until you felt someone sit down next to you. You didn ‘t mind it at first , as long as they didn ‘t disturb you. This person was pretty quiet , aside from the soft shifts of their feet on the cement walkway. You took a little peak at them out of the corner of your eyes at them. Blonde hair , strong jawline , and their phone held up to take a photo of the scenery. You directed your attention back to your book , and heard the camera snap of a phone. You crossed one leg over the other and made yourself more comfortable. 

“Pride and Prejudice?” asked the stranger after a few minutes of silence. You looked at him , and finally got a proper view of his face. His bangs stuck up a little , as if he ‘d just climbed out of bed. And that bright blonde hair.

“Oh- yeah.” You respond , taken a bit off guard by the question. 

“You like classics ?” He raised an eyebrow , pocketing his phone. 

“Not particularly.” You slide your bookmark into the page you were on and shut the book. “Just decided to try it. It was on a whim.” 

He nodded. A beat passed , and you were debating on whether to reopen the book or not. Your gaze tore away from him and onto the cherry blossom trees. Then he spoke again. “I’m Mark.” 

You nod. “Y/n.” 

“Pretty name.” He looked at you. He had nice eyes. 

You couldn ‘t help but smile in return. “Thank you.” 

A moment passed again as you both sat in a semi-comfortable silence. You had reopened the book. You winded a small strand of your hair around your index finger. He just stared back out the trees. They were beautiful. They don ‘t bloom at random times of the year , and with them blooming now , Seoul felt fresh to him. Anew. Like what spring should feel like. 

“Do you have any specific genre you like to read, Y/n?” Mark piped up, gazing at you again. 

Once more, you closed your book. “Dystopian and fantasy. You know books with war politics. Trilogies and sagas with a lot of plot armour. You know books with dreamy writing and-” Suddenly, you cut yourself off. “Sorry for rambling. What about you?” 

Mark grinned as a small laugh escaped his chapped lips. He looked down at his shoes in thought and raised his eyes back to yours. “Mystery. Definitely mystery.” 

“You read the Hardy Boys as a kid?” You cocked an eyebrow. It was a simple question. 

“How did you guess?” He kept the grin plastered on his face. 

“I think it’s every kid ‘s starter series.” You smile back. “It was my first.” 

“Well.” He leaned back on the bench. “My people don ‘t read that much. Even as we grew up , they ‘d ditch the book for HotWheels.” 

“My people only read the filthy stuff.” You mirrored his action , so you could get a better look at him. “That ‘s all they read.” 

He ran his fingers through his hair. “I never understood why people did that. Dark romance can be so nasty.” 

Your ears perked at the statement. Yes! Someone with sense who didn ‘t let the internet distort them. “Thank you! I ‘ve been saying that since the whole trend started.” 

“I mean , being in love with someone who literally abuses you. That ‘s so strange. And they romanticize and swoon over it too.” 

“Oh my god, Mark.” You were somehow so comfortable around him already. You just met and you already thought you made a friend. “Finally someone with a brain.” 

Mark just smiled back , leaving both of you staring at each other for a moment. Something passed , and you could literally feel it. 

“Do you…want to exchange numbers?” Normally , you ‘d never prompt that question. But today you found yourself doing something different. 

“Yeah, i mean, that ‘d be cool.” He agreed , pulling out his phone and opening the phone app. He set to creating a contact and passed the phone to you. “Put in your number. I ‘ll text you.” 

So you did. “Wanna give me yours?” You asked , handing him the phone. 

“Nah. you ‘ll get it when I text you.” 

You both smiled again. Like you'd both hung the stars in the sky.

[hp-hcs]

help me get ideas for shit to write from these yandere sentence starters!!

these are all mattheo/theodore coded istg

not mine, found all of em on pinterest

crossed out ones have been written!

tw: obsessive/possessive stuff, dubcon stuff

"You're calling that jealousy? Believe me, if you can still use your legs, I'm not being jealous."

"I'm overreacting? Sweetheart, if anything, I'm going easy on you."

