#i wanted to write something a bit different

[beetles-and-rock]

Have to add my frustrations with the overly sensitive in a slightly different way.

It's more than just purity culture, and people clutching their pearls at the slightest bit of ankle. Don't get me wrong though, that annoys the hell out of me too.

But here's a little something for more than just AO3

IF

-Its a trigger for you

-You don't like the subject

-Its not your thing

DO NOT INTERACT

It is so simple just to ignore something you don't like an move on, it takes less than a second to scroll past.

Setting healthy boundaries in relationships for things that are and are not okay, that you are or are not comfortable with is fine. It's good. You SHOULD ABSOLUTELY DO THAT!

Confronting a total stranger online for posting/publishing/having a conversation that you are not even a part of, whether its an art, a fic, passing HCs back and forth that involve something you don't want to see, and and confronting them as if it was apersonal slight against you, is not

Telling people you don't know what they can and can't write, post, draw is not.

Even if you do know the person, they most likely weren't even thinking about you when they created it. They were just making their own fun. Creating things, sharing ideas, participating in fandom. They are allowed to have a life outside of you.

When it comes to people sharing their works, online, they DO NOT and SHOULD NOT have to stop writing, drawing, whatever they are doing just because it has a subject in it that upsets you. If it triggers you THEN YOU ARE NOT THE TARGET AUDIENCE.

Other people may have interest in the things you don't. Other people are comfortable seeing and reading things you aren't.

AO3 has trigger warnings FOR A REASON.

Outside of that, if you see people online, or in public having a conversation that YOU AREN'T EVEN PART OF, and you butt in telling them they can't talk about that cause it makes you uncomfortable, YOU ARE IN THE WRONG. There is a difference between asking someone not to talk about the subject as loud, and guilt tripping the hell out of them because it triggers you an makes you feel uncomfortable.

It is not their fault you decided to eavesdrop and stick around allowing it to bother you. You could have walked away. You could have looked at a chat elsewhere or something else entirely.

I know it's a cliché, but seriously, for those that do this, THE WORLD DOES NOT REVOLVE AROUND YOU.

People should not have to run everything they say, do, create, take part in by you to make sure you're okay with it first.

Ao3 does not need an algorithm, you're just lazy

Ao3 does not need a 1-5 star rating system, you just want to bring down authors writing for FREE

Ao3 does not need automatic censorship, it is an archive, therefore anything can be posted

Writing or reading about something illegal does not mean the author nor the reader condones it, if that were true, you could never read a story involving anything negative

Purity culture is ruining fan culture and you all are fucking annoying

[pomelace]

more than a sip

pairing: jack abbot x afab!resident reader

content warnings: fluff, no physical desciptors used for reader, reader is a resident and has a brother, implied age gap, doesn't take place during the shows timeline, let me know if I missed anything!

magui speaks! : dedicated to @multifandom-2091, thank you for the request, I hope you like it! I struggled a bit as I fell into a small writers slump halfway through, but here it is! writing this made me want to write more for jack, so stay tuned for that. as always, I hope you enjoy and requests are open!

word count: 1473

The rain drums steady on the pavement as you step out into the ambulance bay, the hospital doors hissing shut behind you. The air is thick with the smell of wet dirt and concrete, cool against your skin. You lean back against the wall just beside the doors, eyes half-closed, phone glowing in your hand.

Your fingers tap out a quick message:

Did you eat?? I left pasta in the fridge. Please don’t just eat cereal again. Love you. Be home by 8.

You don’t expect a reply—it’s three in the morning, and no one in their right mind should be awake. But your brother is. Either passed out on the couch with a controller still in his hand, or ignoring your text the same way he ignored you this morning—right after the fight, right before you left for another fifteen-hour shift.

It was a stupid argument—one he started, because he’s a teenager and teenagers are always angry about something. You know the type of anger; you used to wear it like armor too.

You put your parents through the same storm of slammed doors and sharp words. The difference is, they were still around to weather it. You’re all he’s got now.

So you take it—the harsh words, the door slams, the silence that lingers like smoke. You don’t hold it against him. You never do.

Instead, you text him like clockwork, always checking in even when he expects you not to. Especially when he expects you not to.

There’s peace in just standing there, tucked beneath the small overhang by the doors, the rain kept at bay by a strip of shelter overhead. Each drop falls with a soft, steady rhythm, a quiet lullaby against the metal.

As you wait for a response you know isn’t coming, you start to count the droplets you hear.

One, two, three...

“Should I be concerned you’ve taken up loitering?” a voice calls from behind you, low and rough around the edges.

You glance over your shoulder and catch sight of Dr. Abbot stepping out into the damp night, two coffee cups in hand. His dark scrubs are hidden beneath the black hoodie he always wears, hood down.

The lights from inside spill across his face, catching the salt-and-pepper in his hair, making him look tired than usual—almost distant, like he’s not entirely here.

“Loitering implies I’m not on shift,” you murmur, tucking your phone into your scrub pocket.

“I’m just… pretending the air inside doesn’t taste like bleach.”

He hums, taking a sip from his cup before handing you the other one. For you.

“Almond milk and honey,” he says gently, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“How did you—” you start to ask, but he cuts you off before you can thank him.

“You talk out loud when you think no one’s listening.”

Jack notices the little things: how you stir your coffee just so, the gentle, rhythmic motion; how you always avoid sweeteners, opting for just the almond milk and honey; how you don't like dairy, even though it’s practically everywhere.

He watches you for a moment, the corners of his lips turning up slightly as if he’s cataloging every small detail you don’t even realize you’re giving away.

“Careful,” he says, his voice low but teasing, “You’re going to burn your tongue.”

You look up at him, surprised by the sudden attention, but there's something comforting in the way he’s paying so much attention to the smallest things.

You roll your eyes playfully, though it’s hard to keep up the facade when you feel his gaze.

“I’m fine,” you reply, but there's warmth in your voice, a subtle acknowledgment that the smallest things—like this moment, this cup of coffee—mean more than you want to admit.

He shrugs, taking a sip from his own cup, his eyes never leaving you.

“I’m just saying, you might want to take it slow with the ‘hot’ part.”

You smile, the kind that tugs at your heart just a little too much. You know exactly what he’s doing.

He’s not just watching you sip your coffee. He’s seeing you, in all the quiet ways that no one else does.

“Thanks for the coffee,” you say again, this time with more meaning, the weight of the simple gesture settling between you like a shared secret.

“It's nice of you to finally grace the outside world,” you mutter, eyeing him with a smile from the rim of your coffee cup.

“I thought you were glued to the nurse’s station, brooding over charting mistakes and bad coffee.”

“I was,” he says, voice dry.

“Then I realized I hadn’t heard you complain in twenty minutes. Figured something might be wrong.”

You raise an eyebrow, leaning against the wall.

“I was going for some peaceful silence, actually.”

He snorts, a small chuckle escaping him.

“That doesn’t suit you.”

A comfortable silence settles between you. Outside, the rain falls in silver sheets, soft and steady. You both sip your coffee, letting the warmth seep into your fingers.

He glances between you, the rain, and the rim of his cup. He doesn’t say anything—just clears his throat, like he wants to speak but hasn’t found the words yet.

You raise an eyebrow, curious. “What?”

He shrugs, eyes still fixed on the window.

“You’ve been quiet lately.”

You start to respond, a wry smile tugging at your lips.

“Don’t you prefer it that way?”

But he doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t even crack a smile. Instead, he turns to you—really turns to you—and something in his expression shifts. His eyes soften. The teasing falls away.

“I mean it. You’ve been off today. Not talking much, not—”

“Not complaining enough?” you interrupt with a light chuckle, trying to deflect.

But he just shakes his head again, gently.

“No. Seriously. Are you okay?”

You contiplate whether to tell him the truth or not on how you're doing. You look between him and the rim of your steaming cup. You know you can tell him, confide in him, but when is it too much to say?

"You can tell me," he whispers, like he can see straight through you.

A small smile tugs at your lips as you meet his gaze, giving a soft nod.

"I'm okay," you say lightly, almost too casually, like you're brushing it off.

"Just dealing with a lot, like always."

But he doesn't look convinced. He shakes his head, his eyes locking onto yours, unwavering and determined to get through to you.

"I mean it," he insists, his voice low and serious.

"Are you really okay?"

You hesitate for a moment, then offer him a smile — the kind that doesn’t quite reach your eyes but is enough to soften the moment.

"Really, I'm good, Jack," you say, and this time, the smile feels a little more genuine. It’s enough for him to let it go, but he’s still watching you closely.

"Fine," he says, his tone easing but still laced with concern.

"If you say so."

You chuckle softly, the weight of the conversation lifting just a little.

"I’ll come to you when I’m near losing my mind," you tease, half-serious, half-joking. He raises an eyebrow, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"I’ll be waiting," he says, his voice warm, a promise hidden beneath the words.

You take a deep breath, feeling just a little lighter now. You shift closer to him, your shoulder brushing against his as you both stand in quiet solidarity against the wall, side by side.

"Are you okay?" you ask, your voice barely more than a whisper.

You don’t look at him, keeping your gaze fixed on the rain as it falls from the sky. The question hangs between you two, and you wait, the silence stretching just long enough to make the moment feel heavier than it really is.

From the corner of your eye, you notice him shift, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

"Yes," he replies softly, his voice steady but gentle.

"Right now, I am," he continues, turning his head just enough to watch you.

Right now, here with you, I am.

The thought catches him off guard, as if it’s been there all along, hiding just beneath the surface.

He doesn’t say it aloud, but something about the weight of the moment shifts, settling into him in a way that makes him feel like he’s been missing something obvious.

He watches you—how your fingers curl around your coffee, how the tip of your nose turns pink from the cold breeze, how your laughter feels like the kind of music that makes everything else fade away.

He drinks in the small details of you, trying to tell himself it’s just casual, just the way things are.

But it doesn’t feel like that anymore, or maybe it never did.

©pomelace 2025

[piastriprincess]

diamond  bright  ,  kiss  me  right ⸻  lando  norris  x  reader  .

featuring  lando  norris  ,  new(ish) relationship , love  confession  ,  reader  is  dramatic  as  hell  but  we  love  her word  count  1.8k author’s  note  requested  by  anon  !  i  have  basically  thought  about  nothing  but  law  school  for  the  past  two  days  but  i  was  missing  being  creative  and  wanted  to  give  you  all  something  fun  .  as  a  number  one  lando  defender  i  LOVED  writing  this  .  i  firmly  believe  he’s  a  little  bit  of  a  simp  when  he  really  likes  someone  …  very  precious  TO  ME  !  as  always  come  tell  me  what  you  think  or  send  me  a  request  !  okay  now  back  to  my  finals  studying  cave  .  love  you  all  <3  title  is  from  claws  by  charli  xcx  !

It was never supposed to be serious. 

You knew Lando Norris. The party-boy reputation, the DJ sets, a different girl at every circuit. When he sidled up to you at a bar in Monaco with that charming grin on his face, those blue-green eyes sparkling like the Mediterranean behind him, you didn’t expect much. An evening of harmless flirting, maybe. He’d buy you drinks. You might go home with him, if he wasn’t unbearably cocky. (You had a feeling he might be.) He was a player — you’d written him off in your mind before he even opened his mouth.

Turns out, you didn’t know Lando Norris at all. 

You didn’t know he would talk to you that entire night, looking ridiculously pleased every time he made you laugh, like he’d won a prize he hadn’t dared to hope for and couldn’t believe his luck. You didn’t know he would walk you home, and instead of asking to be invited up, asking if he could take you to dinner, hands stuck in his pockets so you couldn’t see the way they trembled. You didn’t know that one date would turn into nearly six months of good-morning texts, of coming home to bouquets of flowers on your doorstep just-because, of slow kisses that burned you up from the inside. 

It was like trying on a dress that looked ugly on the hanger and finding it fit you so well you never wanted to take it off again. To make a long story short, dating Lando was kind of your favorite thing. You liked everything about him. And lately, when you lay tangled in his sheets at night, his arms wrapped around your waist and his mouth pressed softly to your shoulder, breathing in his clean, boyish scent, you thought maybe your feelings were more than simply liking him. 

You couldn’t tell him, though, not yet. You cringed at the thought of the awkward silence that would stretch between you if he didn’t say it back. You trusted Lando — he was sweet to you in a way that made your chest ache sometimes, in a way that you couldn’t imagine being fake. But what if the thrill for him was all in the chase, the reckless desire to get something he thought he couldn’t have? What if now that he had you, now that he really knew you, the shine had worn off?

So you kept it to yourself. Let him slow dance with you in his kitchen to a song you’d never heard, eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiled at you. Let him text you stupid jokes and ridiculous strings of emojis in the middle of the night when he couldn’t sleep. Let him scrape his teeth over your collarbone and whisper your name like a prayer into the darkness. Loved him quietly, secretly, in the private corner of your heart he hadn’t quite found yet. 

You told yourself it was fine. Things were good between you. Great, even. You weren’t going to mess it up by saying it first. You would wait until he did. 

If he ever did. 

—

The most embarrassing moment of your life starts with a phone call. 

You’re weaving through the aisles of the grocery store, looking for the pasta. Lando’s had a long day of sponsor meetings and media, but insisted that he wanted to see you anyway for your regular date night. You agreed, on the condition you could make him dinner; you like the idea of taking care of him for once, instead of the other way around.  

Your phone starts buzzing, and you pull it out of your pocket, greeted with Lando’s face — some ridiculous photo he’d taken of the two of you early on, your cheeks pressed together like two halves of a heart. You answer without hesitating, shifting the basket of groceries onto your hip. “Hey, you.”

“Hi, gorgeous.” His voice is light, but you can hear the weariness underneath he’s trying to cover up. “Just checking what time you were thinking of coming over. Zak added a last-minute meeting to the calendar, but I should be done by 7.”

You prop the phone between your shoulder and your ear, grabbing a carton of eggs. “That’s fine. I’m just picking up the stuff now, I’ll stop at home and then come to yours.” You lo- You like the domesticity of the conversation. You wonder if someday, you’ll make grocery lists together, wander through the aisles side-by-side.

“My little chef,” he says, warmth in his voice. “Give me a sneak preview of the menu. What are you making me?” 

“Oh, I thought I’d whip up some sushi,” you tease, grin on your face. You can imagine him on the other end of the phone, crinkling his nose in disgust, and the thought lodges in your chest with a far-too-familiar fond ache. 

“Right, I actually have plans. Can’t have you over anymore,” he deadpans, like clockwork. 

You let out a bark of laughter, throwing a box of pasta into your basket. “I’m kidding. Do you think I don’t remember your freakish aversion to fish?”

“Wow. My own girlfriend, bullying me,” Lando sniffs. “Might just die now. Wasting away, starving and alone, with no one to comfort me.” 

“I’m making carbonara, you big baby,” you snort, pressing the phone between your shoulder and your ear as you inspect two different wedges of Parmesan. “And maybe cookies, for dessert.” You place the cheese in the basket, heading for the checkout lane. 

“How’d I get so lucky?” he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice. Oh, you’re a goner. It does something stupid to your heart. 

“Guess the universe knew you needed me,” you reply, unpacking your basket onto the conveyor belt. You’re moving a little slowly; you only have one hand to unpack while the other holds the phone.

He laughs. “Score one for the universe.” His voice drops a little lower, a little softer. “I can’t wait to see you.”

“Me too,” you reply, fumbling for your wallet as the cashier eyes you with increasing impatience, tapping at the card reader. A line has grown behind you, you realize. “Shit. Lan, I gotta go. I love you, bye.” Click.

You slide your sunglasses over your eyes as you step out of the air-conditioned grocery store. The weather as you walk home is warm. The late-afternoon sun hangs low and golden in the sky, and— 

You nearly drop the bag you’re carrying, catching it just before the eggs shatter over the Monaco sidewalk.

You told Lando you loved him. And you didn’t even realize it. 

—

By the time you get home, you’re seriously considering faking your own death.

You stand slumped against the wall of the elevator, cheeks burning with humiliation. You’ve spent the entire walk thinking up what feels like a thousand different ways to play it off — jokes, sarcasm, pretending you were talking to the cashier instead of him. They’re all stupid, all equally unlikely to work on Lando. Maybe the best option is to cancel tonight in favor of lying facedown on your carpet and never moving again. 

The elevator doors ding and slide open. You step off, turn the corner down your apartment hallway, and there’s Lando’s standing on your doorstep. 

For a minute, you think it’s a hallucination, because he can’t actually be in your hallway. He lives on the other side of Monaco, practically, and there’s always traffic. You stare at him, taking in the ruddy cheeks, the way the sweat beads at his temples, how he’s still trying to catch his breath.

He ran here, you realize, heart thudding wildly in your chest. He ran. 

The silence is terrifying, stretching between the two of you like a chasm. Then:

“Did you mean it?” he asks, voice hoarse. 

“You’re supposed to be in a meeting,” you blurt, eyes wide. 

“Fuck the meeting,” he rasps, gaze trained on you. “Did you mean it?”

You have an out, now. You could lie, say it was unthinking, a force of habit from calling your mother, your friends. You could stay where you are, with those three little words rattling around your head every second of every day, and pretend it doesn’t kill you to hold them back now that you know what it feels like on your tongue. 

Or you could tell the truth, and take the chance that you’ll lose something, because there’s a possibility you could get everything. 

You look at the wild-eyed boy in front of you, who ran across Monaco just to see your face, and you already have your answer. 

“Yeah,” you say, voice small and heart in your throat. “Yeah, I meant it.”

He closes the distance between you in two steps, cups your cheeks in his hands, and smashes his lips to yours. It’s desperate, wild — your teeth knock together, and when you gasp against his mouth, he slides his tongue against yours in a way that makes your knees buckle. You pull him closer, closer, hands fisting into his shirt like he might disappear if you let go. 

“I love you too,” he gasps when you finally break apart, like it’s paining him to hold the words back. “Fuck. Been wanting to tell you for weeks, but I didn’t want to freak you out.”

You laugh wetly, forehead pressed against his. “I love you,” you say, and his whole face cracks into a smile so bright it’s like you’re looking at the sun. 

“Say it again,” he breathes. The look on his face is so obvious, all soft and awestruck. You wonder, distantly how you ever thought he didn’t feel the same.

“I love you,” you repeat, every syllable deliberate, and his arms wrap around you so fiercely it knocks the air out of your lungs. You yelp as he lifts you off your feet, laughing against his neck, your legs kicking uselessly for a second before you just give up and cling to him instead. He carries you to your door like that, arms steady and warm around you, and for one dizzying moment you think you could stay like this — weightless and safe and stupidly, overwhelmingly in love — forever. 

Maybe it was never supposed to be serious. But when he hugs you from behind while you stir the pasta, whispering I love you into your ear for the hundredth time that night like a promise he intends to keep, you seriously don’t think you’ll ever get tired of hearing it.

[araybiaaa]

❝ temptation.❞  ‎ elias ‘stack’ moore x black!fem oc

ooo. 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔… modern!au, tension, flirting, cunnilingus (cause every man in this movie is a muncher!) black!fem oc, explicit sexual content.

ooo. 𝒔𝒚𝒏𝒐𝒑𝒔𝒊𝒔… where a good girl falls into temptation after she meets elias ‘stack’ moore.

ooo. 𝒂𝒖𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒓 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒔… soooo i wanted to try something different and do a modern!au with stack. (smoke’s still my favorite twin. the real girlies get it!) but i wanted to challenge myself a bit here.. this idea honestly came out of nowhere. i opened a03 and just started typing and somewhere down the line it became a one shot with 5k+ words?? 😭 also just wanted to say tysm for all of the love on my other fics. smoke and annie are near and dear to my heart and i’m glad you guys enjoyed my interpretations/writings for them. just a fair warning, the girl in this is very unserious but who wouldn’t be if you saw a vampire that looked like mbj! requests are open so send in something if you’d like — just keep in mind of my rules. anyway. likes, reblogs and comments are appreciated! ◡̈

“he’s dangerous. if you had any common sense you’d stay away from him.” their words seemed portent at first; a precautionary warning that had her wary of him. she didn’t know him but she’s heard enough stories about him to know that he was feared by everyone. his reputation was something akin of their town’s own boogeyman or freddy kreuger — he was dangerous, menacing and someone to be fearful of.

cleo hadn’t been in town long enough to know if his reputation superseded him or if the rumor’s held some weight of validity in them but her curiosity was piqued to meet the guy that had people hurriedly locking their doors when the sun went down and removing the welcome mats off of their front porches.

at first, she wondered if everyone in town had collectively decided to pull a prank on her as some sort of initiation or simply for their own amusement. because to her elias moore seemed more like a ghost than a vampire. she lurked outside after hours, even against their warnings — completely foolish and naive, but she never saw him around.

she doesn’t know why she wants to see him so bad, maybe it’s because everyone else has and she feels strangely left out. or maybe it’s because she needs to see for herself if there was a world where mythical creatures existed outside of the cheesy television shows she used to watch and the books that she read. but much to her dismayed defeat, time continued on with her being the only one who had yet to meet the feared elias moore.

“what does he look like?” she asked, feigning innocence behind her curiosity that her best friend, naomi easily sees through and narrows a pointed glare at her. “what? i just want to know in case i see him around somewhere!” she murmurs with a halfhearted shrug. it didn’t seem like an actual possibility with how she hadn’t so far, but she didn’t want naomi to know that she was willingly seeking him out.

naomi sighs, pursing her lips as she tapped her manicured fingers against her thigh. after a moment’s contemplation, she reveals: “i’ve only seen him around a few times. he doesn’t look like any of those sick looking vampire that you see on tv. he’s actually…fine.” at this, cleo’s eyebrows raise in amusement at her friend’s description. “he has this look about him that makes you weak in the knees whenever he smiles at you. it’s effortlessly sexy and his eyes — just don’t look in them too long cause you’re gonna find yourself wanting him to turn you into a vampire too just so you can spend the rest of eternity with him. i’m only telling you this because you asked, but don’t go around asking anyone else about him. you don’t want your daddy finding out about it.”

cleo nodded in agreement, but still found her mind wandering about him. she knows that naomi’s right, her overly religious father would have an aneurysm if he’d found out that she was asking questions about the town’s social pariah. but that didn’t stop her from visualizing him through naomi’s description.

she’s only ever heard of naomi speaking negatively about elias so for her to refer to him as fine despite her disliking of him had intrigued cleo. “yeah, you’re right. i was just curious but now i know.”

naomi’s pointed glare deepens, like she doesn’t fully believe cleo. “girl…stay away from him for your own good. trust me. i know another girl who was curious about him just like you are and she got turned.” cleo wonders if she’s just saying that to scare her away, but surprisingly it doesn’t.

“i hear you,” naomi hums in acknowledgment but thankfully doesn’t reprimand her any further about her curiosity.

…

sometimes cleo makes smart decisions.

when it came to school and her grades, everything was always calculated in her mind for her to choose the best possible outcome. she was annoying obsessive like that — always planning ahead, analyzing and assessing even the most mundane things that infiltrated her life. but other times, on seldom occasions, she makes not-so-smart decisions; one’s that has her acting impulsively and deviating from her normally pristine behavior.

she was supposed to be going back to her dorm room to get ready for a party that she was planning on going to with naomi. it was twelve o’clock and she had just finished an exasperating nine hour bartending shift with annoying alcoholics flirting with her and their heady, glossed over eyes staring at her ass in the tight fitted jeans that she was wearing.

her dad was less than pleased about her place of employment, but he knew that she needed extra money to pay for her clothes, shoes, hair and other miscellaneous items so he refrained from making any comments anytime she she complained about a customer or the minimal pay that she was getting.

cleo was closing the bar; wiping down the sticky counters, recounting the money in the register and overturning the chairs when she looks up and sees him. he’s standing across the street but even with the distance set between them she can feel the smolder of his gaze as he looked at her. cleo stands there for a brief moment just staring back at him until she mustered enough courage to make her way to the front door.

the overhead bell rings in a soft bellow as she pushes the door open. the humidity of the mississippi air sticks against her skin as soon as she steps outside. but even with its scorching temperatures, elias’ stare pierces deeper and has her skin burning. when she steps outside, she sees him making his way towards her — his gait was stealth and calculated.

she feels goosebumps prickle along her skin, air catches in her lungs and warmth curls around her neck as he sauntered closer. the first thing that she noticed was that although naomi had been right in her description of him, she had greatly undermined it. he wasn’t just fine; he was handsome and she could already feel her knees buckling weakly beneath her just at the sight of him. the second thing she notices is his eyes and the phosphorescent glow of red in his pupils. when he finally reaches her, he stands athwart from her and slowly drags his eyes over her body. his eyes find hers again and for a moment she wonders if she could hear the hastened beating of her heart.

“it’s kinda late for you to be out here ain’t it?” he posits and the deepened drawl of his southern accent somehow makes him more attractive.

cleo swallows a shaky breath, nodding. “i’m closing up the bar. we just closed about ten minutes ago,”

he raises his brows, trailing his eyes somewhere offside. “and they just left you to do it by yourself? don’t they know it’s dangerous people out here? vampires walkin’ about like they’re humans.” he says with sarcasm lilting in his voice and clicks his tongue against his teeth with a reprimanding tsk that follows.

cleo juts her chin outwardly. “i’m more than capable of handling myself.” she rebuttals, her hand perched on her hip as she looked at him.

his eyes find hers again and he smirks impishly, nodding his head. “i’m sure.” he says; and it’s something hidden in the way that he says it that has her cheeks warming again. a moment passes between them as he stares at her with an intrigued expression worn on his face. “you ain’t scared of me,” it’s more of a statement than a question, though she knows it’s intended to be the latter.

he sounds and looks surprised by this, that he’d finally encountered someone that didn’t run away when they saw him. “am i supposed to be?” she was more attracted to him than anything, unable to stop looking at his lips and his bared fangs that peeked out from his mouth.

he shrugs, “everyone else is.”

“well i’m not everyone else,” at that he doesn’t respond, only smirks at her again making the butterflies she feels in her stomach somersault deeper. cleo bites her lip as she looks over her shoulder towards the bar. ‘don’t ever invite him in anywhere, that’s how he gets you.’ she ignores her father’s words, pushing them to the back of her mind. “you wanna come in?”

he raises another brow, “you want me to come inside?” this time it’s her that shrugs and he only gives her a brief dubious look of contemplation before he’s following her inside of the bar at her open invitation. she could feel his eyes honed in on her ass and unlike with the drunken middle aged men from before, she isn’t repulsed at the realization.

“you know, at first i thought people were lying about who you are. it seemed like everyone knew what you looked like except for me.” she says, folding her arms against her chest and watching his eyes lower to her perked breast. she bites on her lip, intrigued.

“you were lookin’ for me?”

she nods briefly, “i wanted to know what you looked like.”

he walks towards her until he’s standing directly in front of her; way closer than he was when they were standing outside and it catches her slightly off guard. “well now that you have…whatchu think?” the remark is undeniably coquettish — the soft murmur of it accompanied by the lascivious look that he’s giving her has her pinned beneath his gaze.

“i think you’re not as scary as people make you out to be,” she responds; avoiding the answer that she knows he was truly searching for. but he settles for this one too, indulging in her retreat.

“you think you can make that assumption from a five minute conversation? what if i am like everyone says?” the air between them shifts into this palpable tension; hot and undeniable. he takes a few more steps forward until he’s hovering his heightened figure over her. she cranes her neck to look up at him, “i could bite you right now and you wouldn’t be able to do anythin’ about it”

“if you wanted to you would’ve done it outside,” she rebuttals, seeing the twitch of his curled upper lip.

“maybe i like playin’ with my food before i eat it.” and the innuendo behind his words has her breath hitching.

her skin pricks with goosebumps again at his teasing words. elias takes immediate notice of it; his nostrils flare as he inhales sharply with his heightened senses. and it takes a moment for her to realize that he must smell something radiating off of her body — arousal? excitement? — because he’s chuckling and licking his lips as he reached his hand out and brushed it over her hip. she shivers, not out of fear but of arousal. “and you sure as hell look and smell good enough to eat.”

cleo’s mouth gapes the only audible sound that comes out is a soft gasp. it’s the sound of her phone ringing that suddenly clefts through the tension hanging in the air. she jumps, startled, looking at elias whose eyes narrow at her phone like he’s inwardly cursing it for its intrusion. she reluctantly moves out of his grasp and walks over to pick up her phone that was sat at the edge of the counter.

picking up the phone she sees that it’s a text from naomi asking where she’s at. she’d gotten so distracted with elias that she forgot that she was supposed to meet naomi at their dorm room half an hour ago. she types a quick message in response, telling her that closing up took longer than expected and that she should go ahead to the party without her and that she would just meet her there instead.

she looks up from her phone at the same time elias is already walking out of the door, the sound of the bell ringing announces his departure as cleo stands there with her mind replaying their interaction.

…

a week passes before she sees him again. he’s standing outside of the door; staring, watching, waiting. she walks towards the entrance and holds the door open, beckoning him forward. “come in,” he walks inside as she closes the door behind him.

“you weren’t here the other night.” he says, catching her slightly by surprise. had he been looking for her this time instead of the other way around?

“oh, yeah. i was off. i don’t work on tuesdays and thursdays,” she explains watching as he nodded before looking away with a sheepish expression. after their last encounter, she spent the entire week thinking about him — how he looked at her, how his hand felt against her bare skin. cleo didn’t understand how she developed such a quick attraction for him, especially when she didn’t even give human boys any time of the day, but something about him was different.

naomi was right, all it took was one look from him and cleo found herself a fallen victim to his charm. “why aren’t you scared of me?”

she’s taken aback again, even more so than the first time. “why do you want me to be?” she challenges, noticing the pull of his jaw as he clenches it shut.

“your daddy’s a preacher ain’t he?” she furrows her brow, curious to know how he’d figured that out without her telling him. “how you think he’d react if he knew you were stayin’ behind after work to talk to me?”

ah, so that’s what this is about.

“well aside from me being grown and fully capable of making my own decisions, what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.” and she would definitely keep this secret from him for his sake and hers. “elias—”

“stack.” he interrupts to correct her.

“elias,” she says, unmoored by his correction. he gives her a look but listens as she continued. “i’m not talking to you because i’m trying to prove something to my dad or anyone else here.”

“then why are you?”

“because i want to.” she exasperates, frowning slightly. “why is that so hard for you to believe?”

“because you don’t know what you’re gettin’ yourself into,” elias retorts through a forewarning tone that sounded all too familiar of her family and friends who initially warned her away from him. he was right, aside from the fictionalized information that she got through old cw shows she used to frequently watch, she didn’t understand the depth and complications that came along with being a vampire. but her interest in elias made her want to know more — she wanted the truth and all its ugliness.

“then show me.”

…

elias stack moore had a tarnished reputation way before he got bit and transformed into a vampire. albeit he was the more level headed of the two, the smoke-stack twins were well known for their violent behavior and short fused tempers. their involvement with the notorious al capone and then stack becoming involved in a near ritualistic slaughter hadn’t done anything to ease anyone’s perception of him. his reputation expanded over the near century with people reciting tales of his life; often times dramatizing it completely.

but regardless of the half-truths or stack’s solemn search for penance — he still remained feared to the point where people would refrain from staying outside at night too long just to avoid him. he kept mostly to himself, only indulging in his sexual needs with a few other vampires that lived amongst the town. if he did leave his house, he made sure it was brief just to avoid any inadvertent run in’s.

he knew he was feared and had stories told about him that would give kids nightmares. but she was surprisingly the only one that didn’t tremble in fear when she saw him or tightly clutch her cross necklace and recite scripture from the bible in hopes it would protect them and keep him away like everyone else did. instead of running she gravitated towards him; accepting and intrigued by him in a way he hadn’t felt before.

he was wary at first of getting close to her.

she had a reputation as the preacher’s sweet and innocent daughter. he could only imagine the outcry that would erupt if anyone were to find out that she had been talking to him. but cleo insisted that she didn’t care and expressed interest in wanting to see/know him — all of him. so he invited her to his house.

she came over at work — still dressed in those tight jeans and that cropped shirt that accentuated her lithe physique — all wide eyed and innocent and fucking gorgeous.

as soon as she stepped over the threshold and inside, he felt something shift in the air as he realized that she was the first girl he’d ever invited into his house. he watches her as she looks around spectatingly, crouching over a bit with her hands on her knees to look at the display of photos that he had. “your brother?” she asks rhetorically as she looked at the candid black-and-white photograph that he had of him and smoke taken years back during the time of their youth.

stack nods tersely, pursing his lips in a moue.

and he’s grateful that she notices his reluctance and doesn’t prod any further because even though it’s been over a century since his brother’s death, it was still hurt carrying him around in his memories.

it’s stack who segues the conversation, now turning the spotlight on her. “you said you wanted me to show you, so what do you wanna know?”

cleo bites her lip in thought. stack’s mind is briefly distracted with how sexy she looks that he doesn’t initially hear her question until she asks it again.

“it took me a while to learn how to do it. i taught myself most of what i know, the guy who turned my ex that turned me didn’t teach me much. but it’s the first thing i taught myself.”

she nods, biting on her lip again as she lowered her eyes in a shy chagrin. “so that night at the bar…when you sniffed me what did you smell?”

“you really wanna know?” she looks up, almost contemplative, but nods. “lust. your hormones were all over the place.” her expression’s caught somewhere between mortification and a grimace. “my hearin’ is heightened too…i can hear your heart beatin’ fast as hell. you nervous?”

at her nod, he posits. “cause of me? why do i make you nervous?” he takes a preemptive step towards her, closing the distance between them. he hears her pulse quicken. smells the saltiness of sweat underneath the floral saccharine of her perfume.

she doesn’t respond, only looks at him underneath her lashes. “what else do want me to show you, cleo?” her breath hitches, eyes flit from his lips back up to his eyes in a quick maneuver. her heart beats louder and the smell of her arousal is so thick that he can almost taste it on his tongue. he inhales her scent; feeling his own arousal mix with hers.

he sees her throat stretch as she swallows.

…

it’s almost feral how he bares an arm around her waist and tugged her body closer to his. she gasps a bit at his onslaught — startled by the abruptness of his movements, but she’s immediately relaxing into his embrace the moment he brushes his mouth against hers. he kisses her with a ravenous vigor, sliding his tongue over the cupping of her lower lip as a terse plea for entry. she whimpers before she succumbs to his prowess, slacking her jaw wider as he intertwined their tongues.

his kisses are bruising and greedy to the point where he steals all the air that was in her lungs. it’s a slip of tongues and a crash of teeth messily colliding, through guttural groans and breathy whimpers. stack’s arms tighten their hold around her before lowering to her ass. he squeezes her through her jeans before giving it a firm smack; smirking at the way it ricocheted. he gives it another hard squeeze as his mouth nipped at the exposed flesh of her neck. “tell me what you want,” he rasps; gruff and throaty, his breath hot against her skin.

his lips pucker as he nipped at her skin; sucking deep, purple love-bites all over. (and it feels so good that she doesn’t even care that she’ll have to cover up the evidence of his markings with makeup to hide from her father and naomi.) she grips the back of his head, holding him against her as she fluttered her lashes and indulged in the pleasure.

“this,” she whispered, voice shaky, body trembling with an intense want. he groans against her neck; alternating between nipping and sucking. and he gets too into it because she hears a low sound that mimics a growl and feels the sharpness of his fangs grazing her clavicle. she gasps, taken back and he’s immediately recoiling — looking up at her with his swollen lips and lidded eyes.

“fuck. i-i’m sorry, i didn’t mean—sometimes when i get too excited it happens. but i wasn’t trying to…” he’s panicking, careening apologies to her. but she’s sliding her mouth over his and kissing him deeply with fervor.

“it’s okay,” she whispers, still pecking at his lips.

stack furrows his brow, “yeah?”

“just don’t bite too hard.”

he nods, lightly grazing his teeth into the softness of her flesh. he nibbles at her neck with the tip of his bared fangs biting deliciously into her skin. the pain is sharp but still pleasurable enough to have her eyes rolling to the back of her head. his hands make their way to the front of her body, sliding over her abdomen and hovering at the waistband of her jeans. she breathes softly through her parted lips, emanating a whimper when he bites into her lower lip. “you smell so fuckin’ good,” he murmurs, reaching his hands between the crux of her thighs and sliding his thumb over her slit — passing the pleasure over the seam of her jeans.

her underwear suddenly becomes sticky with her arousal and knowing that he could smell it on her was sending her over the edge. she feels this incessant pleasure building; coiling in her stomach and spreading through the heat of the place where she desired him the most. “can i taste you?” at her consenting nod, he maneuvers them towards the couch and eases her down onto the cushion.

he pries their wet lips apart with a ‘smack’, a string of saliva draws at their disconnection. she holds the smother head of his gaze, watching as he lowers to his knees. “lift your hips up for me,” he murmurs, already working at the buttons and zippers of her pants that loosen around her hips.

she concedes, arching her hips off of the couch just enough so that stack’s hands are able to tug the tight fitted fabric over her hips and down her thighs. “look at you,” he says; marveling at the sight of her arousal. the dark spot is visible against her pink underwear — soddening through the fabric. “already so wet and ready for me.” he kisses the inside of her thighs, nudging the bridge of his nose against her cunt.

she shivers through a moan, it’s just the barest of contact but she’s hypersensitive to his touch. his deft fingers pull at her ruined underwear, sliding them down her legs and absentmindedly throwing them aside so that she’s sat completely bare in front of him.

her cheeks warm at her vulnerability.

stack’s hand brushes against her calf as he gripped her leg and hefted it easily over his left shoulder. his eyes hone in on her cunt as she spreads open; staring in awe at the slick that’s gathered between her folds. he grabs at her other leg, barring it around his right shoulder until he’s got a perfect position of her cunt displayed in front of him.

cleo arches her hips slightly, holding herself upright as she rests the palms of her hand against the cushions. her heartbeat quickens at the desire that grows, palpable and thick in its emerging, sending another jolting throb directly into her cunt. she could feel the wisps of his breath as he leaned in. he brushes a teasing kiss against her thigh, humming softly at the way she shivers in response.

he nudged himself closer towards her cunt; pressing soft kisses against her skin in passing before he finally reaches the place where he could smell the the evidence of her want. he presses a kiss against it and she shudders, feeling the tension roll down her spine and curl into her toes. she doesn’t even have a moment to gather her bearings, because then he’s flattening his tongue and licking her up from the back of her perineum to her clitoris. “oh—fuck. s-stack,” she bellows a soft cry of pleasure, her hands grip into the couch to seek purchase.

and when he reaches the over sensitive bud, he puckers his swollen lips and sucks her into his mouth; skillfully using his tongue to massage her clit. she feels the texture of his tongue stimulating her clit, sending an overwhelming wave of pleasure burning through the crevices of her body. her breath catches in her throat and she’s shivering so hard that stack has to pull his mouth away to remind her to breathe.

she nods numbly, blinking through the fogginess of her vision. she parts her lips and exhaled shakily; attempting to lull her breathing. “grind your hips against my face,” she whimpers, reaching a hand up to hold the back of his neck to anchor herself as she slowly rolled her hips against his face.

“ohmygo—” the added pressure of his nose and tongue assaulting her clit has her dizzy. his hands grip her hips, fingers dig into the meat of her thighs holding her against him.

he makes his way up her vulva; pausing right before he reached her clit and increased the pressure so that the base of his tongue was forced slightly under her clit. he slows his movements, unrelentingly in his ravenous feat as he holds the pressure there. she grinds against him again, shaky, still trembling through her movements as she buried his face deeper into her cunt.

she could hear the lewd stickiness of her slick as he licked up her pussy; could see it glistening over his face — a messy mixture of her arousal and his saliva dripping down his chin. she’s already shaking towards her release but then he grazes his fangs softly against her clit and she’s suddenly bellowing out cries of pleasure as she cums.

she pulsates around his tongue, the tension tugs in her lower belly. he slides his thumb through her slickness, watching as she haphazardly falls backwards against the couch cowering away from the overstimulation. stack pulls away, lapping his tongue around his mouth as he licked up the remnants of her slick. “you okay?” he asked through a rasped breath, watching as she laid there in a dazed stupor.

she nods, just barely, feeling the heaviness of her breathing begin to lull. cleo never thought that someone as smart as her would be drawn into the temptation from a vampire, but here she was — with her cunt still throbbing around nothing, legs and body completely spent, eyes looking at his face that’s covered in her juices, and it entices her.

and it’s then that she realizes that she was totally and completely fucked. he’d warned her that she didn’t know what she would be getting herself into if she became involved with him but with the way he ate her pussy out so good and had her wanting more, cleo realized that she was willing to test the boundaries of her restraint.

…

cleo didn’t like lying, she’s always prided herself about being a truthful person regardless of the repercussions that could follow. she didn’t like people lying to her so in return, she treated everyone with the same decency of respect and remained truthful about everything. it’s not until she starts dating stack that lying easily becomes integrated into her life.

she goes to church with her father every sunday, sits in the front pew and listens as he recites sermons and scriptures about demons and evils that plagued the world. it guilted her knowing that he was wistfully unaware of the fact that she was bedding with someone he referred to as one of the demons that walked amongst them, but the way he made her feel was better than anything she’s ever experienced before.

so she keeps the secret buried deeply, and listens halfheartedly at his preachings as she finds her mind wandering on stack again. it’s easier to hide behind her fib with her father, but naomi’s naturally pestering curiosity always gets the better of her and a simple response of “i already have something planned.” does not offer enough of a rational explanation for her.

“you’ve been acting weird these past few weeks…” she acknowledges with a skeptical brow and pursed lips. she narrows her gaze in on cleo who desperately hopes that she doesn’t look too hard enough to see the hickies stack sucked on her shoulder and breast the other night. “you’re here during the day, but always sneak out to go somewhere at night like you’re meeting someone,” she accents, her perception’s dangerously close to discovering cleo’s secret.

“i’m not.” the lie falls disbelieving to both of their ears. naomi gives her a narrowed look, tilting her head. she bites on her lip in contemplation, sighing softly as she concedes. “okay! but you can’t say anything to anyone especially not my dad.”

naomi gives her a bemused look but nods.

“i might be seeing someone,” cleo murmurs, averting her eyes to naomi to see her eyebrows raise. “i am seeing someone. but don’t ask who! because i’m not going to tell you who it is. i’m only telling you this because i know you wouldn’t stop hounding me if i didn’t.”

naomi stands there quiet, considering her words. “is he married?”

“what!?” cleo beseeches, frowning at her friend’s absurd accusation. “girl, no! i am not a fucking homewrecker!”

“hey, it’s a fair assumption!” naomi rebuttals, raising her hands in the air at her defense. “you’re being sneaky and sleeping over at his place at night… it made me think that you only go over there because that’s the only time that you’re allowed to.”

“no. i’m not fucking a married man.” cleo states. she continued to stuff her clothes in her overnight bag, avid to get to stack’s place. she could feel naomi’s he eyes still piercing through her, curiosity sits on her tongue wanting to inquire further about the guy’s identity. but she thankfully relents, only giving cleo a hum of acknowledgment when she grabs her bag and clamors a parting bye as she walks out.

when she arrives at his house, she’s greeted with a smile and kiss, his arm wraps around her waist as she melts softly into the embrace. he maneuvers her bag from her hands, allowing to to fall absentmindedly to the floor with a loud thud. his hands are groping her everywhere; sliding over her ass, squeezing her titties, palming her cunt through the flimsy pair of leggings that she wore. it’s almost feral how both of their bodies aligned with the same wanton desire.

she loves how the outside world becomes a distant memory for them as they remain secluded in the privacy of his house with no worries of interruption or ridicule waiting. “if you had any common sense you’d stay away from him,” had been a warning, but she found herself gravitating towards him despite their attempts of deterrence. and she had no intentions of letting go of this feeling or him.

[honourablejester]

I feel like I want to say ‘yes but no’ here, because I think there are actually two different arguments happening.

Going to the quoted tags, I think what they are arguing against is scenes that are randomly throw in purely for shock value. Moments that don’t tie back to anything larger in the story but are purely there to discomfit and shock the audience. Which. Can actually be useful, if what you are trying to do is create a general sense of unease and lack of safety and ‘anything can happen’, but that’s extremely tone dependent and can often just not work.

Which, as they say, is not what OP seems to be arguing for, judging by the examples they provided. Because those examples are there to serve something larger within the story. The mistake they seem to be making is assuming that ‘serving something larger within the story’ is the same as ‘following the info-dumped rules that have been established for the setting’. Whereas OP’s argument, I think, is that people find a visceral demonstration of the rules (or the exceptions to the rules) significantly more memorable than an info-dumped recitation of the rules. It’s not that you can’t flesh out the rules of your world, even if just for yourself, it’s that you should also demonstrate the rules of your world in a way that your audience will find interesting and memorable, rather than just list them at people.

And it doesn’t have to be rules. Which is, I think, also a mistake the quote tags are making. Because they seem to imply that the examples given work within the established rules of their setting, which …

I’m going to focus in on the example of Artax here for a second. Because Artax’ death isn’t necessarily within the to-this-point established rules or threats of the setting. And I suspect a lot of people did feel cheated and upset at it. It does, to an extent, come out of nowhere. The Nothing was established as a threat, but random bits of swampland that drown you faster the sadder you are, and this sadness inflicting a horse of all characters, probably didn’t feel like it had been foreshadowed in any way. The Swamp of Sadness doesn’t fit the rules.

But it does fit the themes. Artax’ death wasn’t foreshadowed because it is the foreshadowing. It is the traumatic, memorable warning shot off the audience’s bows from a story that is going to end after the complete destruction of this world. The Swamp of Sadness is a warning precursor of the complete despair, nihilism and destruction of dreams that the Nothing will cause. And Artax himself, in some ways, is a warning of the future threat of Gmork. That when it comes to fantasy, hope, dreams, it’s despair and nihilism that are the enemies, and that those who succumb to them run the risk of destroying more than just themselves.

Your visceral scenes should be grounded in the story you’re telling, yes, they should illustrate something that you’re trying to convey, but that doesn’t necessarily have to be the rules, in the sense of ‘how the magic works’ or ‘how the medieval iron trade works’. OPs complaint is that so many pieces of advice for how to write sci-fi/fantasy are about how to establish rules that mimic facets of the real world so it will seem more believable, when what you actually need to do is build a coherent tone and atmosphere so that it feels believable. You need to create moments and imagery and scenes that people will engage with emotionally, because humans are emotional creatures, and emotions, as unfortunate as it sometimes is, will hook people to the narrative faster than all the rules in the world.

The tags, though, do also have a point as well that it’s not just a visceral scene, but a visceral scene that serves some purpose. You can’t just slap a human-faced bear in there willy-nilly, there has to be a reason within the story for it.

But that reason does not have to be explained or fit within the ‘rules’. It just means that you, as an author, have to think about the effect you intend this scene to have, and does that effect enhance or detract from your overall story.

The scenes OP highlights are memorable, and they’re memorable for the right reasons, because they enhance something else about the story. The Pale Man highlights that the fairy world has its own dangers and horrors, which brings it back tonally towards the horrors of Ofelia’s real world, and makes it feel less dissonant and unreal. The blood test in The Thing shows the characters attempting to work out the rules of the creature, and viscerally and dramatically proves MacReady right about the nature of the creature, but so very wrong about the identity of the creature. It also, as do many of these scenes, demonstrates spectacularly that we ain’t in Kansas anymore, that shit is going to happen that doesn’t fit the rules of our world, which is an important tonal shift to establish the baseline of the genre. These scenes work, and they serve to bring the audience inwards towards the story, to establish the baseline for disbelief. But I guarantee you that everyone out there has an example of a scene from a movie or story that did feel just fully random and out of the blue and all the more dissonantly jarring for it. Something that threw them out of the story rather than drew them further in.