"Maybe if I branded you, other people wouldn't be such a nuisance."

"I swear, if anyone lays a hand on you, I'll cut their arm off."

"I hate it when they look at you. Hate it so fucking much."

"If you don't kiss me, I'll slit your fucking throat."

"I'll carve my name into your back if that's what I have to do to let you know you're mine."

"Why're you crying? Aren't you happy to be with me?"

"I'll carve out your tongue if it’ll stop you from flirting with anyone else."

"Running away doesn't matter. I'll hunt you down if I have to."

"Your eyes are so beautiful. Too bad l'll have to dispose of them next time you misbehave."

"I know you're bleeding, what do you think I was trying to do?"

"I'd hate to hurt you, but it's for your own good. You know how dangerous other people can be."

"I did this out of love. I'm doing this out of love."

"I'm sorry, honey, but you made me jealous. They had to die."

"It's okay to love me. Please love me."

"I could fucking kill you right now, you know that?"

"You think I'm jealous? Trust me, buttercup, you haven't even seen jealousy."

"I want to tell you I love you until my throat bleeds."

"Don't even look at the door. I don't want to feel like you're trying to run away from me."

"You're safe here, I keep you safe! What else could you want?"

"What do you mean it hurts? If it hurts, it's because you're struggling!"

"No one else makes me feel this way! I can't lose that!"

"Just forget about them, alright? I know it's going to be hard, but you can't think about them anymore."

"This is your mess. It's only right that you thank me for cleaning it up."

"I'm the only thing keeping you safe from a filthy, disgusting world."

"This'll make us closer, I promise. Just hold still."

"Where do you think you're going dressed like that? Your body is for my eyes only."

"Did you think I wouldn't notice you sneaking out?"

"You're not allowed to see them anymore."

"You're being too friendly with them."

"If you’d just do what you're told then we wouldn't have a problem, would we?"

"I know you loved them, sweetheart, but they were keeping you away from me."

"You should be more grateful that I’m here. You want to be loved, don't you?"

"I need you more than I need to breathe."

[senka-mesecine]

Hello!! I have no idea if you are at all interested in writing preferences or a list of headcanons but would you maybe be willing to write some for kinks the platoon characters might have? Thx!

-

Platoon Characters; Kinks.

-

― To make it simple and concise, how about kinks that are absolutely more or less fundamental to the character in question because I think Chris Taylor loves happy embarrassed girls. What's that you may ask? Oh, you know. Women smiling coyly / shyly at the camera, looking happy and "embarrassed."  to be caught, supposedly unawares in a situation that could seem very vaguely compromising or suggestive. Up hikes the skirt. Maybe a garter was accidentally ripped. By accident, so they say. Oops. The type of stuff you'd see, ironically and extremely fittingly, on the inside of a soldier's locker coming from flirty pin-up models that dazzlingly wink at you from their inviting centerfold. It's both the most innocent and simultaneously filthy fetish imaginable, depending, of course, of the context it's placed in. Almost boyish, but not quite --- in fact, it sits right there on the edge of something cheeky and something possibly darker which is the best way to describe Taylor himself. He could lean towards something very sweetly vanilla or something pretty raunchy. Almost risqué, but not quite. Not just yet. All it takes is one step for it to all turn either-or with him. One step towards happy and enthusiastic consent and another step away from it and into the realms of voyeurism and wholly blurred lines.

― Man, King just loves pussy. Can we count that as a character-making kink? Because that's it for him, just about. Loves fucking it, loves seeing it, loves thinking about it, loves playing with it, loves eating it, loves his face ridden by it, goddamn loves smelling it too, just for it's own sake. Loves them all shapes and sizes and just about everything surrounding them. What else is there to say? That's what it boils down to for him. He doesn't need elaborate kinks or fetishes when it's all right there for him, the essence of it all. And everything else, man? It's a distraction from what truly matters in this game. People get so bogged up in complex desires and labelling them in precise order they get distracted from the real prize right in front of their faces (or sometimes on their faces). He can get oddly philosophical about it, believe you me, which almost makes me think he has a thing for cunnilingus and body worship (where he's the giving party) but never once is it referred to as such. The body worship part, that is. The cunnilingus bit on the other hand? Yeah, it's announced loud and clear and constantly to the degree almost everyone very well knows and can guess what King likes, but that don't bother him one bit because he wants everyone to know because he's proud of it.

― Even though he might claim the exact opposite, I think O'Neill loves it when someone bites, scratches, slaps, pushes him around a bit, tells him what to do, takes control, gives him orders galore and is overall mean to him; and you could very well say this is a professional deformation brought on by the army and him brown-nosing and keeping the company and the side of some pretty mean people by choice, but whatever the case, it bled into his sexual habits and turned into what you can only call a fetish, through and through. Again, he is very likely of trying to (haplessly?) present the exact opposite image; how he's here putting these people in their place and how he's so very good at it, how he does as a man should do, and man, the broads worship him for it, but it's far from the truth as it can be. He melts into a stuttering pile of putty in the hands of whoever gets even vaguely dominant around him to the degree it goes beyond the bedroom and pretty much turns into a lifestyle. He becomes a partner entirely eager to please and the king of all biases where his significant other is concerned. They can do no wrong in his eyes.

― Elias is a selfless giver. He's a giver to the point where your kinks become his kinks just based off of the fact how much he's willing to please and make you feel good and what's better, it is truly his pleasure to do so because he loves you and there's no two ways around it. Not a bit of strain, begrudging, irony or ill will towards the whole thing. You like it? He adapts to it. Draws out some very tenderly put limits if he thinks you're in over your head, but for the most part, he's extremely flexible. He adapts and never even brings up what he likes because it so happens what you like he likes as well. Might almost be worrying and have you thinking that he's here depriving himself of something or somehow suppressing his own personal wants but all you could be met with is a blissed out, serene smile as he explains that this is what he wants. You're what he wants, not some list of to-do of requirements. He has no desire that you're not involved or that doesn't revolve around you in now that you're with him. If we had to classify stuff in technical terms, he's probably the most submissive dominant out there. Or the most dominant submissive ever. Works either ways.

― Thinking nobody's gonna be surprised by this one but Rhah loves having sex while high with you. That's the it kink for him. Loves it if only he's high. Loves it if only you're high. Loves it when you're both high as kites. But, if there's Marijuana or any other hallucinogenic substance or varying intensities involved? Yeah, he's all game. He's fairly gentle, vanilla and a generally kind and considerate lover other than that and very much prefers it that way. It's lovemaking for him. Not sex. It's all deliberate preparation, smooth touches, long bits of foreplay, staying in bed all day for various rounds, equal opportunity giving and taking, lazy, lingering kisses and being genuinely in the moment. Pure intimacy. Heightened senses. The accompaniment of some sort of lulling tune. Candles lit and blinds on, baby. The setting bordering on being sensually ritualistic. You could even say Rhah's something of a die-hard romantic in his heart of hearts because it all is oddly romantic and there's no two ways around it. If he could cover the mattress full of rose petals and light some incense, he very well would. He's a greater talker during sex too, if need be. Fantastic at dirty talk too and can very well go on a long, narrative ramble that is as hot as the deed itself. Man can get you off with words alone.

― Wolfe has a (severe) praise kink. Being on the receiving end of it, that is. Again, another bit of wartime environmental conditioning turned fetish and seeing as how he wasn't the most respected or even obeyed platoon leader there is and someone praising him and telling him something's well done, that he's doing good, giving him that bit of reverence, acknowledgment, nod of approval...well, it just leaves him with his mouth agape because it's a novelty he's positively starved for in every regard, on a pathological level, possibly. In fact, he's so starved for it he might just try his hand at dominance if this desire is frequently sated seeing as how him having the upper hand? Having an important task to do and someone thinking he's performing it well? Someone actually coming to him for guidance? Letting him lead!? Liking him as he leads!? Him being in charge for once and him being in charge being respected? It's a rare and elusive high of power he might just get used to. Christ, just put the palm of your hand on his cheek and say something in the vein of 'Lieutenant, you've done so well.' and the man's gonna go discombobulate on the spot.