So you do have to think before you put in your bear about what you want that bear to do for the story you’re telling, and whether or not it will effectively do it.

your dark fantasy novel doesn't need a logic-based magic system it needs a bear with a human face

[gigiwritess]

IN ORBIT

dr. jack abbott x f!resident!reader!vega aka "wildcard"

wc: 2,047 synopsis: ten weeks of dr. vega surviving in the pitt. eight weeks of dr. vega and dr. abbot stuck in each other's orbits. tl;dr: dr. abbot and dr. vega start to get close to each other.

contents: 20-year age gap (vega is 26, jack is 46). slight mention of vega's worsening mental health issues; description of back problems (which are entirely based on my own). usual pitt dynamics. probably lots of medical inaccuracies that im not gonna apologize for. this is totally self-inserted and vega is totally based in lots of aspects of myself. gonna probably update this list when i have more creativity.

gigi's notes: whats up guys!!!! i have absolutely no words to thank all the love you've given the first piece of this thing (because i'm not really sure what it is yet). i'm in a kinda deep depressive crisis at the moment (pretty much like the one vega's in) and when i wrote it i was trying to force myself to write in the hopes that i'd feel the same joy i used to feel (and i did!!!), so seeing how many people enjoyed this bit of myself really mattered to me. thank you. ALSO: THANK YOU FOR 500 FOLLOWERS!!!!! now, about the fanfic: vega isn't exactly an oc (at least i think so), but, like i mentioned before, she is entirely based in myself (including her mental & back problems, poor thing), so i understand if any of you don't really see her as reader and it's okay. i feel like i kinda repeated some stuff too much in this piece and i feel like there are lots of things that aren't that good or i could've written better, but i still liked the way it turned out, so my self-doubt and impostor syndrome can go fuck themselves. also, like i mentioned in the previous, i HATE slowburns and i had something totally different planned for this piece, but then i started writing and having ideas and it felt right to write a short one just about their interactions. i PROMISE that the next one will be less slow and have a lot more burning. also, i had no intention to do so but i ended up following a stellar pathway to this fanfic. which is really fitting considering myself as a person. university is still kicking my ass (when is it not?), but i'm gonna try to commit to write & post weekly (let's call it exposure therapy). this was reviewed once but it's possible to have typos; english isn't my first language. i'll probably remember other things to tell you later so i'll probably update these notes in the future. enjoy!!!! :))))

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Vega was day shift. Jack Abbot was night shift.

Yet, despite that slight difference, whenever she was working, he seemed to be too. Whenever she rounded a corner, he was there on the nurses’ station, charting or talking to someone, irritating Robby, or making Dana laugh without even trying. Whenever she worked a case, he seemed to linger around. Whenever he worked a case, she seemed to linger around, too. They were in each other’s way. And they weren’t avoiding being there.

Jack attributed that to an ever-growing lack of sleep. She happened to be on his mind more frequently than he wanted. Anything she did made him aware of her—aware of her face, aware of her voice, aware of her presence in the Pitt.

He didn’t see her often; she was always busy, always treating someone or charting or doing rounds or sometimes even triage. Jack didn’t talk much with her. Not that he talked that much with anyone else—but there was something about her. Something about her made noise feel irrelevant. She was quiet, but she wasn’t shut off, not in a cold way; guarded, as if she’d learned early not to give people easy access to anything she didn’t want touched. She was assertive, self-assured in her words and actions. She didn’t say much, but when she did, it cut clean. Still, he caught himself looking when she wasn’t more times than he expected, caught himself wondering how someone so quiet could take up that much space. Physically, in the Pitt, or in his mind.

Vega would catch herself searching for him in the Pitt way more often than she intended, almost as if there was a string tethering them to each other. She didn’t want to be aware of him, but she was. She was aware of him in the way one’s body reacts before the mind does—like a storm brewing just outside the window. He didn’t crowd her, didn’t flirt, didn’t even look too long. But he watched. And she noticed.

They seemed to be stuck in the same magnetic field, like two forces stuck in each other’s orbit, getting closer each time, both acutely aware of each other. Like Andromeda and the Milky Way—two beasts that would, eventually, collide.

She’d often brush past him at the nurses’ station. Stand just a tiny bit closer than she had to. Whenever they traded words, it was usually there—like the first time he threw her a compliment.

“You did good today,” he said, not looking up from his charting, his scrubs still stained with blood from a massive bleeding they dealt with together earlier.

She turned to him. “You sound surprised,” she replied, keeping her face neutral.

He put the chart down and looked at her, his eyes always tired but always steady.

“I’m not.”

Then he put the chart away and walked away, not saying another word. But those two words stayed with her longer than they should have.

From then on, working the same cases started to be more frequent; standing side by side, handing each other equipment and charts without even having to ask. They were learning to read each other’s silences, they were learning each other’s rhythms.

The next time she found herself noticing him, he looked like hell. She was on shift; he was working overtime. That much was clear by the way his shoulders were heavy, pen moving slowly across a chart, scrub top wrinkled and littered with dark stains—he wasn’t one to change scrubs often, just like her; they always had bigger concerns. He looked like he hadn’t slept in well over three days; his brows were carved in a deep line, the fluorescent lights cutting hard lines under his eyes. He wasn’t even supposed to be there.

She didn’t think, her body moving on its own accord. Just grabbed a fresh cup of coffee from the vending machine and, silent as a predator, set it down next to him with a soft thud, keeping her attention on her tablet.

Jack’s eyes flicked up, slow and heavy-lidded, but never without that sharp flame underneath. He glanced at the coffee and then, for a beat, he just looked at her.

“You trying to earn a gold star, kid?” He said, voice low, his mouth twisting into something lazy and rough.

Vega leaned an elbow on the counter, close—too close—, her sleeve brushing his. Her eyes met his.

“No,” she said, head tilting just enough to make it feel deliberate, her mouth just slightly tugging at the corner. “Just don’t want an old man dropping dead on my shift.”

He laughed—a real laugh, low, rough-edged, caught between surprised and something else, the kind of laugh that cracked through his exhaustion. He shook his head slowly, his eyes not leaving hers, something sharp and warm and unknown stuck between them.

She liked making him laugh.

His fingers wrapped around the warm cup, his fingers grazing hers—not by accident. Vega didn’t flinch.

“Careful,” he muttered, low enough for her to hear, “or people’ll notice you have a sense of humor.”

She smiled. Small, sharp. Just for him. A silent moment passed before she answered, her eyes analyzing his almost as if trying to decide if he was worth her time. Trying to recognize what it was that she saw in his eyes, the familiarity of it.

“See?” She said in a softer voice, the glint in her eye unmistakable, starting to push away from the counter. “You’re already imagining things. Drink it before it gets worse.”

Jack didn’t answer, just lifted the coffee toward her in a half-ass salute, finally sipping from it. It tasted better than he expected. He watched her walk away, his lips tugged upward in a tired smirk that lingered even after she disappeared down the hall, his eyes trailing after her.

Somewhere along the way of starting to work together, she’d learned how he drank his coffee. That warmed something inside of him.

There was something there, something he couldn’t quite name yet. It was quiet, simmering, growing—almost like a current humming just beneath the surface. Like a prickle slowly getting under his skin.

A few days turned into a few shifts, which turned into days, which turned into weeks. In a bit over two months since joining the Pitt, Vega had been working more with Abbot than with Robby—but she wasn’t complaining.

They still didn’t talk often, but it wasn’t only the strictly necessary, either. Sometimes he’d throw her a rare comment, always adding a “kid” at the end, and she would retort with something just as fitting, “old man” always on her tongue—it usually earned a laugh from him. They always ended up drifting back to each other’s orbit, standing almost too close, brushing fingers when handing each other things, finding their eyes already on the other, sharing a few loaded glances. Working side by side in sync, reading each other’s silences and minds.

There was something about the way he didn’t push, he didn’t demand more than she was willing to give, that spoke to her; that made her see him in a different light than she expected to. He was showing her that he wasn’t quite like she expected him to be. There was something between them—something unknown, something unspoken, and she hadn’t yet realized just how deep it was.

It was a week and a half after the coffee moment—in that meantime, he’d gotten her two coffees in return. He’d learned how she drank her coffee, too, without asking, and it touched something strange inside of her that she did her best to ignore. But it was there.

This time, she was the one working overtime. Her mind was full of too many dark things she didn’t have the strength to face at the moment, so she chose to keep working. That way, she kept busy; that way, she didn’t need to spend too much time alone with her thoughts.

Around eleven pm, the ER was finally calming down—not that anyone dared to say that out loud. After a massive car pileup, the voices finally started to give way to whispers and quietness, everyone disappearing into any rest they could get. Vega was finally able to take a deep breath. So was Jack—she’d barely seen him today.

His voice was suddenly by her side.

“You should sit down.”

She glanced up at him, brows furrowing. “What?”

He gestured toward the nearest chair.

“You’ve been on your feet all day,” he replied, putting a chart away and grabbing another before pointing at her back. “It’s not good for your back.”

Vega froze, completely paralyzed in what she was doing. Her water bottle was forgotten mid-air, watching his back as he walked away normally, as if he hadn’t left her with the most dumbfounded look she’d ever had, as if he’d said the most normal, trivial thing in the world.

But it wasn’t. It wasn’t the most normal, common-knowledge thing in the world, because she had never mentioned her back problems to anyone, not even Robby—let alone Jack. She was too used to keeping her problems by herself, dealing with everything on her own, unused to asking for help. And he’d noticed.

Her back was hurting.

She had good and bad days; sometimes, the pain would barely make itself known. Other times, no matter what she did—stretches, sleeping without any pillows, pills, having the best mattress possible—, it never left, like a pointy pebble stuck in one’s shoe. Sometimes it’d start in the early morning hours and only get worse throughout the day. Today was one of those days, where with each passing hour that she was on her feet, it only worsened. The only painkillers that, in fact, made the pain go away also made her sleepy, totally knocked her out (like the time the pain was so bad she had to take a Tramadol injection), or left her feeling in a dazed state. She couldn’t be in any of these situations at the moment, so she was stuck with it for a few more hours. She was already used to it by now, had gotten good at ignoring it.

Somehow, Jack had noticed. Somehow, Jack had read through the narrowed lines across her face, had read through the way she kept trying to shift her weight to hide the strain, had read through the pain she was trying to ignore, through the way she clenched her jaw and closed her eyes when the pain got too loud to ignore, when she thought no one was looking.

He hadn’t said it to make her flinch, hadn’t said it like an accusation, hadn’t said it to tease. He simply noticed.

And it unsettled Vega—because it meant he was paying attention. Not the kind of attention that grazed the surface, the way most people saw what they wanted to see. Not the kind of attention an attending gave a resident, not just assessing her professional skills. So, she did sit down. Because, somehow, Jack Abbot saw right through her, as if it were the easiest thing in the world. As if it were simple.

She wasn’t used to that.

She was the one who saw. She was who stayed, who stitched, literally and figuratively, people back together and asked for nothing in return.

She was who always put everyone’s needs above her own—

She was who had spent her whole damn life making sure no one ever noticed the cracks—

She was who gave and gave and gave until she almost forgot she had anything left to want—

He just wanted her to sit. To take care of herself.

It hit her sideways, knocking her off balance, making her forget how to breathe. It slipped under her skin before she could stop it, sharp and tender all at once, settling somewhere deep in her chest. Like a bruise she had never realized was there until he touched it without meaning to, the part of her that still wanted—desperately, stupidly—to be seen.

The part of her that wanted it to be her turn. That still wanted to be known, to be chosen, to be kept.

And Jack—

Jack looked at her like he already had.

And it scared the living shit out of her.

gigi's notes: PLS tell me what you guys think, im sooooo looking forward to see your reactions!!! <3 i also started working on a different jack fanfic based on a request of a love triangle, so heads up for a future jack x reader x langdon (but here dilf supremacy always wins so don't worry folks) hehe AND i've been thinking... what do we think of a jack x firefighter!reader? 👀 i'm gonna take the big ass test for joining my state's military firefighters (i probably won't be approved bc i haven't studied at all but i would truly like to be approved [even though i'm graduating in archaeology lol]) so i kept thinking what it'd be like of jack in a relationship with a firefighter so i might write it anyway lol also, can you see how much i need therapy for my people-pleaser issues? im trying ok i took the liberty of tagging below the lovely people who said such nice things about the fanfic and commented and reblogged. if you'd like to be tagged in the future, please let me know! @cosmoscoffeee @mackycat11 @sunfairyy @starkgaryan @amandarobertsboyce @starlight-starbright-8080 @patatesliomlet @saynotononsense @sweetestcowboy @diaryofafeelsaddict

[mattrempeswife]

A LITTLE LOUDER NOW

pair: luke hughes x singer!reader

genre: fluff, romance, established relationship, feel-good.

warnings: announcement, lots of fluff, overwhelming happiness, public cheering, light cursing (out of excitement), major crowd reactions.

summary: as a world-touring singer and as luke longtime girlfriend, you’ve always had the support of your fans and luke, the new jersey devils’ hockey star. during your loud, sold-out concert stop in new jersey, you finally reveal the secret you and Luke have been keeping for months. between laughter, tears, and a double surprise, it’s a night no one will ever forget.

fia’s note: i’ve actually been quite into the idea of luke and a famous reader lately, so i thought it would be really fun to write something based on that! this piece is actually inspired by a few real-life artists who announced their pregnancies on stage, i always thought those moments were so special and emotional, and i wanted to capture a little bit of that magic in this story.

Prudential Center is now vibrated with pure, electric anticipation. You stood behind the curtain, bouncing on the balls of your feet, heart hammering in your chest.

Your oversized black shirt draped down to your mid-thighs, hiding everything you weren’t quite ready to reveal, at least not until the right moment. Your fingers absently brushed over your rounded stomach beneath the fabric, feeling the tiniest flutter of movement. They always danced when you were about to go on stage. Like they knew.

“You’re on in five,”

Your stage manager called, shooting you a thumbs up.

You turned, and just before stepping into the spotlight, you caught a glimpse of Luke he smiled at you with a soft, private and a look that said go make magic, baby. Your chest squeezed with love.

You blew him a kiss and mouthed, I love you.

Then the curtain lifted and the world exploded.

The roar of your fans was deafening, the kind that vibrated in your bones. Thousands of voices screaming your name, hands shooting into the air, the whole place alive with so much love it was overwhelming.

Grinning, you ran to the front of the stage, arms wide open.

“NEW JERSEY, ARE YOU READY TO HAVE THE BEST NIGHT OF YOUR LIVES?!” you screamed into the mic.

The response was a wall of sound, like a tidal wave hitting you straight in the chest.

Laughing, feeling weightless with joy, you launched into your opening number. The setlist was carefully crafted a balance of your biggest hits and the songs your true fans had loved for years.

Even though you moved a little differently tonight, swaying, bouncing, careful not to do your old flips and spins but it didn’t matter. The fans didn’t care. They sang with you, for you, as loud as they possibly could.

Three songs in, you stopped, breathing heavily but smiling so wide your cheeks hurt.

“You guys,”

You panted into the mic, wiping your forehead with the sleeve of your shirt.

“I missed you. I missed your crazy energy. You’re unreal tonight.”

Cheers answered you, hundreds of phones lighting up like a galaxy in the dark.

“I wanna try something fun,”

You said, pacing slowly across the stage.

“You know how I always talk… tonight, it’s your turn.”

Your crew passed a mic into the pit. Hands shot up, thousands of them.

You pointed, laughing, “Alright, who’s gonna be brave?”

After some scrambling, a younger girl with glittery face paint ended up with the mic, her hands visibly shaking.

“Hi!” she squeaked.

“First of all, you’re my hero. Second, uh, is Luke here tonight?!”

The whole place went wild again, chants of ‘LUKE! LUKE! LUKE!’ filling the air.

You placed your hand dramatically over your eyes, pretending to scan the crowd.

“Hmm…” you teased. “Let’s see…”

And then, grinning wickedly, you turned and pointed directly at the VIP section near the stage.

“There he is!” you cried.

“Of course he’s here to support his girl!”

Spotlights swirled over and sure enough, there was Luke, standing tall, wearing a Devils cap low over his messy hair and a black hoodie. He clapped sheepishly, cheeks flushed pink but grinning with pride.

The crowd went absolute feral, chanting his name louder.

He cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled something you could barely hear over the noise, but you saw it clear as day.

“THAT’S MY GIRL!”

Your heart swelled so much you had to physically press a hand over it to keep from crying.

“You guys are gonna make his head bigger than it already is,”

You joked, making the crowd laugh.

“He’s not allowed to steal my show, okay?”

Another fan raised her hand quickly. The mic was passed again.

“If you could only eat one thing for the rest of your life, what would it be?” she asked eagerly.

You laughed. “Oooh, that’s tough. But honestly? Mac and cheese. I’m not even ashamed.”

The crowd cheered approvingly.

Another fan spoke up next.

“If you could switch lives with Luke for a day, would you?”

You wrinkled your nose playfully.

“I love him, but no way. Y’all, the amount of bruises and missing teeth in hockey? Nah. I’ll stay right here with my mic, thanks!”

Everyone burst out laughing, including Luke, who dramatically pretended to faint.

One more question flew at you, and you smiled warmly when you heard it.

“What’s the best advice Luke has ever given you?”

You paused, thoughtful.

“Honestly?” you said softly,

“He always tells me to be proud of myself. Even when I feel like I’m not doing enough, he reminds me that showing up and trying is everything. And… that’s stuck with me.”

A gentle chorus of ‘aww’ rippled across the arena. Luke smiled so wide it was practically blinding.

And then…

A quieter voice from the crowd, hesitating but brave:

“Um, okay,” she said,

“We’re just wondering… why have you been wearing such massive clothes lately? And not dancing much? There’s a rumor you might be, uh… y’know… pregnant?”

Instantly, a hush fell.

Thousands of people holding their breath.

You laughed softly into the mic, heart hammering. This was it. This was the moment.

You slowly started pacing back toward center stage, holding the mic loosely in one hand.

“Alright,” you said, your voice warm and teasing.

“I wasn’t gonna say anything yet… but you guys know me better than that.”

Fans started screaming already, sensing it.

“I was hiding it,” you admitted, grinning.

“I didn’t want the paparazzi to ruin it. But… you’re lucky I love each and every one of you so much.”

You reached for the hem of your oversized shirt.

The place went dead silent.

Slowly, with a big, dramatic flair, you pulled the shirt up and off, tossing it to the side.

Underneath, you wore a fitted white tank top and your baby bump was impossible to miss.

Rounded and adorable, it pressed snug against the fabric, proud and perfect.

You held your arms out wide, beaming.

“YEAH!”

You shouted, your voice cracking slightly with emotion.

“I’m pregnant! I’m gonna be a mama soon!”

The arena exploded in screams, louder than anything you had ever heard in your life.

But you weren’t done.

“And just so you know,”

You said, pointing a teasing finger at them all, “I’m not about to pop yet.”

The screams quieted slightly, eager to hear more.

“It looks this cute because…”

You grinned, dragging it out.

“I’m having twins!”

The crowd lost it completely, screaming, crying, jumping. Total chaos. Pure love.

You wiped tears off your cheeks, laughing breathlessly.

Cameras cut to Luke again, who was standing now, both hands shoved in his hair, looking like he was two seconds from bursting with pride. His mouth formed a perfect oh my god before he just started clapping wildly, his whole face lit up like the sun.

Your heart squeezed so tightly it almost hurt.

“My little family’s growing,”

You said into the mic, voice wobbling.

“And… I couldn’t be happier.”

The fans started chanting again. ‘MAMA! MAMA! MAMA!’ and you pressed your hand over your bump protectively, smiling so big your face hurt.

The next songs you sang, you couldn’t stop smiling. Every chorus felt bigger. Every verse felt sweeter.

You even danced a little, swaying and cradling your bump while fans threw baby-themed gifts onto the stage tiny Devils onesies, knitted booties, mini hockey sticks. You picked up one of the tiny onesies and held it up, laughing so hard tears ran down your cheeks.

“How — are insane,” you sniffled happily.

“But I love you.”

Toward the end, you sat down on the edge of the stage, feet dangling off, just talking with the crowd.

Finally, the night wound to a close, you stood up, wiping tears away.

“New Jersey always mean something to me and Luke,”

You said into the mic, voice thick with emotion.

“And this is where I wanted to share my biggest news. Because… you’re not just fans to me. You’re also a close friend.”

You pressed a hand over your heart.

“Thank you for loving me. Thank you for loving us.”

With one final blow of a kiss toward the sea of faces, you walked off the stage and straight into Luke’s arms waiting.

He scooped you up carefully, spinning you in a slow, gentle circle.

“You’re incredible,” he murmured against your temple.

You clung to him, laughing and crying at the same time.

“I can’t believe we just told everyone,” you hiccupped into his hoodie.

Luke pulled back, framing your face in his big hands.

“And you killed it, babe. God, I’m so proud of you.”

He bent down, dropping a soft kiss to your stomach.

Then another.

And another.

“Hi babies,”

He whispered against your bump.

“Daddy loves you.”

Your heart completely melted.

You ran your fingers through his messy hair, whispering back,

“We love you too.”

[bullet-prooflove]

Permanent Marker: Dennis Whitaker x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @cosmic-psychickitty @sargeant-sad-eyes @caffeinatedwoman @hooks-martin

Companion piece to:

Peppermint - The taste of peppermint will always have a special place in Dennis’s heart.

The Morgue Thing - A miscommunication between you and Dennis almost ends things before they begin.

Written In The Stars - Your first date with Dennis takes place underneath the stars.

In The Park - Dennis reveals a secret after the two of you spend the night together in the park.

Virgin - There's a rumour going around about Dennis.

Debauched (NSFW) - Karaoke night ends a lot differently than it did the first time around.

Symphony (NSFW) - Dennis has never eaten pussy before...

Pretty Boy (NSFW) - You and Dennis take the next step in your relationship.

Dennis wakes up to the sensation of your lips brushing over his forehead, your palm cupping his cheek before you kiss his mouth in that wonderful sweet way of yours. He groans, arching up to meet you and you smile before you draw away.

“I need to head into work to take care of something.” You tell him, your nose trailing  over his. “Get some rest, you had a busy night last night.”

“You should come back to bed.” He mumbles, his thumb chasing over the apple of your cheek. “I want to practise some more.”

“You don’t need to practise.” You tell him as he steals another greedy kiss. “You were perfect last night, both times.”

He’d rallied again at three in the morning, you’d woken up to his lips ghosting down your throat, his hand wandering. He’d had you from behind this time, your fingers entwining with his before you guided them down to your clit. He’d found your rhythm almost immediately, played all the right notes, all the way to the crescendo.

“Go back to sleep.” You urge him, your palm coming to rest on the space where his heart resides before you give him a gentle push. “We can play a little more tonight if you’re free.”

“Oh I’m definitely free.” He mumbles, sagging back into the pillows and burrowing down into the sheets. His eyes start to flutter closed and you smile at the sight of him, so relaxed, so care free.

It’s the change of shift for security when you get to the hospital. You know that Olsen and Ahmed like to do the handover in the canteen over a cup of coffee so the office will be empty.

You stand in front of the betting board, surveying all of those post-its about Dennis’s virginity. The suggestions, the implications, the odds. You remove them one by one, putting them into your pocket instead of the trash because you don’t want them to be able to use them to make good on those bets. Then you pick up a permanent marker, not one of the dry wipe ones that reside in the pen pot and get to work.

You came to learn about the board this morning when a friend texted you asking for details because she saw you and Dennis leaving karaoke together last night.

“You know I don’t kiss and tell.” You’d text back, to which she responded.

“Come on Lis, I’ve got $100 riding on this.”

That’s when you remember the bets about the ambulance, about Dr Robby and his younger girlfriend. You know it’s supposed to be a bit of fun, a way of venting the stress that comes with the job but this, this is just too far.

You take your time on the words, etching them in thick block capitals. You want them to stand out, make a point, you also want them as hard as hell to remove so that everytime they even think about doing something like this again, they’ll reconsider.

Do better, you write covering the majority of the board. Don’t be fucking assholes.

You don’t sign it off, you don’t want Gloria reprimanding you for defacing hospital property but the people who run those bets, they’ll know.

And they’ll know better than to cross you again.

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[theoretically-questionable]

I've often found myself confused by people who use LLMs for tasks that involve communication, even in an office or other setting where a non-trivial portion of emails/messages are 'box-checking' rather than strictly interpersonally communicative.

Having thought it over, I think the difference in attitudes is probably akin to the split between people who value small talk and people who regard it, with extreme distaste, as "pointless and annoying": i.e., there is something the former is getting out of small talk that the latter group is not.

This is mostly just a rambling tangent, but oh well.

I like communicating and I do so with intent. I've heard the sentiment from some other autistic people that they'd love to have an 'autoresponder'-style module for their brain to automate away layers of necessary-but-draining/pointless conversation. Never been able to relate, in significant part because doing so would give people communicating with said autoresponder the entirely wrong impression about how I was feeling.

The purpose to communication is to transmit information from one person to another. There are so many layers to this information — something I have definitely struggled with, as an autistic person. Some of those layers were totally opaque to me for a long time. Hell, sometimes I didn't even know some layers existed.