― Bunny's into all things gross. Grossout everything. Spitting. Blood. Fluids. Scratches. Wounds. Gosh, everything that can prove to be hideously fascinating is a thing for him, mainly because it's new, taboo, he can get away with it and it verges on shades of morbid and yeah, by extension, it's prohibited and hot. He's like a sick kid vivisecting a frog to see what's inside and doing it with the utmost glee. Well, yeah. That's him. His fetishes can range anywhere from playing with your saliva as foreplay to asking if he can bite you (playfully, we'd hope) purely so he'd see what it tastes like and all the way down to knifeplay, drawing blood, fisting, fucking you with the barrel of a rifle, placing a gun against your head mid-sex, scarring his name into your flesh somewhere as a keepsake or dripping hot candlewax over your skin because it's fun and curious. Thing is, he needs a limit and if he isn't given one one way or another, he might thread into some very dark places indeed because he enjoys everything he probably shouldn't. Notwithstanding that he's a fiendish imp. That's why he liked or likes being in the war too, in his own words, because he can do whatever he wishes without little to no consequences, the way he'd see it. And what's the point of sex if it can't be like war is?

― Thinking the likes of Junior and Crawford are generally just too young and green to have any concrete kinks developed to the point their kinks are just...girls, you know? Girls being girls. Girls. Crawford likes a biking tan line and rubbing down your skin with cream to avoid a suntan and my god when he was a teenager, Junior drew a girl in a cat suit and he hasn't gotten over it since, in fact, a drawing of a woman in a cat suit is right next to his bunk bed even as he's serving his time in The 'Nam. So, yeah, that's the extent of their kinks, pretty much. Not that there's anything wrong with that, but their likes match their overall age and experience and it shows.

― Last but not least, I'm gonna be blunt and say Barnes has thought about killing you. Flat out. What it would be like, hunting you, catching you, overpowering you, his hands around your neck, putting you in a headlock, squeezing your delicate windpipe, the sheer size difference of his fingers contrasted with your throat, the sensation of your rushing pulse under his touch, the warmth, the way your pretty face would contort, eyes desperately darting around and landing on him never taking his own eyes off of you, tears streaming down your face, legs kicking up helplessly, body pressed against body, him smelling your very last breath, being the master of life and death in that and every other regard. Having that ultimate bit of control and power over you. The inability of you getting away because he's stronger and always will be and that's just reality. Might as well accept it because there's no escaping it. It's like a live picture playing out in front of him and he alone decides where it goes next. It's this oddly intimate act only he can propagate and one which he'd allow you to have with nobody else but him. And then? And then he lets you go because he can. It's almost matrimonial in ways. He's an Erotophonophiliac to the core. It is erotic to him and it's a fixation that takes up most of his thoughts as well as something he holds back on actually acting on by about a thread. The ponderings aren't intrusive. Barnes goes there deliberately in his mind, conjuring up images of it. Might be there seemingly stoically zoned up with a cigarette hanging off of his mouth and that's exactly what he's fantasizing about in that very moment. The fact your neck's sure pretty, but that it needs something around it. Your mouth's even prettier, but what if he covered it with the palm of his hand so you can't scream?

[krysmcscience]

Intro post I will prolly edit later, lol

Figured I needed to make a pinned post at some point for people checking out my page.

Here's my ko-fi - And yes, I do commissions. The prices are based on the time and effort it takes me. If you want something cheap and fast, I offer '$2 per minute' sketches. I can do more with that time than you might think. (Granted, I also worry way less about pesky things like anatomy and outfit details.)

Here's my Ao3 - My stuff is dark and unpleasant, because my life has been dark and unpleasant, and thus what I write is not meant for either children or people who think censoring dark and unpleasant things helps anyone. :) My stuff is also Pretty Dang Queer.

Here's my original art tag - I tend to stick to just a few hyperfixations, and rotate between them, sometimes with overlap. Current hyperfixation is Breach, and a bit of Heavenshine. On hold is The Spirit Marauder, Starlight Killer, and Bleached Canvas, among other stories that I may or may not have posted about. Sometimes I forget to tag character and story names and such, though, because I am bad at tagging.

Here's my fanart tag - Again, I tend to stick to just a few hyperfixations, and rotate between them, sometimes with overlap. Current hyperfixation is Gravity Falls (specifically Billford). I may sometimes still draw for Cult of the Lamb, Among Us, Pokemon, Zelda, Sailor Moon, Dragon Ball, and Tokyo Mew Mew, among other things, but most of my older stuff doesn't have the fanart tag (because again - I am bad at tagging). I no longer draw for Homestuck, though I may still reblog posts about it that I find funny, and while I don't think I ever posted art for it here, anyway, my InuYasha hyperfixation died the moment my comfort character was turned into a pedophile. It is liable to never recover. u_u

Here's my art reblog tag - I very rarely reblog other folks' art. Not because I don't like it, but because if I reblogged every bit of art that I liked, I would probably overwhelm all my followers' dashboards. 8|; If you want to see all the stuff I like, anyway, my likes are public.

Here's my everything else tag - I'll usually stick this onto my ramblings, or on reblogs of stuff that isn't other folks' art.

Quick n' dirty deets about me: Filthy socialist (meaning ACAB, fuck MAGA, terfs can GTFO, from the river to the sea, and so on). Also, gendervoid aro-ace aegosexual with rampant AuDHD.

FAQ:

NO, I do not do drawing or writing requests. I do not have the time or energy. I may do random gifts for other artists or writers if I get the inspiration for it, but that's at my own discretion.

NO, I will not mark any of my posts as mature. I do not post smut art, I make clear what my writings contain in both the writings and posts themselves, and the internet is not a safe space for children. If you're a minor, best to steer clear of my page, and if you choose not to - because goodness knows I would have done the same at that age - then heed the provided warnings and proceed with caution. I am no one's parent or babysitter, and no one on the internet should expect me to be.

NO, I will not turn on anonymous messages. The moment my InuYasha comfort character was turned into a pedophile and I spoke out about it, I was harassed en masse by the grossest part of the fandom. If you want to be an asshole at me, you can do it with the full knowledge that I'll be outing you for your assholery the second you do. :)

YES, you can message me, provided you've been following me for more than a week. I don't always know what to say, though, so if I don't reply, that's on me and not you. (It tends to take me a while to reply to things, anyway. I am consistently tired and overwhelmed, plus a massive introvert.)

YES, you can draw or write stuff based off of what I've drawn or written! Of course you can!! Please do!!! Just share it with me first!!!!! OuO

YES, you can spam me with likes and reblogs, I do not mind at all. I don't even care how old the post is, so go nuts, my dude - like and reblog to your heart's content.

Krys is pronounced the same as "Chris", not "cries". If we start chatting and get to the point where we start talking over mics and you call me "Cries", I can promise that I while I WILL roll with it, I will also NEVER let you live it down, so if it's easier for you, just call me Terri. It's pronounced like normal, but short for Terrible.

I know it says 'she/them' in my bio, but gender is a nebulous void for me, so I don't actually care what pronouns you use for me.

As of June 17, 2024, I am 36. And yes, I feel fucking old.

Don't bother me with pro/anti-shipping garbage. I do not care about shipping wars. I cannot possibly care about shipping wars, not when half of my own ships are toxic garbage. What I do care about is whether or not a toxic garbage ship is framed correctly, especially when it's aimed at a young and impressionable audience. (LOOKING HARD AT YOU, YASHAHIME.)

If you know me from DA, NO YOU DO NOT. I just went through all my old posts on there, and good GRAVY was I fucking annoying. I should show all that shit to my mom and be like, 'Are you SURE I didn't have ADHD growing up??? Cuz it sure READS like I had ADHD growing up!!!'