In a collaborative environment, even rote/'pointless' communication rituals have a huge density of information. That is the point. It is important. If Joe Bloggs over in HR replies to my routine email confirming details for this week's parking garage allotments in a more abrupt way than usual, or slower than usual, that's contextual information.

Maybe I'll pick up that he's probably got a lot on his plate or feeling stressed. Maybe that's not relevant. Maybe I need someone from HR to do something later that day, and then I can either loop in someone else from the department or just know to approach Joe tactfully, rather than just passing the task along as I usually would.

When people start using LLMs to write emails, summarize meetings, and 'touch up' all of their work, all of that context turns to unparseable sludge. It's entirely random. You can't "get used to" how someone writes and learn to pick up context clues when everything longer than a single-sentence reply is being filtered through an LLM.

It genuinely ends up being a bit of a nightmare for me, having absolutely no access to any kind of context, just taking a ride down a river of vaguely polite- and professional-sounding drivel, all without even the barest grace of useful context. It just... makes things worse. It becomes a self-perpetuating loop with no eject button.

If it's really easy for everyone to maintain the 'professionalspeak' facade, nobody ever has times when they break the facade. And *breaking the facade* is important. Being able to shape the communication norms of your department/company over time is... I mean, I think it's essential? Willingly choosing "we all communicate via LLM" seems horrifying, like not just acquiescing to but actively reinforcing the worst parts of corporate expectations of overly sanitized communication standards handed down from your manager's manager.

And yeah, some of my feelings on the matter are definitely my own baggage, but it feels just as frustrating as having to work with someone who actively scorns 'small talk' and deliberately makes every single communication as stripped-down as possible — and ends up being less efficient overall, not more, because what they're actually doing is refusing to engage with their colleagues or make sure they're getting all the right information across.

The other thing is that LLMs don't actually, by default, have access to all the information you do. If you want to get specific information across in the output, you have to give it to the LLM first. I've never hit a scenario where I would have preferred an LLM-generated email instead of. like. just the bullet-point list of information that was used when prompting it.

If you're time-poor and easily frustrated by communication tedium, I would rather *know that*, and know for sure that none of the information you're giving me has been twiddled accidentally to be slightly wrong by a context-free LLM, than get 'professionally formatted' emails from you all the time.

the scariest thing about the generative AI thing is how quickly people have accepted it as an indefinite, irrevocable part of their reality. people have genuinely convinced themselves that ChatGPT is the only solution to most tasks - tasks they did with their own brain without any large effort two years ago. like you know damn well all of us used to write emails ourselves why are we pretending like this is an impossible task to do with your own two hands. what's with the fucking. AI revisionism. i feel like i am going insane.

[dismalflo]

Hiii I saw your request for asks so here I am. Maybe one with barty x potter reader and it’s like about barty bringing out this completely different side to reader and James being like who tf is that. Like she’s so confident and funny and silly around barty because she just knows that he completely respects her even if she’s a little insane(honestly this is something I’ve been struggling to write for weeks and wanted to see how you would do it 😭)

hi babe!! thank you for requesting <3 i lovee a barty x potter!reader, hope you enjoy!

Barty Crouch Jr x fem!potter!reader who really wants to help the owls of Hogwarts ✩ 888 words

cw: fluff, james and sirius being concerned (and irritated) brothers, james is barty's biggest hater, barty is whipped for his weird gf

an: omg flo writes for barty now!! i really enjoyed writing this but this is my first time writing for him so be gentle. also i saw this request and started writing it like straight away ahhh

“What’s your sister doing?” Sirius asks, eyes still locked on you as he gives James a rough shake by the shoulders. You've apparently transformed the coffee table in the common room into your personal stage, sprawled across it, delivering a very quiet yet impassioned speech.

James casts a glance your way, then groans—a low, weary sound filled with dread.

“She’s being weird,” James mutters, dragging a hand down his face. He’s still half-asleep, his hoodie bunched around his neck, hair sticking up in a dozen different directions. “Because of him.”

Sirius snorts, a knowing glint in his eyes. “Junior?”

“Yes, sodding Junior.” James replies grimly, as if he’s just uttered some ancient curse.

Meanwhile, you're still lying across the coffee table like it’s a velvet chaise lounge, one leg raised dramatically, arm flung over your face like a starlet in a Muggle film. Barty’s perched on the floor next to you, chin propped in his hand, looking up at you with that infuriatingly smitten grin. He’s clearly hanging on to every word of your monologue, whatever nonsense you’re spouting this time.

“I’m telling you,” you say, voice a hushed whisper but fervent all the same, “if we just trained the owls—really trained them—they could unionise. They could have everything they've ever wanted and more treats!”

James closes his eyes, exhaling slowly through his nose, clearly trying to center himself amid the chaos. Sirius just whistles low, like he’s watching some particularly dramatic scene unfold in a soap opera.

“Is she talking about unionising the owls?” Sirius asks, incredulous. “Is that a—”

“Don’t.” James cuts him off flatly, still rubbing his face. “Don’t ask questions. That’s how he wins.”

You shift, sitting bolt upright on the coffee table, animated as ever, gesturing wildly as if you’re leading some kind of revolution. “—and they’re already halfway there!” you’re saying, grin wide. “They have a hierarchy, Bee. They talk to each other! I saw one of them give another a dirty look last week when it dropped a letter in the lake. And then another one had a go at it and defended its friend! That’s class solidarity, if I’ve ever seen it.”

Barty leans forward, eyes gleaming, his smile full of adoration. “You’re a visionary,” he whispers, as if you’ve just unlocked a new level of consciousness rather than plotting to turn Hogwarts’ owls rogue.

You plop down beside Barty on the floor, your leg brushing his as you settle in without a care in the world. You act as if you’re utterly unbothered by the fact that Sirius and James are watching you like you're some mythical creature they can’t quite figure out.

Barty doesn’t flinch when you sit down next to him. Instead, he turns his head, offering you a soft, affectionate smile. His hand reaches up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. Without a word, he presses a gentle kiss to your temple, lingering just a bit longer than necessary. When he pulls back, there’s something in his gaze—something bordering on reverence.

“I’m sure we could arrange something to go wrong in the owlery, treasure,” he murmurs, his voice low and conspiratorial, “Make it off-limits. Give you a head start.”

James huffs, shaking his head, his eyes flicking over to the two of you. You’re leaning into Barty, laughing at what he’s said while he absently plays with your hair. You look entirely at ease, a side of you James never really sees with anyone else. You and Barty—well, it's a whole different world.

"I don’t get it, she wasn’t like this before." James mutters petulantly, still rubbing his face in disbelief. "One minute she’s plotting whatever ridiculous thing, and the next—what? She’s all... sweet?" He whines, not unlike a toddler being told there's no sweets before bedtime. He watches you laugh again, a soft, affectionate chuckle, as Barty pulls you closer, his hand possessively resting on your waist. “Bloody disgusting if you ask me,” he mutters under his breath.

The comment lands just as Barty chuckles lowly, his hand firm around you. You look up at him, your eyes sparkling, and without hesitation, he places another soft kiss to your temple—so tender, so un-Barty-like.

Barty raises an eyebrow, a smirk curling up at the corner of his lips, glancing over at James. “Don’t remember asking you, Potter,” he drawls, his tone thick with indifference. “If you weren’t her brother, I swear—” His threatening tone is cut off by your gentle chiding, whispering his name.

Sirius, for his part, is enjoying the show, his eyes flicking between James and Barty like he’s waiting for some kind of standoff. But Barty just looks bored, fingers absentmindedly brushing through your hair. James, of course, glares, but doesn’t have the energy to continue. Groaning, he sinks back into the couch like he’s been defeated by some cosmic force.

“Whatever, mate,” James mutters under his breath. “Don’t know why you had to go for sodding Junior, Y/N.”

Your only response is a laugh, echoing through the common room like James has told the funniest joke in the world. He’s happy for you, really—just not thrilled about the massive hurdle you’ve put in the way of his acceptance. And that hurdle, of course, is Barty Crouch Jr.

[trippinsorrows]

lessons in love

authors note: here we are with yet another au...i don't wanna hear it. 😭 friendly reminder that this story is set in 2004, or this is where it's kicking off, at least. thus, some of the dialogue and pop cultural references may read as dated and/or cringe. that's because it is. i'm writing it to reflect the time back then, friends.

faint hint of pride and prejudice as well as the move 'ever after' influences if you turn your head to the side, close one eye, and squint the other.

words: 6k

warnings: angst, violence against women, scenes of abuse. also, roman is a dick. that needs its own tw.

September, 2004

“Naw, you crazy as hell man,” Jey’s voice is much louder than it should be considering where they all are. Not that it makes a difference. The conversation at hand demands to be had, at least, according to the twins. “You’d really choose to bang Melyssa Ford over Esther Baxter?”

At being presented with the question once more, Jimmy sucks his teeth, Naomi, his longtime girlfriend since high school, with one arm over his shoulder, a wry smile on her pretty face. If she’s bothered by the conversation at hand, she’s doing a fine job not showing it, even though Roman knows she’s not. It’s why she’s one of the few people he likes, more tolerates, outside of a select few people. She’s just chill.

“Dawg, have you seen the Big Pimpin video? Thong Song?” Is Jimmy’s rebuttal as he shakes his head, whistling lowly. “That’s a fine ass shawty.”

“Have you seen Esther’s juggs?” Jey shoots back, leaning in his seat, rubbing his hands together. “You trippin, man.”

“Why can’t they both be fine?” Bayley asks, the only one of the group halfway paying attention to the lecture being taught. Roman would also pay attention but not for the fact that he couldn’t give two shits about this class. He’ll do a quick review before the next exam and pass it with flying colors, as per usual. 

“Exactly,” Naomi agrees, her brown eyes falling onto him as she lifts her chin. “Roman, what do you think?”

It's an easy question, thus his answer is almost instant, as it came to him the minute the conversation started. 

“Why choose one when you can have both?” 

His response earns a round of whoops and “ohh’s” that are somehow loud enough to snag the attention of a few nearby students but not the attention of Professor Guerrero. Again, not that he cares.

“You a dog, uce,” Jey laughs, reaching for his hand as they share the secret handshake they’ve had since they were kids. “A straight up dog.” 

“Tell me about it,” Bayley mutters, as Roman just smirks and rolls his eyes. He’s always been 50/50 on her. Best friend of Naomi since middle school, her admission into their tight friend group is something he’s always gone back and forth on. Some days she’s tolerable, others, she’s an insufferable, judgmental bitch. 

“Babe.”

Roman’s eyes shut. 

Speaking of insufferable…

Samantha props herself down in one of the empty seats in the row in front of theirs. The row that’s always kept empty, because it’s a known fact that Roman likes his space. Not to mention his security detail sits not too far, incognito but also not, because everyone knows who Roman Reigns is.

Whether they want to or not. 

He sighs, ignoring the snickering of the twins. “What?”

She rolls her eyes, clearly either uncaring or ignorant to the fact that he really doesn’t want to be bothered right now. Or, ever.

“Let’s go out this weekend,” she proposes. Smacking her gum obnoxiously, she twirls her fingers around her chestnut ringlets, Roman’s eyes falling to the beaded, silver Bebe written across the chest part of her sleeveless shirt. Her tits look nice in it. He’ll give her that. Not much else. “I wanna see that new Residential Evil movie that just came out. The one with that girl. Milla Jolly, or something like that.”

“It’s Milla Jovovich,” Bayley corrects, muttering something in Spanish that Roman is pretty sure was an insult. It makes his smirk return just a bit. 

“Whatevs,” Samantha scoffs, smacking that damn gum even louder, focusing back on him. “What do you say?”

“I have a game this weekend.”

“Yeah, on Saturday, but what about Sunday.”

“I'm going to Church.” 

Jey snorts. “The closest uce ever has and will get to a church was that lil’ preacher kid he was banging junior year.”

Naomi shakes her head. “She was a nice girl, too, until she got caught up with your ass.”

“You know what they say about nice girls,” Jimmy smirks, leaning over to kiss on her neck, prompting Naomi to fight back a smile as she playfully pushes him away. 

“Whatever.” Samantha sounds even more annoyed. Good, he thinks. Maybe she’ll leave me the fuck alone. 

But, she doesn't, instead crossing her arms. “Roman, I’m really getting tired of this.”

“Tired of what, Sam?” Not that he cares, he really doesn’t, he’s just needing to know what delusion about “them” she’s telling herself this week.

She motions between the two of them with them ugly ass duck nails. “You acting like this with me.”

“How is it any different than he’s ever acted with you?”

Roman has never been one to tell people when they’re right, but Bayley hit the nail on the head. His cold, stoic, almost cruel disposition has been the same since they first started messing around with each other during freshman year of high school. He’s never lied to her about what “they” are. She just hears and believes what she wants. To a detriment.

Samantha turns her glare to Bayley. “Was I talking to you, chica?” The disgust in that final word is enough to get Bayley sitting forward in her chair.

“No, but you’re in my space getting on my nerves, puta.” And without missing a beat, Bayely translates, “that means bitch, bitch.”

Roman readies to tell Samantha to shut the fuck up and go the fuck away when another party enters the space. Another unwelcomed party. 

“Excuse me.” Professor Guerrero’s irritating ass voice is added to an already irritating conversation as she stands in the walkaway, arms crossed, the overhead lighting highlighting her thick ass mustache. “Is there something you’d all like to share with the rest of the class?”

Roman sits unbothered, as Naomi, the good girl of the friend group, offers an unnecessary apology. “No, Professor Guerrero. We’re sorry about the noise.”

“Are you?” She challenges, prompting Roman to sigh loudly. “Because it seems all your little group has done in my class this semester is cause disturbance.”

“You still teaching, ain't you?” Roman shoots back in a bored tone, pulling out his Blackberry to check for any unread texts, feeling Samantha’s heated gaze on him. Again though, not that he actually fucking cares. “Can’t be that much of a disturbance.”

Naturally, his smart ass retort earns chuckles from around the room, Jimmy and Jey dapping him up, which only further irritates the professor. “Mr. Reigns, I will not tolerate that kind of flippancy in my classroom.”

“So do something about it,” he challenges, still not matching her fiery gaze. When nothing is said, or done, he scoffs, “exactly.”

Because at the end of the day, she’s not going to do shit. Roman is untouchable, and everyone knows it. Including Vicki Guerrero.

As the noise continues around, she steps closer, leaning far too into Roman’s personal space, earning a vicious glare from the nineteen year-old. “I may not be able to remove you from my class, but I can certainly make this experience as unpleasant as I possibly can for you.”

At that, Roman finally lifts his gaze, voice as nonchalant as the expression on his face. “Good luck with that, Vickie.”

If he didn’t dislike this bitch as much as he does, Roman might be impressed by how she doesn’t back down. But, the hate is too strong for an acknowledgement. She straightens up, clearing her throat, voice projecting, “the next unit will require a semester long project that you all will complete in groups of two. Pairings that I will put together.” 

At that, the entire atmosphere shifts, sounds of grumbles and protests. Roman sucks his teeth. He already hates people enough as it is, but to be put in a group with someone he doesn’t know and won’t like is only going to make this wack ass class that much more unbearable. 

She walks away, down the steps to head back to the podium, right as Samantha opens her mouth.

Thus, he promptly puts her in and reminds her of her “place” in his life.

“If I’m not filling it, I don’t want to hear it.”

Her cheeks burn bright red from obvious embarrassment as the twins are fight for their life beside him.

“She must really like your ass, Roman, cause ain’t no way…” Naomi trails off, shaking her head. 

She might have a point, but also, that’s Samantha’s problem. Not his fault she’s a dumb bitch who can’t accept the fact that he only likes what she can do for him sexually. Nothing more. Nothing less.

“Alright, listen up everyone,” Guerrero starts, and Roman actually pays attention this time, because he has a strong feeling he’s not going to like what she says. At all. “This next unit will be focused on Pride and Prejudice, arguably, one of Jane Austen’s best books.”

“Damn,” Jey curses. “Can’t we just watch the movie?”

“You all will read this book and work together with your partner over the semester to create a presentation touching on a variety of subjects and literary tenets.” 

Roman shuts his eyes, already dreading this shit. It’s not that he hates reading. He doesn’t mind it at all. He just hates reading classics. That shit gives him migraines. “Now, the groups will be as follows….”

Naturally, he tunes her out, uncaring about any of the other pairings except the one this bitch has put him in.

“...Jey Uso and Sami Zayn.”

Beside him, Jimmy, Naomi, and Bayley are in fits as Jey angrily throws down his pencil. “The water boy? Man, this some bullshit!”

“Jey!” Sami, the man in question, the actual equiptment manager from their football team, stands from where he sits, turned around and waving wildly like a fucking groupie. “Hey, my dog! We’re partners!”

“I’m about to drop out,” Jey mutters, completely ignoring an ecstatic Sami. “She done put me with fuckin’ ginger Jesus Christ Superstar.”

“Be nice,” Bayley scolds, looking among the guys. “He idolizes you all.”

“And? I ain’t ask for that shit.”

“....Jimmy Uso and AJ Lee.”

At that, Jimmy and Naomi lose all sense of humor, Naomi the first to protest, “oh hell no.” 

AJ looks over her shoulder and happily waves to Jimmy, clearly celebrating in her seat. Naomi points to her, while speaking to Jimmy, “she got one goddamn time, and the minute she do some shit I don’t like, I’m beating that ass.”

Naturally, Bayley lifts her hand for a fist-bump, the two in obvious agreement.

Roman chuckles. This’ll certainly be interesting. AJ is known across campus as the psycho/obsessive cheerleader, and for good reason. Her last breakup with some dick from the baseball team resulted in her disappearing all last semester and randomly showing back up for this one like nothing happened. Like everyone doesn't know she had some sort of psychotic break and was in the nuthouse.

How the fuck did she get let back in?

Roman tunes out the sound of Bayley and Naomi now rejoicing as their names were listed together, making them partners. Expected, but also not. Guerrero’s issue has primarily been with Roman and his twin cousins, not necessarily the women.

Sexist bitch.

“....And finally, Roman Reigns and Solana Miller.”

He frowns, intrusive thought/question escaping the confines of his mind. 

“Who the fuck is Solana Miller?”

“The Miller's daughter.”

Laughter from not only beside him but the students in hearing distance of Jimmy’s dumbass response, prompting a borderline lethal glare from the young Tribal Chief that has everyone quickly quieting down and the twins coughing.

Still without an answer, Roman sits up in his seat and looks over at the women, knowing if anyone would know, it’s Naomi. “Who is she?”

Naomi opens her mouth, looking around the classroom, moving her head past the bodies up and moving around, familiarizing themselves with their partners. “Umm….” She stops, making a face. “Oh.”

“Oh?” Roman mocks. “Oh, what?”

Discreetly, Naomi points down, Roman following her finger to see it’s landed perfectly on a back. A back that’s draped in an oversized sweatshirt, dark hair pulled back in what he’s pretty sure is considered a “messy” bun. Naturally, her back towards them, he can’t make out a face.

His frown shifting into a scowl. “That her?”

Naomi nods. “She’s also in my math class. I don’t know anything about her. Just that she’s super quiet,” Naomi answers. “Like, I don’t think I’ve ever heard her talk. Here or in math.”

“Damn, you got Helen Keller for a partner.”

“Jimmy!”

“Now that everyone knows who their partner is, make sure to exchange contact information, as you’ll be working together closely for the rest of the semester.” Roman’s dislike for this woman just reached level 10, cause why the fuck would she put him with a mute bitch? “And, I’d highly advise you all to take this project seriously, as it’s worth half  your final grade.” She then moves to hand out the packet with all the necessary information to the front row, starting with this Solana person, as it gets passed around to the rest of the class.

“Damn,” Jey groans. “Now, I actually gotta try.”

Roman ignores him as Guerrero goes to dismiss the class, some packing up to leave, others still talking to their partners. He waits until he gets the packet with the project overview, before standing up and slinging his backpack over his shoulder. 

Jimmy offers a lazy warning of sorts, as Roman starts to move down the steps. “Don’t be late, or else Coach Booker gon’ have all our asses.”

“I know,” he mutters, seeing Sam stand up out the corner of his eye, clearly hellbent on following him.

“Roman—”

“Fuck off.”

The sound of her scoffing diminishes with each step he takes, and the closer he gets to this girl, the more he realizes just how tiny she is. He practically towers over her. 

“Hey.”

She jumps, turning around, unintentionally dropping some of the folders in her hand that she was hurriedly trying to stuff into her backpack. “S–sorry.” Comes a voice that’s quiet and soft, a perfect match for the girl in front of him.

Roman sighs, eyes lifted to the paneled ceiling as she moves to pick up the dropped items. For a second, he considers doing it for her, but she’s fast, already on the move.

“I’m s-sorry.” Another apology as she stands before him, lifting her eyes to his, finally meeting his annoyed gaze.

Huh.

Roman takes a second to take her in. Despite the homeless themed outfit she has going on, baggy ass sweatshirt, sweats, and some creased Nike’s, she’s not ugly. At all. Big, light brown eyes, full lips, her face shape on the rounder side, but it works for her. Makes her look….angelic almost. She’s pretty. He won’t deny that, but everything else though….is annoying.

She’s annoying. 

“I—” He sighs, yet again. That damn stammering is irritating as fuck. “I—I don’t—you don’t have to help me, ya’ know.”

At that, he pauses. “What do you mean?”

For whatever reason, her cheeks start to flush red, as she drops her gaze, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. “I–I can…I can do the project by myself, and just—”

“Do you think I’m fucking stupid?” He rebuffs, voice harsh and criticizing. “That I can’t do a dumbass book project?”

Her eyes widen, as she shakes her head. “N–no, that—that’s not what I meant.” She winces, voice softening even more, gaze back on the ground. “I’m sorry…”

For the briefest second, he feels something. Something…different at seeing her reaction to his spurning. Something close to…guilt?

Whatever.

He shakes his head, pulling out his phone. “What’s your number?”

The floor, or her sneakers, no longer have her attention. He does. “Wh–what?”

“Your number,” he says it slowly, like talking to a child, lightly shaking the phone in his hand. “So we can work on the project.”

Truth be told, he’d much rather do all the work himself, slap her name on it, and let her have a few talking points during the presentation portion. Or, none. Something tells him that damn stuttering will cause them to get points deducted, and he can’t have that shit. 

As long as he’s been in school, he’s always been an A student, and that’s not about to change because of some girl who can’t even maintain eye contact for longer than two minutes. 

She opens her mouth. “Umm—” Another push of her hair behind her ear, as she chews down on her bottom lip. He makes and takes note of that. Her lips. They’re even nicer than he realized. “My—my phone isn’t working right now.” His eyes narrow. The change in intonation. Higher. Inconsistent eye contact. She’s lying. “But—” He watches as she turns slightly, not missing the almost wince on her face when she does so. 

Huh.

She pulls out a black composition notebook, small hands turning to a blank page as she uses the pen on the table to scribble something down. She rips the page out, turning it over and handing it to him. “That–um–it’s my school email.” He frowns. Email? “It’s—it’s the best way to contact me.”

Maybe, but it’s annoying as fuck. Text would be a lot easier. Hell, even talking on the phone. Nevertheless, while she’s lying about her phone not working currently, he doesn’t believe she just, for whatever reason, doesn’t want him to have her contact info.

Maybe she doesn’t have a phone? He wonders, but regardless, it doesn’t make a difference.

Taking the piece of paper from her, their fingers brush against one another, and he can’t ignore that something. Not a spark. Not anything to write home about. Just…something. She must feel it too, because she quickly retracts her hand, going to return her notebook in her backpack. 

“You work?” He asks, folding the paper into a square and shoving it in his back pocket. 

He’d ask if she plays any sports or anything, but something tells him he already knows the answer to that. 

She nods. “Yeah, umm, Borders.” The bookstore. Of course. “Only—only part time, though. I–I can work around your schedule.”

“Good.” That’d be significantly easier considering he’s almost certain that his is significantly busier than hers. “I’ll email you….” Damn. What was her name again?

“Solana,” she answers for him, a trace of an accent in the middle portion. 

“Solana,” he repeats, realizing that it fits her. He doesn’t know how, just that it does. 

And then, the faintest hint of a smile. “O–okay.” She looks at him, and he looks back, neither of them saying anything for a solid minute before she opens her mouth, as if preparing to to say something when her gaze fixes on something behind him. “Oh no.” He frowns, turning to see the only thing she could be looking at. The clock.