I don't know what else to add here at the moment, so I'ma go back to recovering from weeks worth of working on comic stuff now. <:]

[blackjackkent]

It's stupid, perhaps, but writing this stuff out makes it all feel very immediate and intense and I sort of feel like I've run a marathon coming out of this final battle, though not - I imagine - to the degree that Hector does.

We get a very long cutscene of the tide turning in the city, the mind flayers losing their potency and the locals running them over in triumph. It wasn't as epic as some of the previous cutscenes so I didn't record it, but it ends quite epically - a crowd of screaming, cheering citizens in front of a battered Sorcerous Sundries, with a line from the narrator atop it:

Narrator: Everything you did, everything you sacrificed. It was worth it for this.

True enough. Hector can hear the cheering as he and the others haul themselves, exhausted, from the water, and for a little while he just stands there and listens, letting the feeling of victory - of having saved so many - soak through him and slowly start to feel real.

Karlach keeps close at his side as they walk along the dock; she has one of his hands clasped tightly in hers as if she never plans to let it go. He is desperately grateful that, whatever lies ahead for them, that she survived this long, that he can experience this victory with her at his side.

The others, all his friends, everyone who traveled so far with him, are all waiting along the shoreline.

"We did it," Karlach mumbles, as if she still can't quite believe it herself. "We actually did it. And the city's still standing."

Devastated, yes... but standing. In the morning, they'll have to see how much has been lost. But for today... Hector allows himself to think about nothing but what will survive because of them, because of what they went through, what they did.

"My powers..." Wyll comments wonderingly. "They're draining. Just like Mizora said they would." He smiles crookedly. "A small price to pay in the grand scheme of things."

Hector grins, reaches out to slap him on the shoulder. A small price indeed - Wyll is free for the first time in years, free of both the tadpole and the pact, free to choose a new course of his own design.

"I should feel relieved, yet my blood still simmers..." Lae'zel mutters. A pause as she works through her own emotions, and then-- she smiles. Hector isn't sure he's ever seen her smile with such sincerity before.

"The parasite," she says, turning excitedly towards Hector. "It's withered, dead along with the Netherbrain! I am cleansed! I will never be a filthy ghaik!"

She pauses, and then her smile fades, her head dips reverentially as she returns her eyes to Orpheus. "Only mild offense intended, of course," she adds, with just the slightest hint of humor, but it fades instantly in favor of the more serious grimace that is her usual mien. "You did the unthinkable," she says quietly. "And I'm grateful for it."

Orpheus shrugs, turns and moves past them off the dock. "Even when my time in the Prism stretched out like an eternity," he says thoughtfully, "even when escape seemed impossible, I never lost hope. I knew that my destiny was to liberate my people. To return to them triumphant."

He turns back to face them, his tentacles twitching. "I was wrong. It seems I can only fulfill one part of my destiny. My people will be liberated, but I cannot return to them. Not like this."

He pulls a blade from his belt, offers it to Hector, his strange alien eyes showing a clear sadness.

"You helped me destroy that abomination. Now help me destroy myself. You must kill me."

Without waiting for an answer, he kneels on the dirty, blood-spattered cobblestones and turns his attention to Lae'zel, who has moved up next to Hector with a grave, grief-stricken expression. "But first, Lae'zel," he says soberly, "I need your promise."

Her eyebrows lift questioningly. Perhaps she is simply too exhausted, but there is none of that eager subservience that once marked her, when Hector saw her stand before Vlaakith. She simply waits, expectant, for the Prince's command.

"Carry my hope," he asks softly. "Carry my burden. Call my dragons, Quulos and Quuthos, and ride to the Astral Sea. Destroy Vlaakith. Release our people. Be our future and our legacy."

Lae'zel blinks, and blinks again, astonished into complete silence. After so much work, so much struggle - to survive, to be recognized, to reach the front lines of a war for her people's fate - she is being asked not only to join that war but to lead it.

More than ever in all the time he's known her, she suddenly looks like what he has known her to be all along - terribly, terribly young. And as she has in the past, as she's started to realize her respect for him and his for her, she looks towards Hector with a question in her eyes.

But he shakes his head, smiles slightly. "This is your choice to make, Lae'zel. Not mine. I entrust it to you." It would never have been his choice to make - but he is proud to stand at her side as she makes it, a decision that she has worked so hard to earn the right to.

What happens to Orpheus... in truth, Hector is feeling too much and all of it too deeply at present to spare a tremendous amount of thought for the man. But Lae'zel... he is proud of Lae'zel. And he knows that whatever battle she chooses to take on, she will be equal to it.

"Duty," she says pensively. "All my life, I've traveled in its slipstream, not once questioning its path. In its service, I came here. And now... in its service, I leave."

She turns to look towards Hector, and he is surprised to see the weight of emotion in her eyes unlike any he's seen before.

"I will carry your hope, Prince Orpheus," she agrees. "And I will carry your burden. But to that burden I must add my own. The loss of those I leave behind."

Hector looks back at her steadily. With a slow, cautious movement, giving her time to evade, he reaches out and puts a hand on her forearm, holds it there for a long moment. Words seem inadequate. I will find some, later, before you are gone, he thinks to himself. Something that articulates what you have become to me. A sister in violence.

Her lips twitch slightly, as if in understanding.

"La'ch cras'ht h'mak vlek. So be it," Orpheus murmurs. "Now, give me my freedom from this form."

Hector turns the knife in his hands hesitantly, meeting the mind flayer's piercing gold eyes. He knows why Orpheus asks, and that he would likely ask for the same thing in the other man's place. And yet... "You don't deserve to die," he says quietly.

"I will not be ghaik!" Orpheus insists fiercely. "I did what I did to save my people. The rest is up to them. Someone else must rise within the ranks to lead the revolution against Vlaakith. Give me my freedom from this form. Release my soul to the Astral Seas while I still have one to call my own."

Phrased like that... Hector can't deny it to him.

Give Orpheus the honorable death he craves.

Hector so rarely fights with a blade that it always startles him to feel how easily the flesh gives. There's a soft sucking sound as Orpheus gasps for breath, his eyes widening.

"Gith'ka tavkim krash'ht..." he whispers... and dies...

For a long time everything is still. Then Lae'zel turns abruptly and walks past Orpheus's body, out into the open square beyond.

"Quulos!" she bellows. Her voice seems to echo in the silence.

No response, for a moment. Then one of the dragons wheeling overhead comes at her call, coming to a crashing landing before her, pale fire drifting from its mouth.

Quulos. Orpheus's dragon, and now Lae'zel's. How long has she hoped to ride such a dragon one day? Did she ever picture such a case as this?

She takes a cautious step forward, raises a hand in greeting to the enormous creature; it snuffs a greeting in return, cocking its head to one side. Its eyes glint with intelligence, understanding.

She hesitates, looks back at Hector. "I can never forget you," she says, and her voice is heavy with emotion. "Your name will be etched in our slates. You will be called Mla'ghir - liberator."

He smiles slightly. "You will have no need to forget," he says quietly. "I will be here when you have need of me." A pause, and then he fumbles out the words he has learned from her over the months, all filed away in his memory as if for this moment - some ungrammatical, awkward representation of a much deeper feeling. "Chraith'kan zharn, t'lak'ma h'taka, n'gi, n'varsh." May your enemies know agony, my sister in battle, my student, my teacher.(*)

Her eyes brighten. She turns away, and without hesitation climbs onto the dragon's back.

"To the skies!" she calls.

The dragon lifts, its huge wings sending gusts of wind across them as it launches itself upwards.

They all watch, wondering, silent, as their friend disappears, and behind her, falling into line behind their new leader, go the entire githyanki force, vanishing back into the Astral Sea.

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(*) Critical levels of artistic license; Hector doesn't get to say anything here in game, let alone cobbled together githyanki words pulled from the FR wiki. XD