“I have to go,” she says, clearly in a rush. But, something else. Panicked. She sounds panicked.

“‘I’ll look for your email,” she offers, as he naturally steps to the side, allowing her to pass him. His eyes shut as the scent of her perfume or body spray invades his nostrils. Sweet. Again, it fits her. 

Roman says nothing else as she dashes out of the room, clearly late for something.

But, what?

—----------

“You’re late.”

It’s the first—and last—thing Solana wants to hear, but that’s exactly what she’s met with the minute she hops into the passenger seat of her brother’s BMW.

Swallowing, her lips suddenly feel dry, her stomach doing those flips in preparation for what she already knows is coming. “I’m sor—”

Thud.

Her eyes slam shut from the pain that shoots all throughout her head. Pain that’s a result of Wesley slamming it into the windshield. Naturally, she goes to feel for any sort of cut or blood, relieved when her blurry vision reveals blood-free fingers.

“Stupid bitch,” he mutters but says nothing else, just continues to drive them home in silence. Solana curls herself into the corner as much as she can, eager and almost needing to put as much distance between them as possible. Not that it makes a difference.

None of it ever does. 

The first thing she notices upon pulling up to the house is the black SUV parked in the driveway along with the two men, large, burly, dressed in black suits in black sunglasses standing near the vehicle. Watching, almost. 

It doesn’t necessarily make her take pause, but it does heighten her already shot nerves. Her father is usually temperamental on most days, but that temper only seems heightened on days when he has business meetings. Especially those from home.

“Hurry up,” Wes shoves her from behind, Solana having to catch herself from falling as they walk up and past the men to head into the home. Naturally, she does her best to keep her head down and mouth shut.

It’s just always worked better that way.

However, stepping into the home, dropping her backpack near the door, knowing it's going to be inspected, what she doesn’t expect is the sight of her father standing near the entryway with another man. It’s unexpected, because he usually does his business in his office down the hall. Except, the handshake between them seems to signify the conclusion of business. A deal made.

That helps her anxiety a little bit.

Maybe he won’t be in such a bad mood.

Except, the anxiety that was just settling spikes once more when the man opposite her father turns his attention onto her. He’s about what and what in height and build with her father, barely pushing 6’0, stomach a bit rounded from what she’d guess is a lifestyle full of bad habits and poor decisions. The hair on his head is full and almost certainly a piece. His dark blue eyes pierce into her, his thin lips, surrounded by an unkempt beard and mustache, unsettle her. 

He unsettles her.

She drops her gaze to the ground, naturally moving to the side and out of his way as he starts to walk in her direction. She’s prepared for him to pass her up, to ignore her like almost everyone else in her life has outside of when she’s upset them, but he doesn’t.

He doesn’t, because he stops and turns in front of her. His thick, clammy finger moving under her chin and forcing her to look up.

She can only stare back at him, his almost musty body odor invading her senses, the same way his hand on her face violates her personal space.

And, then he smiles, “perfect.”

Frowning, Solana does her best to remain quiet, though her confusion runs abundant as he finally walks out and takes his leave.

What was that about?

However, the slamming of the front door reminds her that a man’s strange gesture to and with her matters little in the face of everything else. 

Very little.

“Solana.”

Instantly, she’s straightened, back against the wall behind her. Eyes shut, she swallows, murmuring, “yes, sir?”

Xavier’s intimidating voice and frame move to stand before her, his hands clasped behind his back. “Your brother told me you were late today.”

The tremble in her belly is matched by the falter in her voice. “Y—yes, sir. I—I was.”

“Hmm.”

It takes everything in her to not break down right then and there. “I’m s–sor—”

One minute she’s attempting to plead for mercy, the next her eyes are wide, her fingers grasping the hand around her neck. 

Wes’s dark cold eyes bleed into her. “Did he say you could speak?”

No.

Never.

Solana feels her sense of reality draining away when he finally releases his tight grip, her body crumpling to the floor as she coughs violently. 

“Where were you?” Xavier asks in a bored tone, completely unaffected or bothered by the scene before him. Not that she expected anything other than indifference, or maybe even excitement.

It’s just always been that way.

Solana sniffles, doing her best to keep the tears at bay. “My—my class ran over.” She’s about to share the portion about the project, but quickly decides against it. He’ll ask questions, questions about her partner, and that’s the last thing she needs. For her father to find out that she’s been assigned to work with Roman Reigns, of all people, for the rest of the semester.

It’s something she’s still trying to sit on.

“I don’t believe you.”

Damning words that can only mean one thing.

“No,” she whispers, eyes widening in horror and terror at what she knows is about to commence. “Pl–please.” 

“Wesley,” Xavier’s deep voice cuts through her begging and the sound of her sniffling. “Remind your sister what happens to liars in this house.”

“No, please!” Tears run down her face. There’s no use or even ability to hold them back anymore. She’ll get on her hands and knees to beg, if that’s what it takes. Even if she knows better. Knows that no matter what she says or does, it won’t change the outcome. Won’t change what’s about to happen.

She shouts in pain when Wes grabs her by her hair and begins to drag her away. “Please! I’m sorry! I’m not lying!” Pleads for mercy from men who possess none. Cries that fall on deaf, uncaring ears. Always have. 

Always will.

—--------

The water raining down on her body provides the perfect blend and cover for the tears that cascade down her reddened cheeks. Eyes swollen from crying so hard and heavy, Solana hugs herself only to wince from the aches and pain that radiates throughout her body. A body covered in bruises, some new, some old, all holding a story, a tale that tells the story of unimaginable pain and torture. 

A story that’s been hers as far back as she can remember. It’s all she knows. If it wasn’t her brother, it was her father, and if wasn’t her father, it was her brother. Though, over the past few years, it’s been more her brother enacting the punishment her father always believes her deserving of.

While he just watches. Watches and ignores her screams and sobs, the way she’s begged for Wesley to stop, for Xavier to help her, only for the brutal beatings to continue, sometimes until she’s rendered unconscious, waking up bloody and bruised hours later. 

Like tonight.

Having to drag her battered body into the shower to try to rinse and wash away what can never truly be destroyed. The scars on the outside pale in comparison to the marring etched on the inside. Tattooed onto her soul. 

A healing she’ll never be able to attain. 

No matter what.

It’s a bit of a wash/rinse/repeat routine. She eventually cleanses her body, hands moving gently over the more tender areas. Pops the Tylenol she keeps in the medicine cabinet in her bathroom and applies the Vicks VapoRub over certain areas. The areas where the rub will make some sort of difference. 

Not much. 

Nothing ever really does these days. 

Stepping out of the bathroom, dressed in the dark blue soffee shorts and thin sleeved camisole, Solana holds onto her side, sore and aching from the brutal kicks Wes delivered. It’s a miracle he didn’t crack one of her ribs.

Wouldn’t be the first time. 

Moving into her bedroom, she carefully closes the door behind her, knowing better than to lock it. She learned a long time ago the beating sustained from that kind of disrespect wasn’t worth the false sense of security the action brought. It didn’t make a difference, anyway. One way or another, they’d get to her. 

They always have. 

She takes a deep breath and rubs at her head, wincing, remembering the impact it made with the car window. A small knot on her scalp. Another reminder of a the never-ending cruelty she’s been subjected to her entire life. 

An inescapable hell. 

Not wanting to spend too much time dwelling on what she cannot control, Solana walks over to her desk where her desktop sits, the screen already turned on, as she’d hit the on button and started the dial-up before getting in the shower.

Sitting down, her eyes briefly fall to the framed photo that sits beside her computer. Miraculously untouched and unscathed despite countless violent encounters that have taken place in this very space. 

A trembling hand lifts to grab the frame she still remembers picking up that day so many years ago. One of the few times they were able to go out together and just have fun. A cheap little $5 frame from Goodwill, purple with colorful, positive words and groovy flowers. In it, one of her favorite photos of the two of them. Her mother’s protective arms wrapped around her, Solana with a toothy smile, beaming up for the photo as Nina kissed her daughter’s cheek.

Solana’s eyes shut. If she tries, really tries, she can still smell the scent of her mother’s perfume. Light and floral. It’s one of the few, positive things she can recall. The sound of Nina Miller’s voice left her years ago, and for every time Solana tries to remember, she’s only met with her mother’s screams and pleads for mercy at the hands of her heartless father.

Similar to her own experiences. 

And, if she thinks too hard, then different kinds of memories haunt her. The kind, no matter how hard she’s tried since that day, she can’t seem to fully erase. 

“Mommy!” Solana’s tears partially blind her from the horrific sight before her, both a blessing and a curse. A face disfigured, a partially nude body violated, left bloody and broken. An innocent life taken at the hands of evil. “Mommy, please wake up.” A child pleading on ears that will never hear and focused on eyes that will never blink, forever damned to a vacant, lifeless expression.

“Mommy, please don’t leave me.” The cries of an innocent child, clutching and holding onto the limp body of the one person who’s ever loved her, who she’s ever loved. “You said you’d be okay!” She cries, laying her head on the still chest, uncaring of the blood that stains her little hands and body. Uncaring of the heat of the flames around them and the smoke that intrudes her tiny lungs. 

Uncaring if it consumes them both.

“I won’t leave you, mommy!” A vow, a promise to stay with her until the end, even if it means the end for two instead of just one. 

Solana takes a deep, necessary breath, free hand over her heart, as she reorients herself. Remembers where she is and not where she was, even if some days, it’s hard to tell the difference.

“I miss you, mommy…” She feathers her finger over her mother’s face, choosing to remember her as that, as the happy mother who was delighted at being able to spend the day with her only daughter.

Not the last day she spent with her only daughter.

Swallowing, Solana places the frame back on the desk and refocuses on her monitor, seeing a ‘1’ icon on her AOL email shortcut on the desktop.

It brings up a frown as she navigates to click it, opening her inbox. A tiny gasp leaves her mouth at the unread email and who it’s from. 

Shock quickly wearing away, she hits open on the message.

From: reignsr_26@kingston.edu

To: millers_27@kingston.edu

Subject: Meeting

Solana, 

The sooner we get started on this, the better. I have practice every day essentially, along with a lot of other things, but I have a gap on Wednesdays from 4 to 6. Could you make this work?

Roman

She reads over the email at least two, maybe three, times, still stuck on a couple things, really. The main one being just how this is supposed to work. How she’s supposed to work with Roman Reigns when it’s obvious he already hates her. It’s unsurprising though. It’s a widely known fact that Roman hates most and likes few, the few mostly being his inner circle that’s comprised primarily of his family members.

Beyond that, it confuses her to no end how she’s supposed to act like he’s not who he is. Like, he isn’t the Tribal Chief. Like he isn’t the Head of the Table. Like he isn’t the, for all intents and purposes, the, for lack of better term, king of Kingston. 

He runs this whole city, the state, really. And, maybe it’s less him and more his family, more the Bloodline. One of the biggest crime syndicates in this hemisphere. At nineteen, the world is in the palm of his big hands. Everything revolves around him. With just one word, life and death are dependent upon him.

A part of her is intrigued, but a larger part is just terrified. Terrified as to how this is all going to work.

In the moment, she’d told him she could work around his schedule, because that seemed like the smartest thing to do. Solana might live a sheltered life, but she’s not so with her head in the sand that she doesn’t know who Roman Reigns is.

That she doesn’t know if there’s one thing she can do to help herself, it’s to stay on his good side. 

Or, whatever less volatile side of him exists. 

But, in actuality, working around his schedule would actually be a lot harder than she was thinking in that moment. Because she lives her life based around the schedule of her father and brother, mostly, Wes, as he’s finishing up his last year at Kingston University while she’s just started her first year not only a month and some change ago.

However, it seems like, for once, life is on her side.

Because Wes’s schedule on Wednesdays is pretty booked, resulting in her having nothing to do but hang around campus for a few hours due to his back to back schedule, including an evening class.

It….it should actually work.

Solana moves to type out a response, editing it once, then twice, before hitting send. 

From: millers_27@kingston.edu

To: reignsr_26@kingston.edu

Subject: RE: Meeting

Roman, 

That will work for me.

Thank you. 

Solana

Not expecting a response tonight, she moves to shut down her computer and rises up from her chair. But, not before turning to hit the on button for her boombox. Already having memorized the order of tracks on the CD she burned a couple weeks prior, she skips to track 18, music quickly filling the room. 

Young girl, don't cry

I'll be right here when your world starts to fall, ooh

Young girl, it's alright

Your tears will dry, you'll soon be free to fly, ooh

Eyes watering from the lyrics that never fail to evoke a visceral, emotional response, she walks over to her bed, powering through her pain as she lifts the mattress up just enough to grab it.

Her diary.

Pink with ballerinas on the cover, it’s the latest addition to her growing collection that fills the bottom of her closet. But, this one, something about this one has quickly risen to the top of her favorites. She knew she had to have it the minute she saw the stack of them pulled out of the box while working inventory a few months back. And when her 18th birthday rolled around this past July, she did just that. Picking up the journal as her sole and only birthday gift.

Solana moves over to her nightstand, grabbing the key taped on the underside. The key needed to unlock said diary. Pen in hand, she slides to the floor, back against the edge of the bed, lyrics continuing to provide a hope she’s not sure she actually believes in anymore.

When you're safe inside your room, you tend to dream

Of a place where nothing's harder than it seems

No one ever wants or bothers to explain

Of the heartache, life can bring and what it means

Her eyes closing, a strong attempt to fake it, to pretend, to briefly try to act like this is temporary. That this life she struggles to call a life is actually hers. That better days are ahead. 

That someday, maybe, just maybe, she’ll finally be able to feel it again.

Happy.

That she can be happy. 

Unlocking her journal, she moves to an empty page and starts it out the same way she’s started every entry since then. Since that day. 

The day she died.

The day they both died, really.

Dear Mom…

[thrasherella]

Weekend Getaway‧₊˚⊹

MDNI MDNI MDNI MDNI MDNI MDNI

ʚ・ ୨୧・ ɞ synopsis ~ stepdad!Nanami takes you for one of your regular weekend retreats over at his friend Higuruma's house; this time Higuruma's extra needy since you've been busy with work/friends/life and haven't been able to come see him and Nanami has been hogging you all to himself :(

ʚ・ ୨୧・ ɞ featuring ~ nanami x reader, higuruma x reader

ʚ・ ୨୧・ ɞ tags ~ porn with plot, fauxcest, stepdad, mention of 'uncle' but no actual relation, daddy kink, lots of praise, praise kink, cuddles and creampies, non-protected sex, fingering, oral sex, blowjobs, cunnilingus, sloppy make-out sessions, age gap, threesome, sharing, exhibitionism, squirting, spitting, cum play, cum eating, domination, free use, generally other fun sexy things~💋

ʚ・ ୨୧・ ɞ a/n ~ i'm posting this instead of sleeping; the idea of being shared between the two hottest suited zaddies in jujutsu kaisen is making me feral 🫠 i don't normally write in second person pov soooo hope you guys enjoy this as much as i do~! any constructive feedback/thoughts are welcome 🩷

~ Part One ~ Wake Up Slut 😛

‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶꒒ ꒩ ꒦ ꒰︶︶꒷꒦︶︶꒒ ꒩ ꒦ ꒰︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹

stepdad!Nanami who knows the only way to get you up and out of bed at a decent hour on Saturday mornings (make that any morning) is by waking you up with his fat cock.

Even in your mid-twenties, you still spend a majority of your time at his house rather than your apartment; not that Kento minds one bit. It's not like your mother was ever home anymore, either at work or out meeting with friends or one of her many "social groups"; the book club, the garden club, the women's volunteer group for this that and what-have-you. She seemed to have time for everything except her family.

You had taken full advantage of this, having wanted Kento yourself since day one of meeting him; he was a storybook gentleman and ridiculously handsome, how could you not? So, who's to blame a girl for getting her stepdad a little too drunk one night, knowing he was in the middle of an unwanted dry spell, so thirsty he felt like he was dying, and offering him exactly what he needed to satiate his long ignored hunger...?

He insisted that you still sleep in separate beds, but you usually wake up just as his thick tip pushes past your already soaking folds, always lying prone on your front, your pussy practically sucking him in as he sinks into you with a low hum, a high pitched squeal involuntary escaping you as the feeling of him filling you as soon as you awake overtaking you; it's intoxicating.

This morning is no different.

"Good morning sweetheart..." he leans down and whispers hotly against the shell of your ear, sending goosebumps down along the back of your neck as your pussy clenches around him, heat flaring in your lower belly. "Time to rise...and...shine..." he punctuated every word with a hard thrust, the sharp plap! of skin on skin echoing in the previously quiet room.

You moan into your pillow, feeling yourself nearly drooling, still half asleep; back arching, hips pushing back against his, Nanami ruts into you as deeply as he can, one hand pressing down against your upper back between your shoulder blades, pinning you down to the mattress. His strong thighs nudge into the back of yours, and you can't help it as your eyes roll back as little hot, almost electric waves crash through your core at the low grunts and huffs he's making above you with each push.

He pushes you down harder as his pace becomes erratic, those soft grunts becoming rumbling growls, mingling with your higher pitched cries as he hits that spot and you're both sent over the edge. With a heavy, low groan you feel his cock twitch and throb inside you, spilling his hot load into your tight walls as he tries to push even deeper.

Your still a shaking mess as he eases up on the hand pinning you down, again leaning close to hum against your ear, "You're such a good girl, wear something light for today, we're going over to your uncle Hiromi's house...now get up," he swats one of his large hands against the curve of your soft ass and you let out a sharp moan, the spot stinging hotly as your pussy throbs...

stepdad!Nanami who later has you pinned up against the wall of your walk-in closet, black boy-short panties pulled down past your cute little ass just enough so that he can shove himself into you from behind, admiring how beautiful your back was as he helped you clasp the strap of your bra.

"Gunna wear that cute little sun dress we both like? Hah...fhhuck...keep squeezin' me like that darlin', that's it...h-hah..." He pushes you harder up against the wall and you freeze, mewling softly as you press your ass back against him, his hand now at the back of your throat. "He's really excited to see you...ah, hah, f-fhuck, fuck gunna fill you all the way up sweetheart, I wanna be dripping out of you before we get there so your uncle doesn't forget who this pretty little pussy belongs to..."

‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶꒒ ꒩ ꒦ ꒰︶︶꒷꒦︶︶꒒ ꒩ ꒦ ꒰︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹

[aila0veyou2death]

HIHIHI!! I saw that requests are on lmao and wanted to request if u can write about a Toga!reader from mha with Mark? I dont have this request well thought out lol but I wanna to read about the reader asking Mark to suck his blood cuz she loves him sm and it's just a way of loving him/wanting to be closer to him. Or maybe how she would be with other variants and their reactions to this?

𝐁𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐛𝐲 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞

𖹭 pairing: invincible/mark grayson x toga!reader (A.K.A everyone's favorite punching bag with savior complex x darling killer who just wants to be loved)

𖹭 TW: NON CON touching, dark content, blood, gore, violence, yandere behavior, deaths, biting, body horror, m4sterbati0n, biting, n3cr0philia?, sadism, knifeplay, love confession, blood kink, (no smut)

𖹭 author's note: hey love, huge thanks for being my very first requester! ♡ I did my best to capture Himiko Toga's personality, but I gave her my own little twist (hope you don't mind!). I really hope you enjoy this fic, even though it's a bit long and messy. Thanks again for the support :P

YOU left a trail of blood and filth in your wake.

It all started with one body—a man in his forties, found slumped against a dumpster in the alley behind Burger Mart. His throat was cleanly slit, his chest torn open, and his heart gone, leaving only a dried smear of blood across his torso. His limbs were stiff and awkward, as if he'd been dropped carelessly. His skin had gone pale, cold, and tight over his bones, drained of every last drop of blood.

He looked like an empty juice box tossed aside without a second thought.

Just another late-night murder in a city built on violence—the kind of death that barely stirred public interest, let alone made the evening news.

The responding officers were clearly unsettled when they arrived. One of them muttered something about how clean the wound was, how deliberate. Another swore under his breath, as the flashlight trembled in his grip. But there were no leads. No witnesses. No surveillance footage. No prints. Just a corpse that looked too neat for a gang hit and too messy for a clean kill.

They did their job, took their photos, wrote their reports, called it in. The word "TASTY" spelled out on the body had been exsanguinated post-mortem, but couldn't confirm the exact method. It was strange, yes—but in a city like this, strange wasn't enough.

They chalked it up to a mugging gone wrong. Maybe organ trafficking. Maybe some unhinged vigilante making a statement. There was no evidence to say otherwise. So they zipped up the body bag, filed the paperwork, and quietly tossed the case into the ever-growing pile of unresolved crimes that were collecting dust in the precinct basement.

It was left unsolved and forgotten.

Until it happened again.

A week later, it was a young woman, barely in her twenties, who was found dead inside the dressing room of a small boutique downtown. She sat on the floor like a broken doll, her back slouched against the wall, chin tilted down as if she was admiring the beautiful, blood-soaked dress clinging to her body. Her skin was covered in tiny crescent-shaped marks, like someone had kissed her over and over with their teeth.

This one caught the attention of the police. It felt off—ritualistic, too personal. But even then, they brushed it off as a one-off. Maybe it was caused by an angry customer in the shop or maybe a jealous friend. Something. They didn't connect it to the man in the alley, not yet. Just another case buried under red tape and assumptions.

But then it happened again.

And again.

And again.

Different corners of the city. Different types of victims. Men. Women. Younglings. Elderlies. None of them seemed to be connected. No shared workplace or relationship. No overlapping habits. But every single one was found the same way—drained, pale, twisted like marionettes with cut strings. Bloodless. Limbs bent into impossible angles. Bite marks blooming across their skin like bruises. Some were stabbed until their organs spilled out in ribbons. Others… seemed to have been used—touched, posed, played with, like toys in some perverted game.

Then the pattern shifted.

And that's when the Global Defense Agency finally got involved.

It wasn't just civilians anymore.

Low-grade heroes began vanishing without a trace. Sidekicks. Interns barely fresh out of training, still grinning with hope, still figuring out how to zip up their suits the right way, disappeared on solo patrols and never came back. At first, it was brushed off as carelessness. A few days passed, then their bodies started showing up.

But it didn't stop there.

Even villains—ones with reputations too terrifying to whisper—started turning up butchered like raw meat. Some were found with their tongues torn out. Others with their chests split open, hearts missing entirely.

There were always messages.

Little tokens of affection left behind at every scene.

Heart shapes drawn in blood—on walls, on floors, sometimes on the bodies themselves. Lipstick kisses pressed onto cold, lifeless throats. And words—carved into skin like poetry, each letter trembling with obsession.

"LOVE ME."

"MINE."

"TOUCH HIM AND DIE."

"PRETTY."

They weren't just killings anymore. They were something darker. Unhinged. A twisted display of violence that made even the most seasoned investigators shudder. There was no clear pattern to follow, but one thing started to stand out—many of the victims were unnervingly attractive. Young, beautiful, desirable. But that wasn't the worst part.

The brutality felt... personal. It was as if whoever was doing this had more than just a need to kill. The manner of the deaths—those intimate, grotesque marks left on the bodies—suggested a perversion, an obsession that couldn't be ignored. It wasn't about justice or revenge. This felt like something far more insidious.

Some even whispered about the killer being a vampire, but no one could explain how such a creature could walk through the city without being noticed. What was clear, though, was the terror each crime scene radiated. Whoever was responsible was insane, driven by something no one could comprehend.

That they didn't care if the victims were heroes, villains, or something in between. Capes, masks, titles—they were all meaningless.

Because this wasn't a killing spree anymore.

This was a love letter.

Written in blood.

Signed with madness.

𖹭 𖹭 𖹭

Invincible.

That very name sent a thrill down your spine every time it was whispered on the news, shouted in panic, or etched into headlines soaked in blood and awe. Invincible. The son of Omni-man. The golden boy born from betrayal.

Everyone knew who he was.

The world called him a hero—sometimes. Other times, they called him a fool. A ticking time bomb. A monster wearing his father's old sins like a second skin, dressed up in bright yellow and blue as if that would cleanse the blood off his name.

But not you. Never you.

You didn't see a monster.

You saw him.

Because once—just once—he saved your life.

The memory of being caught up in the middle of a villain's rampage. Just another face in the panicked crowd. You don't remember much of it—only the weight of rubble above you, the scent of smoke, and the rising certainty that you were about to die.

And then he was there. A blur of colors and blood. Bruised, limping, and barely standing himself.

But yet, he still chose you to save you.

He picked you up with shaking arms and got you out of there. Just for a second, you were cradled against his chest like you were something fragile. Precious even. His heartbeat thundered against your ear. You remember the way he looked down at you—exhausted, bleeding, but alive.

And in that fleeting moment, you believed your life mattered.

To him.

Even if he forgot you the second he flew off to save someone else, that moment stayed with you. Blooming into something deeper than you could fully register.

The hero named Invincible had unlocked something dangerous inside of you.

He's always fighting. Always surviving.

Covered in blood and bruises, barely breathing some days. Even when the world turned against him, even when his own body gave out and he collapsed mid-battle, he always got back up. That's what made you love him. Not his strength. Not the name. But the way he suffered. The way he bled for people who never deserved him. The way he hurt.

And maybe it started there. The obsession. The infatuation. Watching him on grainy livestreams, recording every frame, memorizing the way his fists clenched when he got angry, the way he winced every time he got hurt. You've read every thread, followed every forum. Collected every newspaper and photograph like sacred scripture.

But it wasn't enough.

You needed more.

So you started digging. Slipping into dark corners of the web, bribing black-market info dealers, paying in blood when money wasn't enough. You broke into agency servers, threatened people who got too nosy. You memorized GDA patrol routes, stole files, hacked comms, followed him through the sky when you could.

Until one night, there it was—buried in a corrupted data file deep inside a forgotten hard drive pulled from a broken GDA drone. A name and a face revealed itself.

Mark Grayson.

Your breath caught in your throat.

Mark.

Mark.

He had a name. A home. A life. A history. He wasn't just a fantasy anymore—he was real.

You laughed and cried a little, maybe. Hugged the screen monitor to your chest like it was a love letter. You whispered his name over and over until it tasted like sugar on your tongue. You watched old news clips of his father, paused them at just the right frames to see Mark in the background. You replayed the moments you had once overlooked, tracing his figure on the screen with a gentle touch.

It felt like falling in love all over again—except this time, you were closer than ever to your goal. Closer to making him love you back.

But even then—he still didn't see you.

Because no matter how much you watched, no matter how close you got,

he never looked back.

So you made sure he'd notice.

You stopped holding back.

For the first time, you let the hunger consume you completely. Twenty lives in just under a month. Twenty warm bodies that writhed and begged and bled beneath your hands. You drained them dry, one after another, licking the life right out of their veins as if savoring the last drops of wine at a decadent feast.

Each one tasted different. Some sharp, metallic. Others are sweet like syrup. But none of them were his. None of them made your tongue tingle with that fantasy you've played over and over in your head.

Mark Grayson.

What would he taste like? Would his blood be warm and rich like sunlight, or bitter with the weight of his pain? Would it burn your throat like a guilty pleasure, or melt on your tongue like a secret?

The thought alone made your thighs press together.

You only chose the pretty ones. The ones with soft skin and bright eyes—people who looked like they were built to be adored. People who, in your twisted logic, deserved to die in the warmth of your love. You'd cradle their lifeless faces as their blood soaked your clothes, paint hearts on their cheeks with their own fluids, whisper sweet nothings into their cold, deaf ears.

And when it was over—when their final breath left their lungs and the world went quiet—you didn't stop just yet.

You straddled the corpse while it was still warm, with sticky blood clinging to your thighs as you rocked your hips slowly, teasing yourself on the dead man's body like it was a lover. It wasn't him—but in your mind, it was. It had to be. You closed your eyes and pretended, trembling as your fingers slid between your folds, soaked with arousal and death.

Your slick mixed with blood, dripped down your thighs as you fucked yourself harder—two fingers deep, knuckle-deep, curling and thrusting as you used their cooling body like a prop for your fantasy. You moaned like a slut, voice broken and desperate with your hips grinding in slow, obscene circles. The blood made everything slippery, messy, and perfect.

You pictured Mark pinning you down, his weight pressing into you, his bloodied hands gripping your wrists, voice snarling filth into your ear as he rutted into you like an animal. You imagined the way he'd split you open, ruin you so good you'd cry for it, his cock stretching you while the world burned around you both.

"Fuck—Mark!" you cried out, breath hitching, fingers fucking faster, rougher. "Need you. Need your cock—need your cum—fuck, please—"

Your back arched as your orgasm crashed over you, your cunt clenching around your own fingers while your blood-slicked thighs trembled violently. You sobbed out his name again, drunk on the fantasy, ruined on top of a corpse you barely remembered killing.

You slumped forward, sticky and panting, with your cheek pressed to a cooling chest. You smiled through the tears and mess.

You were getting closer.

Closer to being his.

Closer to making him yours.

Even if it meant drowning the world in red.

𖹭 𖹭 𖹭

Mark knew about the murders.

You'd be living under a rock if you never heard about it. It was all over the news—headlines screaming about bodies found mutilated and drained of blood, left in grotesque, intimate poses that made even seasoned investigators sick. The killings weren't just violent. They felt personal. Victims were left sprawled on the ground, limbs twisted as if reaching for someone who was never coming. Faces frozen in terror, cheeks smeared with blood-streaked fingerprints, like a lover's touch gone horribly wrong.

At first, it was just civilians. Pretty young women. Handsome men. People who had no connection, no obvious reason to be targeted except that they looked like they belonged in a perfume ad or a fashion magazine. Then a couple of low-level villains ended up dead in the same fashion. Then a few heroes and agency interns. One of them was someone Mark knew. Not well, but enough that it knocked the breath from his lungs when he heard their death.

The GDA started getting involved—quietly at first. But Mark noticed them—agents rushing to crime scenes in the darkest corners of the city, murmuring words like "copycat killer" and "blood fetish" under their breath.The vibe around these murders was different. Everyone felt it. And Mark, who was still reeling from his most recent fight, exhausted and still healing, didn't need one more horror to add to his plate.

And then the letters started showing up.

It began with a simple package. No return address. Dropped into his college dorm mail. Mark barely noticed it until he saw the label:

To my darling Invincible ♡

He frowned and opened it. Inside was a small, handmade plushie of himself. Perfectly stitched in that bright yellow and blue colors. Tiny little bloodstains dabbed at the corners, like someone pricked their fingers while sewing it. There was a note folded neatly beneath it—written in looping, pretty cursive on rose-scented paper:

Hii ♡ You don't know me, but I know you! I'm your biggest fan! I watch you all the time and I love everything you do~ You're so strong and brave and amazing, even when you’re hurt... actually, especially when you're hurt. It makes me want to hold you and kiss all your bruises better ♡

You looked so tired and beaten up on the news the other day... seeing you like that made my chest ache. I just wanted to scoop you up and take care of you myself. I hope this little gift keeps you company while you rest! ♡

Please eat well and get lots of sleep, okay? I worry about you sooo much... you mean more to me than anything in the world. I love you so much (>///<)

I'll be watching you always~ ♡

Love forever,

Your #1 fan ♡

No name. No address. No explanation. Just… that.

Mark didn't think much of it at first. Fans existed. Some got weird. He was used to bizarre mail—requests for autographs, drawings, the occasional flirty note. But then came the second letter.

Then the third.

Then the fourth.

That's when things turned strange.

Trinkets started arriving in neat little boxes, tied with delicate pink ribbons. Locks of black hair sealed in plastic. Dried petals soaked in blood, pressed between handwritten pages that reeked of perfume and iron.

Child-like drawings with crayon hearts and stick figures of him and someone else—always a girl with blank, blacked-out eyes and a red smile too wide. They were always holding hands. Always kissing.

Sometimes, he was drawn with a knife in his chest, and the girl crying hearts onto his body.

One package contained a half-burned photograph of him walking out of school in plain clothes—his backpack slung over one shoulder, eyes on his phone. The back reads in smeared ink:

You're so beautiful when you're distracted. I want to be the one who breaks your focus.

Another box had a teddy bear with its head stitched back on, soaked in something sticky and sweet-smelling. A voice recording hidden in its stuffing played a girl humming softly. A lullaby. Twisted and broken by static. But underneath the crackle, he could hear her muttering his name.

And then there were the letters—so many letters.

Covered in lipstick marks, childish doodles, dried blood, and glitter.

They didn't ask for anything.

They only promised to bring him love and devotion. Forever.

I'll be your everything, even if you don't want me yet. I already belong to you.

You looked so tired last night. Gosh, I really wanted to kiss every bruise. Don't worry—I will, one day.

Do you know how many people I've turned down just for you? They begged, but they weren't you. They didn't matter.

Mark didn't say it aloud, but something about it all crawled beneath his skin...

That's when he finally realized.

The gifts weren't addressed to Mark Grayson.

No, they were always for Invincible—but they referenced things only someone who knew his real identity would know. What shirt he wore on campus. Which route he walked home. How he looked when he was too tired to smile. The way he joked with his friends at Burger Mart. What nights he stayed home with his mom, helping her cook dinner because he "owed her a favor."

Details no one should know.

But yet, someone out there knew.

Mark sat at his desk that night, letters scattered across the wood, the room unnervingly quiet around him. He picked up one of the envelopes and turned it over, brow frowning when he caught sight of the kiss mark in blood staining the seal.

Still no name.

Still no hint of who it was.

He leaned back in his chair, staring at the mess of notes and little trinkets piling up.

This wasn't normal. They weren't just a fan. This wasn't just admiration, and whoever this was—they've been watching him. Following him. Studying him. A possible threat.

Mark wasn't scared.

He was pissed off.

And worried.

Because if someone was willing to cross this many lines for him...

What else were they willing to do?

Mark's mind raced with possibilities, ugly scenarios spinning out like spiderwebs. What if they came after his mom? His friends? What if they were already close enough to touch him without him even knowing?

Because sooner or later, Mark knew, he was going to have to face them.

𖹭 𖹭 𖹭

The mission was chaos.

What was supposed to be a simple takedown turned into a battlefield straight out of a nightmare.

Mutated beasts, bigger and faster than anything they'd been briefed for, tore through the abandoned industrial zone.

The new Guardians fought to keep up, but they were scattered, wounded, shouting over broken comms.

Mark barely caught sight of a flash of claws before a massive creature barreled into him, sending him flying like a stone across the concrete wasteland.

The world spun.

He smashed through a wall, skidded across broken asphalt, and lay there for a second, groaning, the night air cold and sharp in his lungs. His body screamed in protest, but he forced himself up, shaking debris out of his hair. His vision swam. Distantly, he heard the others still fighting—but he was cut off, alone.

Stumbling forward, he turned to a corner—and froze.

In the half-lit clearing beyond the broken ruins, a scene of carnage stretched out before him.

One young sidekick—a rookie, barely older than a kid—lay dead in a pool of blood, body twisted unnaturally.

Another sidekick, battered and gasping, feebly tried to crawl away from the figure kneeling over them.

It wasn't a monster.

It was a girl.

YOU sat comfortably in a puddle of blood like it was a warm bath, your head tilted slightly, as you hummed a tune under your breath. Blood soaked your clothes and hands. There's even smudges across your cheek in a careless streak. In one hand, you toyed with a gleaming knife, twirling it lazily between your fingers.

His presence seems to have alarmed you as you looked up in his direction.

Then the moment your eyes locked on his, they lit up like a kid seeing fireworks for the first time.

"Invincible!" You gasped, voice bubbling with giddy excitement. You clapped your bloodstained hands to your cheeks, practically vibrating with happiness. "You're really here! I can't believe it! You're really here! Oh god!"

Mark stiffened instinctively, with his body screaming to move, to do something, but he stayed frozen, caught off guard by the sheer giddiness pouring off you in waves.

You quickly rose to your feet, swaying slightly, with a blood-streaked knife dangling loosely from your fingers. You approached him with a light, almost bouncing step, as if walking on air. Your cheeks were flushed pink, your eyes glossy with tearful joy, your whole body trembling from sheer excitement.

"I'm your biggest fan!" you cried out, your voice quivering with emotion. "I've dreamt about meeting you, about actually talking to you! I was expecting it to be a little more romantic—but that's fine! You're here! You're standing right in front of me! And that's all that matters!" you babbled, the words tumbling over each other in your giddy rush. You looked at him like a little girl seeing her favorite fairytale prince come to life, as if you had just won the most precious thing in the world.

Mark's heart slammed painfully against his ribs.

For a moment, he could only stare at you, the words tripping over themselves in his fogged brain.

Biggest fan.

The letters.

The bloody gifts.

The weird, child-like drawings.

The lock of hair.

He blinked hard, with his mind racing and stomach sinking.

"...Wait," he croaked, voice rough with disbelief. He took a slow, instinctive half-step back. "Wait—don't tell me you're the—the one who's been giving me all those gifts—"

"Yes!!" you burst out, cutting him off, your bloody hands clapping together with a wet, sticky sound. "That was me!! Oh my God, you figured it out so fast! You're so smart, Mark! I always knew you were perfect!" you squealed, bouncing once on the balls of your feet like an overexcited child.

Mark's blood ran cold.

He instinctively shifted another step back, his jaw clenching as his gaze flicked briefly past you—to the bodies sprawled behind you. One unmoving. Another still twitching weakly.

No.

No, no.

He forced himself to focus back on you, his fists tightening at his sides.

"You..." he growled, his voice low and furious now. "You're the one who's been killing people these past few months."

You tilted your head sweetly, your blood-matted hair sliding over your shoulder. You blinked at him with wide, innocent eyes, like he had just asked if you liked puppies.

"Aaand?" you said lightly, letting out a soft giggle that sent a shiver down his spine.

Fuck.

You're insane.

You're dangerous.

And you're obsessed—with him.

He shifted his weight, preparing to strike first, to end this before anyone else got hurt.

But you were faster.

The moment he tensed, you lunged at him with startling speed, the gleaming knife flashing in your hand. The blade, still smeared with blood, arced toward him with wild, giggling energy. At your hip, some strange mechanical device strapped around your waist hissed softly—lined with sharp little needles, twitching and ready.

Mark dodged just in time, but you were relentless, laughing breathlessly, slicing at him with wild abandon. Every time he stepped back, you pressed closer, your face flushed with sheer exhilaration.

"I love you, Mark!!" you gasped between attacks, your voice high and breathless. "I've always loved you! You're my everything! Everything I ever wanted!"

The knife slashed again, grazing his arm—it was not deep, but enough to sting.

And your device sprang to life instantly—a sharp, thin needle shooting toward the wound like a striking snake, trying to drink from the fresh cut.

Mark snarled and slapped it away, stumbling back, panting.

"You're insane!" he snapped, his voice shaking with furious disbelief. "Stay the hell away from me!"

But you only laughed—in a sweet, trembling, horrifying sound, so full of innocent adoration it made his skin crawl.

"I just want to be a part of you." you whispered, clutching the bloody knife close to your chest like a precious love letter. "I want to live inside you, Mark. Right here..." You pressed a bloodied hand flat against your own chest, over your heart, your eyes dreamy and soft. "Inside your ribs, close to your heart... wrapped up in your warmth forever... Isn't that beautiful?"

Mark's stomach twisted.

He had fought monsters before. Aliens. Mutants. Nightmares from beyond the stars.

But this?

This was worse.

This was human. Twisted into something terrifying.

And it wanted him.

You twirled the knife playfully between your fingers, giggling breathlessly, the blood on your face gleaming under the broken, flickering streetlights. "You're just so adorable like this, all bruised and bloody," you cooed lovingly. "I just want to scoop you up and put you in my pocket... keep you safe forever. So no one can ever hurt you again! Wouldn't that be nice, Mark? Only me... Only I get to touch you."

Mark's fists clenched tighter, fury burning through his veins.

He charged at you without thinking—and for a moment you dodged gracefully, almost dancing—before you spun on your heel and lunged, stabbing at him again with the sharp device strapped to your waist.

Mark grunted as he hit the ground hard, the air punching out of his lungs. Before he could even scramble up, you were on him — straddling his hips, pinning him down with surprising strength. Your hands, still sticky with blood, pressed against his chest as you leaned in close, your face flushed, your eyes wide and glassy with adoration.

The needle found a new wound, and it pierced just beneath his ribs—and you let out a shaky, blissful sigh, your whole body shuddering in delight.

"Please..." you whispered desperately, voice trembling with devotion. "Please, just let me have a sip... just a little taste... so we can be connected. So I can be with you forever..."

You gazed down at him, your eyes wide, glassy, pleading.

"Let me live inside you, Mark... inside your heart... inside your blood... I want to be yours forever and ever and ever..."

Mark struggled, growling under his breath, but your grip was surprisingly firm. His body tensed and jerked beneath you, trying to break free, but you clung to him with the desperation of someone who had waited their whole life for this moment. His mind screamed for him to move, to fight, to do something—but there was something stopping him.

Maybe it was the hesitation blooming like a poisonous flower in his chest, a sick, churning knot twisting his guts.

Or maybe it was the blood loss—the slow, awful realization creeping over him as he felt the thin sharp tubes of your device hungrily siphoning more and more of his blood, the warmth of it leaving his body in shuddering waves.

He gritted his teeth, his heart hammering painfully, his vision starting to blur at the edges. His fists clenched into the fabric of your outfit as he tried to push you off, but you only pressed closer, pinning him tighter against the cold concrete with a strength fueled by sheer, manic devotion.

"Get off me...!" he hissed through clenched teeth, his voice low and dangerous—but you only giggled softly in response and that sent fresh chills skittering down his spine.

Your eyes shimmered with feverish delight as you leaned down, your face inches from his. "Not until you love me back..." you whispered, voice quivering with emotion, "and let me have a taste of your blood."

Mark's body jerked weakly beneath you, but you shushed him, your bloody fingers brushing tenderly over his bruised cheek, smearing crimson across his skin like war paint. You smiled widely, trembling with joy—like this was the happiest moment of your life.

Mark squeezed his eyes shut for half a second, gritting his teeth harder, trying to block out the horrible sweetness of your words. He forced his body to move, to react—but the blood loss made everything slow, sluggish, like moving underwater.

The needle of your device slid deeper against his skin, greedily drinking from him, and you let out a soft, breathless sigh of pure bliss, your whole body shuddering from the overwhelming happiness of being this close to him as your dream finally come reality.

"You're mine now." you whispered.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁₊˚⊹ ᰔ

𖹭 please don't repost, publish, or translate this shit anywhere. You don't have the right to do that. Thank you for understanding.

Divider made by @cafekitsune ୨ৎ

author's note: sorry this took forever to finish! I kinda stared at anon's request for a while like "??? Help:)" because this was actually my first time writing a request fic! Thankyou so much for being patient and reading through it!

[seungsluv]

collision

── .✦ content warning : SMUT! MDI!! fem!reader; mentions of drugs; weed; handcuffs; flirting; dubcon (?); explicit sex; kinda enemies to lovers but in a silly girly pop way;

✮⋆˙ pairing: dealer jisung × fem!reader

✮⋆˙ word count: 8,9k

✮⋆˙ synopsis: you were suffering from the pressure of needing to be perfect, so you reached for jisung's help, turns out he helped you in a different way.

✮⋆˙ A/N: heyy!! so... I had this idea and decided to write it! this is my first post and English is not my first language so pls be gentle ;) if you enjoyed it pls reblog and lmk what you think!! ૮ ․ ․ ྀིა

Han Jisung was a disaster — no doubt about it. That messy black hair, that lean but strong body, and that infuriating attitude... But despite everything, Jisung was weird. He always had his headphones on, wore band tees no one knew, and had that distant look in his eyes. Being seen with him could ruin my reputation. So I buried that dark desire — that twisted balance between playing the good girl and craving the loser.

That was six months ago.

Back then, I was considered perfect. Perfect daughter. Perfect student. Perfect girlfriend. But I wasn’t. Or at least, I didn’t feel that way. The pressure they put on me constantly made me question whether all that perfection was real or just a well-constructed mask. Perfection was suffocating. And while I was trying to escape this, I ended up getting close to him.

I was leaning against the wall outside the biology classroom, waiting for the bell to ring. I wanted to find a discreet way to approach Jisung without anyone noticing. When the bell rang, he walked out – eyes down, headphones on, as always. I deliberately bumped into his shoulder, slipping a folded note into his hand, and kept walking as if nothing had happened.

As I walked away, face blank like a well-rehearsed mask, he, on the other hand, took one second too long staring at the crumpled paper in his hand, frowning with that confused expression he always made when something didn’t go as planned. The note said something simple, direct, but impossible to ignore:

"Behind the school. Today. No questions."

And he showed up.

When the final bell rang, I was already behind the schocolate – that hidden corner everyone avoided. The wait felt like forever. It was only when you heard the familiar, off-key roar of his van that your body, against your will, reacted with a jolt of anxiety. I bit my lip, annoyed at myself. He stopped the vehicle and rolled down the window with lazy slowness. His eyes scanned me with an expression that mixed curiosity and disbelief.

“You wanted to talk to me?” he asked, like it was the most unlikely thing in the world, ‘cause it was.

I crossed my arms, keeping my posture firm, even though my heart was racing.

“I hope you can keep this between us.” I walked around, sliding into the passenger seat without waiting for an invitation.

Jisung turned in his seat to face me, one eyebrow raised.

“Okay… that was intense.” He smirked, a little surprised, a little amused. “Planning a kidnapping?”

I let out a short, dry laugh. “If I wanted to kidnap someone, it’d be someone more useful.”

He genuinely laughed this time. A light sound, like he didn’t care about the provocation. I hated that about him. The way he seemed immune to my acidity.

“Touché. So, Ice Queen, what do you want?”

“Drugs.” I said it bluntly, keeping my gaze on the window as if that way would make it all less ridiculous.

“What?” He coughed slightly. “You want… drugs?”

I sighed, turning my face to look at him.

“What did I write in the note? No questions, Jisung. Just drive.”

He let out a muffled laugh when he noticed me glancing around nervously.

“No one saw you, relax. If they had, I think they’d be at the gates with torches and pitchforks by now.”

The drive was quiet, except for some punk band playing softly on the van's radio. In the passenger seat, you tried to pretend I was in control. Jisung, on the other hand, seemed completely at ease — one of those qualities that irritated and intrigued me in equal measure.

The van rumbled on for a few more minutes until he said:

“Huh. Funny. I always thought you hated me.”

“I don’t hate you. I just avoid socializing. Especially with people who are better at it than I am.” My voice came out more honest than I meant it to.

He shot me a quick glance.

“Was that… almost a compliment?”

“More like a ‘don’t piss me off.’”

“Fair enough.” He smiled, eyes back on the road.

Arriving at his place, I walked in without hesitation, my eyes scanning the chaos. Nothing really surprised me: mess, the smell of old wood, cheap incense, weed, and forgotten microwave pizza created a weirdly cozy atmosphere.

“Make yourself at home… or stand there judging my lifestyle, if you prefer,” he said, walking to his room with his hands in his pockets. “Though I should warn you, standing’s way less comfortable.”

I scoffed but sat on the edge of the couch, fingers tapping your leg.

“What is it you actually want?”

“Something to make me stop thinking so much, to turn my brain off. A sedative, a downer… anything to shut my mind up.”

He hesitated. For the first time, he seemed to really see me. Not just with his eyes, but with actual attention.

“...You okay?” he asked.

“No. But I didn’t come here to talk about that,” I answered, cutting it short.

Jisung disappeared down the hallway, and I followed him into the room, watching as he pulled out a kid’s lunch box full of pills, baggies, and lighters. I walked closer, glancing around. His room was the perfect reflection of him: cozy chaos. Posters of indie bands, old video games, a guitar in the corner, and… handcuffs hanging from the closet door.

Seriously, Jisung?

I approached, twirling the cuffs on my forefinger.

“Do you like being tied up or tying others up?” I asked, laughing, but he turned serious.

“Wanna find out?” he replied with a crooked smile, making me freeze for a second.

I hadn’t expected him to fire back. I put the cuffs down, pretending to be indifferent.

He stood up, showing me two bags of pills.

“Let’s see… I have diazepam… lorazepam…” He slowly looked at me. “... Do you even know what these are?”

I didn’t answer right away, but the silence spoke for itself.

“You’ve never used anything, have you, sweetheart?” He said in a tone that was almost… gentle.

I crossed my arms. “What if I have?” I tried to sound confident.

“You’d be asking differently.” He smiled, not mockingly, almost kindly. Almost.

There was a pause where he just watched you. His dark eyes scanned you like he was trying to solve a puzzle. “Want to try something lighter?” he asked, picking a smaller bag. “Weed. Natural. No mixing. I promise you won’t be seeing unicorns… unless you want to.”

I rolled my eyes.

“How much?”

“On the house, princess. Just this once.”

“Can you roll one?”

“Of course.” He pointed to himself. “Full service. I accept silent gratitude.”

I sat beside him, watching as he ground the weed and rolled with practiced ease. It was ridiculous how even this he did so calmly, like he had all the time in the world. I noticed his fingers, his rings, the way he bit his bottom lip while licking the paper to seal the joint.

“Are you gonna just watch or want to learn?” He asked, handing me the joint. I tried, failed and coughed. He laughed.

“Breathe in slowly. Like this.” He was surprisingly patient.

After a few hits, I started to feel lighter, my thoughts quieter. We stayed silent, passing the joint between us, sitting side by side. As the high settled in, the silence between you two shifted — lighter. I looked at the ceiling, then at him.

“Are you always like this?” I asked without thinking, my voice low, a little slurred from the joint still burning between my fingers.

“Like what?” He didn’t look at me right away — just stared at the ceiling like the answer might be written there.

“I don’t know… comfortable with everything. Like nothing affects you.”

He gave a soft chuckle, lips curling around the smoke before exhaling it toward the fan in the corner that barely moved.

“Honestly? I just look like it. I adapted.” He paused, eyes drifting lazily toward mine. “It’s easier to laugh at the mess than get stuck in it.”

I turned my head to look at him, eyes half-lidded. “That's… deep. Wow.” I said, mockingly impressed, taking the joint from his fingers.

He smiled, already expecting the sarcasm.

“Trust me, I hate myself when I say shit like that too.”

We both laughed, and this time the sound didn’t feel so strange coming from me. It cracked something in the air — something that had been stiff and loaded a few minutes ago.

I looked back at the ceiling. The shadows danced there, soft and slow, as if the room had its own heartbeat.

“I think I’m the opposite,” I murmured. “Everyone thinks I’m holding it all together. But really, I’m just duct-taped perfection over a panic attack.”

He glanced at me again, a little longer this time. “That sounds exhausting.”

“It is.” I paused. “But it keeps people off my back.”

“You ever think about letting it fall apart? Just once?”

I let the smoke sit in my lungs a second too long.

“Yeah. I just never thought I’d do it in your bed.”

That made him laugh — loud, genuine, surprised.

“Well,” he said, voice rough from both the weed and the honesty, “if you’re gonna fall apart, might as well do it somewhere messy.”

I looked at him. Not the stoner loser everyone avoided. Not the cocky idiot who flirted like a dare. Just… him. A little ruined. A little sharp around the edges. Real.

And weirdly, I liked that.

“Why do you sell this stuff?” I asked suddenly, not really expecting an answer — just trying to keep the silence from swallowing me whole.

He didn’t look at me. Just stared at the ceiling like it was a question too.

“Because it pays the bills. Because it’s easier than getting a real job. Because it gives me an excuse to meet people who’d never talk to me otherwise.”

I turned my head to look at him. “Like me?”

He smiled, soft and slow. “Exactly.”

I smiled back — barely — and passed the joint back to him.

“Why did you want to stop thinking?” he asked, voice gentler now. “Too much in your head?”

I hesitated. He wasn’t pushing. Just waiting. His eyes didn’t feel demanding. They felt… safe. Still stupidly high, but safe.

“I don’t know,” I said eventually. “I just thought it could help. Everything’s always too loud. Like I have to be perfect. For everyone. All the time.”

He was looking at me now. Really looking. His gaze steady, focused, like I was saying something worth hearing.

And maybe for the first time in a while… I felt heard. I felt seen.

I sighed, the words spilling before I could stop them.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been a natural. At anything. I just try, try and try. And fake it. And force it. I don’t even remember what it feels like to be myself. Whoever that is. I change everything about me — the way I speak, the way I look, the way I breathe — just to fit into places I don’t even like. Just to make people think I’m what they want me to be. And in the end… I’m not anyone.”

The silence that followed stretched a little too long. Long enough for me to regret saying it. I opened my mouth, already preparing to brush it off, to laugh it away like everything else.

But he beat me to it.

“Damn. That was deep.” He blinked, his voice low. “How does your brain sound so poetic and miserable at the same time?”

I laughed — mostly out of relief. “It’s a Taylor Swift lyric, actually.”

“Oh fuck me,” he groaned. “You do look like the type.”

“Uhm? Thank you?” I narrowed my eyes.

“It wasn’t a compliment.

“Go fuck yourself, then.

“I could never fuck myself after talking about Taylor Swift. That’s irreversible damage.”

“You’re ridiculous. I hope you know that.”

He laughed, of course. Like he was proud of annoying me. “I know, I know. We all have our flaws, right?”

“Is yours being insufferable?” I muttered, annoyed but not moving away.

“Don’t act like you don’t like it.”

His voice was softer now. His eyelids heavy. Those stupid round brown eyes blinking slowly like the universe had finally stopped spinning.

I didn’t answer. Just turned back to the ceiling and let the silence settle over us again.

But this time… it didn’t feel heavy. It felt like a pause between two people who finally dropped the act. Like the kind of silence you don’t want to fill — because for once, it’s enough.

The high still lingered. Everything felt slower, softer, louder. My body was still buzzing in places I hadn’t known could buzz. And then reality crept in.

“Fuck, I don’t think that was as pure as you said,” I muttered, half-laughing, half-panicking, my head sinking deeper into the pillow. My heart was still beating like it hadn’t gotten the memo we were done.

He laughed too, breathless, his chest rising slowly next to mine. “I did warn you. You were just too busy being terrifying to listen.”

I closed my eyes, let the afterglow mix with the haze still hanging in my bloodstream. Everything felt soft around the edges — too warm, too quiet, too... peaceful.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, not turning to look at me.

“Good,” I said before I could second-guess it. And then quieter: “For the first time in a long time.”

He was quiet for a second. Then: “You should smile like that more. Without thinking.”

I turned my head toward him, surprised. There was no sarcasm in his voice. Just that calm, low softness he rarely used — like he was saying something real and didn’t want to scare it off.

“You’re not what I thought,” I said, honestly, before I could stop myself.

He finally looked at me. Eyes heavy, but sharp. “What did you think I was?”

“Just another weirdo with no sense,” I smirked.

“Fair.”

“And now?” He asked, still watching me like I might disappear.

I rolled onto my side, propped my head on my arm. “Still a weirdo. But… a cool one.”

He smiled — lopsided and slow — and looked back at the ceiling like it had something to say about us.

“You’re pretty different from what I imagined too,” he said. “Always thought you were boring. Uptight. The perfect girl with the perfect answers.” He paused, eyes still on the ceiling. “But now I think you were just acting the part. For everyone else.”

I didn’t respond right away. Because he wasn’t wrong. And because hearing someone see you like that — so simply — was more intimate than anything.

“Maybe,” I murmured, voice low. “Maybe I was just waiting for a reason to stop.”

He turned to face me again. Not smiling now. Just looking.

“And was I a good enough reason?”

I didn’t answer. Just reached out, pulled the blanket up around us both, and settled back into the silence. Not because I didn’t have anything to say. But because for once, I didn’t need to explain myself. And he didn’t ask again.

The room felt slower now. The smoke had faded, the high turning to a thick, sleepy calm. I closed my eyes, feeling the weight of everything still hovering between us.

Just before drifting off, I heard him whisper, like a secret he hadn’t decided to keep or not: “If you ever want to stop pretending again… come back.”

I didn’t move. Just let the words settle somewhere inside me, warm and dangerous. “I might,” I murmured, barely audible. “If you promise not to fall in love with me.”

He huffed a laugh, sleepy and soft. “Too late.”

I covered my eyes with my arm, still too high to function properly. Everything felt like it was floating — the walls, the sheets, even the weight in my chest.

“I don’t think I can go home tonight.” My voice came out hoarse, like I had borrowed someone else’s mouth. I didn’t mean it as a plea. It was just the truth.

He didn’t hesitate. “It’s okay. You can sleep here. I’ll take the couch.”

That made me lift my arm and look at him. His face was flushed from the heat, the high, the... everything. His hair was messy, the way it always looked better after being ruined.

“You can sleep here,” I said, more tired than bold. “I don’t take up much space.”

He laughed, rubbing a hand over his face. Then he looked at me — actually looked. Not with lust. With something warmer. Softer. “Don’t know if I’ll survive being next to you all night.”

I frowned, confused. “What?”

He shook his head, still smiling. “You get incredibly dumb when you’re high,” He said through a laugh, laying back on the bed.

I blinked at him, trying to process whether I was offended or amused.

Probably both.

I sat up slowly, the blanket I forgot it was around me slipping off my shoulder. The cold air hit my skin, and I shivered without meaning to. “You didn’t seem to mind earlier.”

He looked away for a second, almost shy, which was ridiculous coming from a guy who had just heard me yapping about my life problems.

“I didn’t mind. Still don’t.” Then, quieter: “That’s the problem.”

We fell into silence again. But it wasn’t awkward. It sat between us like a third body — warm, sleepy, honest.

The mattress dipped slightly as I leaned back beside him. My shoulder brushed his. Neither of us moved. He tilted his head toward me. “Do you always let people get this close?”

I shrugged. “I don’t let people do anything. They just don’t try.”

He nodded like that made perfect sense. Maybe, at that moment, it did. “Well… I’m here. Not going anywhere. At least not tonight.”

I looked at him — really looked — and for the first time, I didn’t feel the need to push back.

We lay down, not touching, but close enough to feel each other’s heat. The ceiling stared back at us. The fan clicked in the corner. The air was thick with silence — the kind that meant something had shifted.

And it had.

That’s when he leaned in, face close to mine. Close enough to piss me off, but not enough to do anything about it. Typical.

“Can I kiss you?” His voice was low, slow — like asking was just part of the performance. Like he didn’t already know I’d let him. He didn’t move. Just stayed there, torturing me with his breath and that look, like he was waiting for me to cave.

“You planning on kissing me, or just starting a staring contest?” The taste of the joint still clung to my tongue — bitter and sweet. Just like him.

He gave me that infuriating little smirk — the kind only people annoyingly sure of themselves wear. “You’re surprisingly composed for someone who almost coughed up a lung ten minutes ago.”

“I can still faint.” I run my finger through his hair. “Just not for the reasons you’re thinking.”

He swallowed — and yeah, I saw that. Saw him trying to play it cool.

“What’s the hold-up? Need a signed permission slip from God or something?”

He laughed, short and smug. “Didn’t think golden girls kissed before marriage.”

“Guess I’m overdue for a little sin.”

The kiss came fast, no warning. It was messy, off-balance, hot — everything a kiss should be when you’re too high and too pissed off to care. His mouth tasted like weed and disaster, and I held onto that.

He bit my lip, deliberately, and when a moan slipped out of me, he pulled back just to gloat.

“Ms. Perfect moans? Didn't have that on my bingo card.”

“If you're done being proud of yourself, you could try using your hands.”

He didn’t hesitate. His hands went straight to my waist, gripping like he meant it — rough, grounded, like he wanted to leave proof I’d been there. No gentleness. No question marks. Just skin and pressure and ownership without the label.

Everything slowed. His breath on my neck. The scratch of fabric. The way the mattress dipped under us. I felt all of it. Every tiny fucking thing. He pulled back just a bit, eyes half-lidded, mouth flushed.

“You kiss like someone who skips church and lies about it.”

“I kiss like someone who’s been pretending to be okay her whole life.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Aww. Miss Perfection’s cracking?”

“Don’t flatter yourself. You’re just the nearest distraction.”

“Right. Because clearly I’m a huge threat to your emotional repression.”

I sighed, tired of performing even when I was pissed.

“Tired of your perfect life, huh?” He muttered, in that voice that drips sarcasm like venom.

“Perfect for who? My mom, who thinks good grades equal happiness? The teachers who treat me like a walking GPA? The ex who thought he had me figured out because he bought me coffee and pretended to like indie rock?” I stared at him, deadpan. “I fake it. That’s all I do. Because that’s what they expect. But inside, I’m always one second away from setting everything on fire. They just don’t see it — because I smile pretty.” I gave him a skeptical face.

He didn’t say anything. But the look in his eyes changed. Less mockery. More weight. Like he’d finally caught on.

But I didn’t let the silence turn into something dramatic.

“Don’t look at me like that,” I muttered. “You’re not special. You were just nobody — in a good way — and that’s exactly why I picked you.”

He smiled. This time, not smug. Just… understanding. Like he saw the mess and didn’t mind sitting in it with me.

I rolled my eyes, exhaling like the weight in my chest didn’t just get louder.

“God, you’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” My tone was dry, flat, like armor. “Careful. You almost look like you give a shit.”

He raised an eyebrow, unbothered.

“You say that like you didn’t just pour your trauma out on my face five minutes after sucking it.”

I stared at him.

He stared back.

Then added, quieter — but not soft: “Maybe I do give a shit. So what? You gonna run or insult me again?”

I leaned in slightly, eyes locked on his like I was about to expose another one of his carefully hidden flaws.

“Run? Please.” I smirked. “Why would I run from a guy who gets emotionally attached after one blowjob?”

His mouth opened like he had something to say — but nothing came out. I watched the hesitation flicker behind his eyes. It only made my grin sharper.

“Relax. I won’t ruin your reputation. Your secret's safe with me, Romeo.”

He blinked, half offended, half aroused. And for a second, he looked like he might kiss me just to shut me up. Which, honestly, would only make things worse for him — and for me.

I tilted my head.

“Unless you want me to be gentle now. Is that it?”

He let out a dry laugh, no real humor in it — just teeth. “You really don’t know how to shut up, do you?”

I raised an eyebrow, daring him to keep going. He leaned closer, too close, eyes dark and sharp. “You talk like you’re untouchable. Like none of this means anything.” He scoffed.

“But if I kissed you right now, you’d fall apart in my hands again, and we both know it.”

My breath caught, just for a second — and he saw it. Of course he did.

“Go ahead. Prove me wrong,” He added, voice low, taunting. “But you won’t. Because you liked it. You liked not pretending for once.

He was close enough now that I could feel the tension between us crackling — not soft, not romantic. Charged. Dangerous. “So go on, princess. Say something clever.”

I kissed him like I was trying to silence everything. My doubts. My anger. The noise in my head that never shut up.

His mouth was warm and reckless, matching mine. It wasn’t about sweetness — it was need.

"You really have no idea what you're asking for," I whispered against his lips, already breathless.

"Oh. I do." His hands slid to my back, and I hated how easily he made me forget myself.

For a second, I pulled away, just enough to look at him. “What exactly makes you think I'm worth your time?” I asked, my voice laced with sarcasm.

He smirked, clearly amused. “Because, unlike you, I don’t overthink everything.”

That answer shouldn’t have worked. But it did. Because deep down, I was tired of being the girl people expected — and he wasn’t expecting anything. He was just there, wild and flawed and irritatingly real.

I took a deep breath and let it all go. The fear, the rules, the performance.

And then I kissed him again — not for escape this time, but to finally feel something that was mine.

I grabbed the collar of his shirt and crashed my mouth against his, hard. No hesitation, no softness. I kissed him like I wanted to hurt him. Like I wanted to erase every version of myself that had played by the rules. My teeth caught his bottom lip, and I didn’t care when I tasted blood — or maybe it was mine.

He let out a surprised sound, something between a groan and a laugh, but I didn’t give him room to speak. My hands tangled in his hair, yanking just enough to make his breath hitch. His fingers had started to slide to my hips, but I pinned them down against the bed cushion.

“Not yet” I whispered, hovering over his lips, breathless.

His eyes widened slightly, dark and glazed, the kind of look that begged. But I wasn’t here to beg.

I kissed him again, slower this time, dragging it out. My tongue moved against his like I was learning him, claiming him. Every touch was deliberate. Every second, I felt more alive — like my skin was buzzing under the weight of control. The power shift was electric. He melted into it, into me, and I loved that. Loved the way he stopped trying to take over. Loved that he let me burn.

When I finally pulled back, his lips were red, slightly swollen, his breath uneven.

“Holy shit,” He muttered, dazed.

“What is it? You like being bossed around or something?” I said, voice low and steady.

He smiled, something lazy and reverent in it. “Ah yes, ma’am.”

He said “Yes, ma’am”, and that should’ve broken the tension — turned it into a joke. But it didn’t. It just made something snap inside me.

My fingers gripped his jaw. “You talk too much.”

His breath hitched, eyes flicking down to my mouth again. “And yet, you’re still here.”

I kissed him again, rougher this time. My hand slid under his shirt, nails scraping skin, earning a sharp gasp. I smiled against his lips — a wicked smile, one that tasted like control.

“You’re kind of terrifying when you’re like this.” He said panting.

“Don't act like you don't like it.”

I pulled his shirt over his head in one move, not caring when it caught on his elbow again. He laughed, stupid and breathless. I saw the skinny body, the chest marked by old acne scars and a poorly done tattoo that looked like an alien holding a guitar.

I shoved him backward until he fell onto the bed with a soft thud. I stood over him for a second, breathing heavily, eyes dragging down his chest, down to that ridiculous tattoo.

“Is that an alien tattoo?” I asked, staring at the deformed figure on his shoulder.

“It's a rocker alien. Done by a drunk friend.”

“That’s even worse up close” I said, smirking.

“I was drunk. And fifteen.”

“You’re still an idiot.”

“You're terrible at foreplay.”

“And you're terrible at tattoo choices.”

“And yet you're on top of me in my bed. Paradoxical. “And you’re still fully dressed. Which seems unfair, considering how bossy you are.” He emphasizes.

“You don’t get to make demands. Just lay there and shut up.”

And he did.

I was still on top of him, knees on either side of his hips, hands pressed flat against his chest. He looked like he was about to say something, then hesitated. I raised an eyebrow.

"Gonna speak, or just keep drooling?"

He laughed, breathless, that dazed look still in his eyes.

"It’s just... I didn’t expect this from you."

"Didn’t expect what?" I leaned in closer, my hair falling to one side, my lips almost brushing his. "That I’m more than a perfect little checklist?"

"I expected you to be perfect. Untouchable. Annoying." He smiled, but there was something honest behind it. "Now I just think you’re dangerous. In the best possible way."

I let out a low laugh and bit the corner of his mouth, just enough to make him flinch.

"So you’ve got taste after all." My hand slid down to the waistband of his jeans, slow and deliberate. "And what if I really am dangerous?"

"You are." He closed his eyes for a second, inhaling sharply. "But I’ve never wanted to get hurt this badly."

I paused, watching him — vulnerable, breathless, completely mine, and not because I forced it.

He laid back, watching me with that maddening mix of curiosity and anticipation. I could feel his breath catching even though he tried to look relaxed.

He wasn’t.

Not anymore.

I slid my sweater uniform off in one slow movement, not to tease — not exactly — but to make sure he saw me. Not just my body, but the choice. That I was there because I wanted to be.

His gaze darkened the second my shirt hit the floor. I watched him watching me. His chest rising a little too fast, lips slightly parted. I didn’t rush. I hooked my thumbs into the waistband of my skirt and let it slide down my legs.

“Holy shit,” He muttered, leaning back on his elbows and straing, like the words escaped without permission.

“Don’t talk,” I warned. “Just watch.”

I stepped out of the skirt and unclasped my bra, tossing it carelessly at his face. He caught it with one hand but didn’t dare break eye contact. Not once.

“You still hide all this under that ridiculous uniform?” He asked, voice low, rough.

“Guess I like zero expectations.”

He grinned, but it was shaky — off balance.

Good. I wanted him undone. I wanted him unprepared.

I straddled him slowly, letting my thighs press against his semi hard erection, my hands on his chest. I felt his heart beating wild under my palms.

“Still think you’re in control?” I whispered.

“I surrender,” He breathed, eyes locked on mine. “Completely.”

I leaned down, letting my lips brush his, but not giving him the kiss. Not yet. “You should.”

Then I kissed him again — deeper this time. Slower. And everything else fell away. The noise. The rules. The fear. There was only heat, skin, and the sound of him falling apart under me.

But then his grip on my hips tightened—no hesitation this time. In one swift motion, he rolled us over, his body pressing me down into the mattress. His thigh slid between mine, grinding up deliberately, and the friction pulled a soft gasp from my throat. I arched instinctively, and he caught my wrists, pinning them above my head with one hand. The other traced down my side, painfully slow.

“You were saying something about control?” he murmured against my neck, lips brushing skin already too warm.

I let out a low breath, the air suddenly heavier.

“Too much for surrender,” I muttered.

He smiled, dark and slow. “Changed my mind.”

I smirked, my chest rising and falling with quick breaths. His lips were just a breath away, but I didn’t give him the satisfaction of a kiss — not yet. His gaze was so intense, like he was lost in me, unsure whether to give in or keep fighting.

I let out a low chuckle, voice sharp with irony. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m indulging you.”

The air thickened between us, charged with frustration and desire. His eyes flickered, losing some of that confident control he’d tried to hold onto, his body betraying him as he hovered, waiting.

“Are you going to keep staring, or are you going to do something useful with your mouth?”

He didn’t answer. He just went down, using tongue and teeth. Not subtle at all. Every lick was a challenge, every bite a warning. And I felt alive. Burning. His hands and lips explored me with almost frantic curiosity, as if he couldn't believe the realness of the moment. Each touch felt like an electric current, sending shocks of pleasure through me.

He slid my panties off slowly, his finger brushing up my leg, tracing the length of my thigh before finally reaching the place he knew would make me tremble. He paused there, his face hovering between my legs, just looking. For far too long. His gaze was like fire, but he didn’t move, didn’t touch.

“Are you going to pray or...?” I teased, voice barely a whisper, the air thick with anticipation.

“I’m just admiring the miracle,” he replied, his voice husky, barely controlled. “Trying to understand how the straight-A student turned into this apocalyptic vision of desire in my bed.”

“The weed is hitting hard, isn’t it?” I smirked, my body humming with the need for more, but I wanted him to keep looking, to stay in this moment of uncertainty.

“It’s hitting everything,” he muttered, his eyes never leaving me. There was a hunger in them now, darker than before.

I let out a cynical sigh, rolling my hips slightly in impatience. And then, finally, he moved. His tongue touched me, tentative at first, exploring, but it didn’t take long for his curiosity to turn into something deeper. The strokes were slow but purposeful, the heat of his breath mingling with mine. His tongue found my spot, and though there was no finesse, no delicate dance — it was enough. The rawness of it, the hunger in his touch, was almost overwhelming.

I moaned loudly, a mix of pleasure and disbelief. And then, somehow, I couldn’t help but laugh. The absurdity of it all, the way he looked so lost, so desperate, trying to keep his composure while devouring me like a man starved for far too long.

“Don’t laugh, damn it.” He groaned, frustration making his grip on my hips tighten. His fingers dug into my skin as he held me still, keeping me exactly where he wanted me.

“It’s just that you look like a hungry dog discovering that food exists,” I teased, my voice barely a whisper between the breaths. I could see the shift in his eyes, a mix of irritation and amusement. But his mouth didn’t stop moving.

He raised his face from between my legs, lips glistening, and his eyes were darker now, a challenge in them, but there was something more — almost as if he didn’t know how far he could push before I broke.

He hesitated, his breath ragged, but I didn’t give him time to recover. I grabbed his hair, tugging hard, pulling him back to me, needing more, feeling the fire between us burn too hot to ignore.

“Ah… damn, Jisung…” My voice cracked with the intensity, my body arching up, unable to stay still any longer.

“Now we’re talking,” He grinned against my heat, his voice thick with satisfaction, but there was a warning in it too. “The saint knows how to curse.”

He didn't stop. His hands moved to my hips, holding me firmly as he kissed his way back down, his mouth now more determined, more insistent. Every movement was calculated, controlled, but the hunger behind it was undeniable. His grip tightened on my hips, pulling me harder against him, each stroke of his tongue sending shocks of pleasure through me, igniting every nerve.

His free hand slid down, fingers dragging over the curve of my ass like he was memorizing the shape, before gripping my hips harder — tight enough to bruise. He pulled me even closer, like the space between us was unacceptable. His mouth stayed locked on me, relentless, like he had no intention of letting me breathe, let alone think.

His pace quickened, tongue moving with a hunger that felt personal, almost angry. I could barely keep up. My legs trembled, my entire body shaking with a need that felt like it might rip me apart from the inside.

I fisted his hair tighter, yanking him closer with no shame, my voice coming out in a raw, broken whisper. “Don’t stop…”

It was more of a threat than a plea.

I arched off the bed, hips grinding into his face, needing more friction, more pressure — more. His tongue worked in rhythm with the movements I forced on him, each glide of his nose and teeth sending shocks straight through me. I whimpered, the sound helpless and filthy, echoing through the room like something sacred being ruined.

“Fuck, please, Ji…”

The moment his name slipped out like that — cracked and needy — he moaned into me. The vibration made me jerk, thighs snapping around his head like a vice, trapping him there. I didn’t care. He didn’t complain.

His tongue slid in and out, slower now, teasing, dragging me along the edge on purpose. He knew exactly what he was doing — and he liked that I was unraveling for it.

My hands were tangled in his hair, pulling, clutching — like if I let go, I’d fall apart completely.

Then suddenly, he stopped. Just pulled away.

“No—” I groaned, frustrated, chasing his mouth with my hips. But he was already rising, his face slick, flushed, lips swollen. His eyes caught mine.

They were wild. Dark. And annoyingly satisfied. Like he’d just won something.

His mouth glistened, and there was that damn look again — not just lust, but *pride*. Like he liked seeing me like this: desperate, wrecked, and still trying to act like I wasn’t.

And the worst part?

He was right.

“Want to continue?” he asked, like he didn’t already know the answer. Like he wasn’t reading it right off my face.

“If you stop now, I’ll kill you.”

He practically tripped over himself getting his pants off, stumbling like a drunk idiot, nearly face-planting off the bed. I couldn’t help it — I laughed.

“Sexy. Super sexy.”

“Shut up,” he muttered, crawling back up and pinning me down with his full weight, his hands braced on either side of my head. “You talk too much.”

“And you take too long.”

Our bodies moved like they’d had this conversation before — long before we ever did. Like this rhythm had always been waiting, just under the surface. We didn’t need to find it. We were already in it.

The condom appeared, wrinkled and half-lost in the mess of clothes and blankets. Even stoned, with our fingers barely cooperating, we managed. Barely.

“You took so long I thought you were impotent.”

“I just didn’t want to scare the princess with the size.”

“Hmm. More like the economy version.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

“That’s what I’m trying to do.”

He bit down on my shoulder with a laugh — muffled, breathy — and then he pushed in all at once, not gentle, not slow. Just full contact. No hesitation.

I gasped — loud, sharp — and gripped the sheets like they might keep me grounded. But they didn’t. Nothing did.

The weed made everything stretch. Every sensation melted into the next — the drag of skin, the burn of stretch, the electric crackle in my stomach. Every second felt soaked in heat. My brain couldn’t keep up with my body. I didn’t care.

He started slow, almost hesitant, like he was still mapping out how we fit. But his eyes didn’t leave mine — wide, dark, blown-out with something between awe and disbelief.

Like he couldn’t figure out how we got here.

Each thrust landed heavier than the last, turning pain into pleasure fast — too fast — and I welcomed the burn. It made everything else shut up.

“You’re looking at me again.”

“It’s just that… you’re fucking beautiful.”

He panted.

“Even with that face like you’re gonna kill me after.”

“I probably will.”

His rhythm picked up — sloppy, intense, all heat and friction. Our skin stuck together with sweat, the sound of it obscene in the room. Every push sent a wave up my spine. Every time he bottomed out, I felt a piece of me melt into his.

It wasn’t tender. It was needy. Like we were using each other to survive something neither of us could name.

My nails raked down his back. I didn’t hold back. I wanted him to feel it tomorrow.

He laughed, shaky, breath hot against my cheek.

“Marking territory?”

“Trying to erase your questionable past.”

He thrust harder after that, like he took it personally. Good. I wanted him to.

We moved without coordination — a mess of hips and mouths and limbs. High. Sticky. Laughing between moans. No elegance, just raw want. The kind of sex that’s louder than it should be and too much and still never enough.

“This is so wrong,” I whispered, almost laughing.

“So right,” he replied, panting against my lips, his breath unsteady. “You should’ve come after me earlier.”

“I would’ve… if you weren’t so you.”

He laughed — then choked on it when I clawed down his back again.

He pushed deeper, harder, every thrust punching the air out of my lungs, driving me deeper into the mattress. My body locked around him, tight and slick and restless. I couldn’t find my voice anymore — just gasps, broken syllables, half-formed curses.

He groaned into my neck, his mouth sliding down, trailing heat, teeth scraping over my skin. Then he found my breast, and sucked hard, messy, desperate — like he was trying to brand me with his mouth. I arched, sharp and instinctive, grinding against him, my hips searching for more, even when there was nothing left to take.

Our rhythm had collapsed into chaos — not smooth, not perfect. But real.

It was a high all on its own.

We changed positions amidst laughter and stumbles, nearly falling off the bed in the process. Our limbs tangled, breathless and high, like we were trying to outrun gravity. He pulled me from behind, hands gripping my waist tight — too tight — like he was afraid I’d slip away if he didn’t hold on with everything he had.

Our hips collided with that same obscene rhythm — raw, wet, uncoordinated, but so good. The kind of rhythm that wasn’t about beauty. It was about need.

“You moan so beautifully I should record this,” he said, voice thick with ego and breath.

“You should shut up before I kick you out of your own bed.”

His breath hit the back of my neck, hot and sticky. Then one of his hands slid between my thighs — fingers bold, confident, slipping between folds slick with everything we were. He found my spot like he’d been there before in a dream, pressing just right, just enough to steal my balance.

“Fuck, just like that…” I gasped, breath hitching hard. My body lurched forward as he worked me with his fingers, the rhythm between us turning rougher, messier.

“The saint is becoming a heretic.”

“Shut up and make me come.”

I barely recognized my own voice. It was too raw, too exposed.

“This is good, right?”

He was panting now, voice hoarse, hands gripping my hips tighter, dragging me back into him harder, faster.

“Of course. I’m just waiting for you to put in a little more effort.”

That did it. His grip shifted, and suddenly he pulled me upright, his arm tight around my torso, forcing me to sit on top of him. It wasn’t gentle. It was possessive. Fast. Almost clumsy in his rush to feel me again in a different way.

I settled on him easily, like I belonged there. Our bodies aligned in seconds, and he slipped back inside — hot, hard, perfect. My hips rolled instinctively, slow at first, dragging over him with measured pressure.

He looked stunned — wide-eyed, flushed, lips parted — like he didn’t expect it to feel *this* good. That made me smile. I leaned in, letting my breath graze his ear.

“At this point, just admit you like me being in control.”

He didn’t flinch. Just stared — glassy-eyed, helpless under me.

“I like how you feel in charge,” he muttered.

“It’s like… you actually know what you're doing.”

I started to move faster, testing the rhythm, building it with each roll of my hips. I felt every twitch of him inside me, every sound he tried to swallow but couldn’t. His eyes never left my body — fixed, entranced, like watching me fall apart while holding the leash.

His thrusts were softer now, less certain, as if he was waiting — giving me room, letting me take. His hands hovered at my hips again, then clamped down, trying to slow me.

I didn’t let him.

I pressed down harder, grinding against him with more intent, chasing the friction, chasing that point where the line between pain and pleasure disappears. I was burning — thighs shaking, nerves screaming. The high made it feel like I was moving underwater, slow but unstoppable.

He tried to meet my rhythm, tried to guide it — but I wasn’t giving that up.

“What’s wrong?” I said, between breaths. “Not enjoying?”

“Of course I am,” he muttered, voice strained. “You just don’t know what you’re doing.”

I leaned forward, close enough to brush my mouth over his ear.

“You just hate that you like this,” I whispered, almost cruel. “I can feel you throbbing inside me.”

He groaned, broken and loud. His hands slid lower, gripping my ass, pulling me down harder. His hips began to buck up with more urgency — not enough to take over, but enough to fight back. Just barely.

The tension between us snapped taut — the balance of power shifting and pulling with every movement. Control. Surrender. Want. Pride. Everything colliding in our bodies like it had nowhere else to go.

He pushed me back onto the bed, fast and rough, like he couldn't take the lack of control anymore. My body arched with the impact, the movement pushing him deeper inside me — sharp, sudden, right. The stretch of him hit just the right spot, and I gasped, my breath catching on the way out.

He slid back in easily, as if my body had molded itself around him, the fit seamless, filthy, perfect. His hands clamped around my waist like he owned it — like he needed to hold me down just to stay grounded.

He picked up the pace. No more teasing. The thrusts were quick, relentless, each one sending shockwaves through me, making my breath come out in broken moans I couldn’t hold back anymore.

“Is this what you want?” he whispered, voice shredded, thick with need.

“Deeper.” I pull his hair again.

His gaze darkened, and the smile that curved his mouth was wicked — not playful anymore, but almost dangerous.

“You have no idea what you’re asking for.”

And then he gave it to me.

His pace turned brutal — fast, deep, every thrust pushing the air out of me like a punch to the lungs. I could feel his muscles flex with every movement, his body grinding into mine like he couldn’t get close enough, like he wanted to disappear inside me.

I couldn’t hold myself together. Couldn’t even pretend. The pressure inside me was twisting tight, coiling with every snap of his hips, building into something that felt like it might burn me alive from the inside out.

He leaned down, his weight pressing me into the mattress, one hand gripping my hip to hold me still, the other sliding up to my chest — fingers spreading, squeezing, grounding me in the chaos.

Then, like he sensed I was right on the edge, he changed the rhythm — deeper, slower, crueler. The drag of him inside me made my eyes roll back, and I whimpered, head falling to the side, hands flying to his hair, yanking hard.

“That’s it…” I breathed, barely able to form the words. “Fuck, don’t stop.”

He laughed, but it cracked halfway through — a broken sound, desperate, strained. His rhythm faltered for a second, like he was trying to hang on, but failing beautifully.

He grabbed my thigh suddenly, pulling it up, pushing it higher until my leg was draped over his shoulder. The new angle made everything sharper, fuller, deeper. He fucked into me like the world had disappeared — like nothing existed beyond the heat of our bodies crashing, the friction, the sound of skin on skin echoing through the room.

I couldn’t think. Couldn’t speak. Just moved with him, wild and instinctive, chasing that edge like I’d die if I didn’t reach it. My hands clawed at his back, his arms, whatever I could find. My mouth was open, breath shallow, moans spilling out uncontrollably.

The sound of it all — my voice breaking, his low groans, the obscene slap of our bodies — was overwhelming. And perfect. It felt like this was what my body was made for. To be here. With him. Like this.

And then he slowed.

I didn’t expect it. One moment he was pounding into me like a fucking storm, and the next — he was moving slower, deeper, every thrust long and punishing, dragging pleasure from the pit of my stomach until I couldn’t breathe. But there was nothing gentle about it.

It was control. Intensity. The kind of fucking that says I want to ruin you.

And he did.

When I came, it was with a choked, guttural moan that ripped straight from my chest — no filter, no control. My whole body convulsed, shaking underneath him as the pressure finally shattered. My nails dug into his skin, holding on for dear life.

He came right after — buried deep, panting against my neck, body twitching as he spilled inside the condom. His breath was hot against my skin, and he was smiling. That lazy, fucked-out smile that made him look half-gone, half-proud of himself.

The world was quiet after. Too quiet. The kind of silence that feels earned. Heavy with sweat, breath, and something neither of us could name.

When I turned to face him again, still dizzy, still buzzing, he was a wreck — sweat dripping down his temples, hair sticking to his forehead, chest rising and falling in uneven bursts. He looked at me like I was a mistake he wanted to make again and again, until it didn’t feel like one anymore.

Then he collapsed onto me — heavy, warm, skin still damp, the full weight of him pressing our chests together. His breath ghosted over my collarbone, shaky and hot.

“That was…”

“…amazing.”

“Horrible.” I said at the same time as him.

“I want to do it again.”

“Me too.”

We shifted to the side, limbs tangled, our bodies still slick and stupidly close. The sheets stuck to our skin, the air smelled like weed and sex. And we laughed.

Not because anything was funny. But because we were high, and spent, and had no idea what the hell just happened.

The sex felt like a slow-motion crash — chaotic, messy, half-graceful in that stoned, instinctive way. Our bodies had found each other like magnets with no real aim, just urgency. Every movement had been clumsy and loud and *so* real. There were teeth, gasps, stupid moans, out-of-sync kisses, sweat dripping into places it didn’t belong — and none of it was perfect.

That’s what made it work. That’s what made it feel like we weren’t pretending anymore.

“I should regret this.”

“But you won’t.”

“Not today. Today I just want to forget that tomorrow I'll be succumbed to the same chaotic mediocrity.”

He rolled onto his back, one arm lazily reaching for me.

“With me, you can just be… chaotic. And naked.”

“Ideal combination.”

He pulled me closer until my cheek met his chest. His skin was still too warm, still pulsing from what we’d done. His heartbeat thumped against my ear — uneven and fast. I let myself rest there. Just for a second.

The silence between us was thick, but not awkward. More like… surrender.

“You're going to hate me tomorrow, right?” he mumbled into my hair, voice quieter now, stripped of its usual sarcasm.

“If you tell anyone, for sure.”

“Who would I tell? The tattooed alien?”

“He seems more reliable than you.”

“You’re not reliable either. You’re here. Naked. Screwing the weird kid from school.”

“Because the weird kid from school is the only one who seems real enough to really screw me.”

That shut him up for a second.

When he turned to look at me again, his eyes were red-rimmed, half-lidded from the high, and his mouth was still swollen — bitten and bruised from too much kissing. Or maybe not enough.

“If this is a dream, don’t wake me up.”

“This is a collective delusion caused by drugs and accumulated frustration.”

He smirked, but didn’t deny it. We lay there in the aftermath — sweaty, naked, exhausted — and yet completely still. No rush. No talking. Just breathing the same air like it wasn’t borrowed time.

His voice broke the quiet one last time.

“Let’s use the handcuffs next time?”

I didn’t answer right away. I just turned my face toward him slowly, one eyebrow raised, lips twitching with the threat of a smirk.

“You say that like I wasn’t already thinking about it.”

[cabintenangel]

filling in the blanks as we go

jason grace x roman!reader ♡

author’s notes ౨ৎ part two of this jason fic! i also posted this last year and after this part it’ll all be new writing 😋 enjoy

disclaimers ౨ৎ nothing really, a bit of swearing and pop culture references LOL :)

You liked to think of your life as pretty normal.

Training sessions, mythology studies, war games, the usual. In your free time, you would hang out with your friends, visit New Rome, read books, listen to music, and occasionally sneak out to the mortal world.

But the praetor pretending to be your boyfriend? That was new.

Walking out of Cyclops Books, you thought about what to do next. You’d just finished baking the cupcakes with Tyson, and he’d let you take the extras home. You were planning to share them with Piper and relay the recent events, since who was better to tell than the daughter of love?

Just then, you saw your SPQR tattoo emanate a dark purple glow – the sign to return to barracks immediately.

A few months ago, the Council had proposed that all probatio and those of higher ranking have some way to be alerted if there was an emergency. In response, the praetors had worked with the children of Vulcan to design a little chip that would be placed underneath one’s forearm skin. It was connected to a special device that could activate a color change to the Camp Jupiter purple when needed. Probatio didn’t have tattoos yet, so they got the smallest (and least painful) chips, while other rankings received slightly larger ones so all their SPQR markings lit up. It was nasty to get them inserted, but if anyone complained, Reyna would list off a variety of unpleasant situations where they might be killed if they didn’t have the system. If anyone chose to ignore the alert, they were guaranteed to drop a rank.

You hurried back to the New Rome entrance and exit area. Upon seeing your glowing tattoo, Terminus (surprisingly) made no judgemental comments and ushered you out of the city. At least, you thought he did. It was hard to tell, since he had no arms.

As you headed inside the official campgrounds, you spotted a circle of worried-looking demigods waiting near the barracks. The two praetors as well as Hazel, Frank, Percy, Annabeth, Grover, and another boy you didn’t know were at the front, urgently discussing something in hushed tones. You suddenly realized that this probably had to do with the reason Jason had abruptly left Cyclops Books – something about needing to help out a soldier?

Piper, Leo, and Nico were all gathered near their friends, but the two groups weren’t speaking. Piper had her arms crossed and was talking to Leo as he nodded along.

You rushed to them, out of breath. “Hey. Do you guys know what’s going on?”

Leo shook his head. “No. We tried asking them about it, but they said they’d tell us soon enough. We didn’t push it any further, since they seemed really stressed. Honestly, considering the last time this alert was triggered, it’s probably nothing too serious. Gods, that was embarrassing. People can’t even enjoy Sabrina anymore, man.”

(Last time, Frank had caught Leo at a party dancing shirtless on top of a table while Espresso by Sabrina Carpenter played. The big guy panicked and sent out a signal to the entire camp. After that incident, Reyna banned him from using the device any more.)

Piper looked at you and grinned mischievously. “Speaking of Jason, he’s been glancing at you a lot since you arrived. Anything you want to tell me?” You almost choked on air.

Nico sighs. “Just because a person looks at another person doesn’t mean there’s something between them, Piper. We’re not all like you and Shel who give each other heart eyes when you’re not sitting together at the campfire.”

“Can’t a girl admire her beautiful and perfect girlfriend? Anyway, stop pretending you and Solace weren’t staring at each other like forbidden lovers last night just because you were on different Monopoly teams–”

“That’s different!”

“Oh, are you being sexist right now? You clearly haven’t unlearned the ways of the 1930s–”

“Attention!” Reyna’s firm voice silenced everyone in the area. “We have assembled here today due to a missing young soldier from the Fifth Cohort. We have good reason to believe she is in the woods just beyond the Field of Mars. With the help of Jake Mason, a son of Hephaestus from Camp Half-Blood–” She gestured to the boy that had been talking to their group earlier. “–we plan to send two soldiers as scouts.”

Whispers broke out among the demigods when Reyna said the last bit. They didn’t last long, however; Aurum and Argentum barked furiously, which was enough to make people listen.

The praetor continued. “Recently, we’ve discovered that more than one individual may have an empathy link as long as a satyr is involved, so we plan to set up one between the two soldiers and Grover Underwood here in case any danger is encountered on the way. Jake has found an old device that scans brain similarities: thought process, frequent emotions, cognitive functions, and so on. We will select the individuals with the most alike minds so the empathy link takes up the least energy. Please gather in a line for this assessment.”

You and your fellow campers (plus Reyna’s group) quickly did as she said, and Jake came around. The machine was pretty simple – it looked a little like those no-touch forehead thermometers a doctor in the mortal world would use. The purpose was entirely different, though, as with any demigod contraption. Everyone was a little restless until the son of Hephaestus tested himself and announced the results.

He cleared his throat before saying, “The two soldiers are–” He pointed at you. “Uh, what’s your name? Sorry.”

Stunned, you told him.

He nodded. “Ok. You and Praetor Grace will go to the woods together.”

You didn’t dare look at Piper.

“Are you sure you’ve got everything?” asked Nico, his voice full of concern.

You gave him a small smile. “Yes. You really didn’t have to pack for me, you know. I could have done it myself.” The empathy links had been set up and you were just about to leave.

He rolled his eyes. “Yes, I’m aware. You’re very independent. Just let me do this one thing. For all we know, this trip is a death wish.”

“Very motivating, Nico,” Piper said dryly. “No but seriously, stay safe out there. And don’t have too much fun with Jason. You are on a professional mission, after all.” She winked.

Now you rolled your eyes. “Pipes, you need to let that go.”

You caught a whiff of something that smelled like… clean laundry? Turning around, you found yourself looking at a certain blonde boy, except this time he was wearing a dark blue New Rome University hoodie and a silver dog tag necklace on top, paired with baggy gray cargo pants.

He really had to stop sneaking up on you like that.

“Um, hi. You ready to go?” Jason’s voice was a little rough, like he’d been talking for a while and was now tired.

You nodded and waved to your friends. “Bye, guys.”

For the first ten minutes or so, it was painfully awkward. As you two walked to the woods, the only sound was chatting from the barracks and the crunchy gravel underneath your feet. When you reached your destination, nothing much changed apart from instead hearing the crickets sing and the leaves rustle. You were also half-expecting a monster to pop out of nowhere – there was a reason people avoided this grove.

Venus was probably having the time of her life watching.

“I feel like I owe you an explanation.”

You looked at Jason, startled.

“It was kind of a dick move to just throw that whole boyfriend thing on you. I wasn’t thinking, and now we’ve got to commit to this act, and now you’ve got to lie to your friend, and go on a whole fake date with me, and it’s really all my fault, sorry. If you’re mad, that’s totally fine–”

“You know, you really talk too much.” You were surprised that your voice came out so calmly, considering that you were kind of freaking out. “Yes, you did not make the smartest move there. But that’s okay. Just because you’re a praetor doesn’t mean you can’t fuck up sometimes. Besides, we don’t really have a way out of this.”

For a few seconds, there was no response.

Until Jason chuckled, deep and gravelly. “Wow. That was probably the most honest yet most comforting thing I’ve ever been told.”

“You’re welcome. So how are you thinking we execute this whole… situation? The date shouldn’t be too bad, but I’m mostly worried about how we’ll have to make it public to the camp. Tyson and Percy are half-brothers, and you know how Percy is–”

“He loves gossip. I’m guessing both camps will find out within a day if he knows.” Jason smiled. “I propose we reveal it in a subtle way, so people take a while to piece together that we’re, you know, quote unquote dating.”

You looked at him.

“What?” he asked.

“Are you cold?”

“No?” Jason frowned. He smirked and added, “Quite the opposite, actually.”

Raising an eyebrow, you replied, “Okay, Mason.” (He flushed.) “Give me your hoodie. I’ll probably get a load of it from Piper when we get back, but I think it’ll help our plan work.”

The boy did as you said and handed the hoodie over. You put it on, not expecting it to be so comfy. Jason was wearing a shirt underneath that read “I ♡ SABRINA SLUTS” which very much did not hug his biceps a little too tightly. You guessed the clothing choice was courtesy of Leo.

You were about to compliment it when you heard a faint sobbing echo through the woods.

The praetor looked at you. “Think that’s our soldier?”

You both jogged towards where the sound came from. Sitting against the trunk of a willow tree, you saw a dark-haired girl that looked about 10 years old. Her denim shorts had dark splotches from where her tears had fallen. Upon hearing you approach, she quickly wiped her face.

Jason knelt down next to her and gently took her hand. “Hi.”

You copied his actions, taking her other hand. Softly, you asked, “What’s your name?”

“Gracie.”

Jason smiled. “That’s a very pretty name. You wanna tell us what’s going on?”

The girl put her head in her hands and took a deep breath. “I don’t know. I was just thinking about how much I miss my mortal home and how scared I am now. It feels like there’s danger everywhere and I can never feel safe. I wish I was back at school like a normal kid, but instead I’m preparing for battles and having wolf ladies train me. I started feeling really bad so I came here, hoping it would help. I’m sorry, it’s really stupid and probably caused a fuss if you both had to come find me–”

“Hey, hey, hey. Don’t say that. It’s okay to feel that way. There are so, so many demigods who have thought the same things as you. Even I did, and I’m the praetor.” Gracie laughed a little at the last bit Jason said.

“Exactly,” you agreed. “You are being so brave right now. Just telling two people you haven’t ever talked to before about how you’re feeling takes courage.”

“You really think so?” Her voice was small.

“We know so.” Jason squeezed her hand. “Now, do you want to sit down here for a little longer, and we’ll tell camp you’re okay? We can stay with you.”

Gracie shook her head and declared, “I’m ready to go back now.”

“Okay.” He grinned. “Wait. I know what to do.”

Jason picked her up, bridal-style, and the girl squealed. Looking at him, with his slightly messy hair and huge smile, you felt closer somehow. Perhaps it was the empathy link, but it was like you were seeing a side of him that not many people knew. You were seeing Jason Grace, the boy who loses his glasses and thinks he’s being a burden (even though he isn’t) rather than Jason Grace, the praetor who fought the Titan Krios.

You liked this look better on him.

“Hello? Are you there?” Jason was staring at you intently, which made your cheeks grow warm. You hadn’t realized the two expected a response.

“Sorry, what?” You started walking back to camp, and they followed.

“Gracie here was just telling me that key lime pie is her comfort food, so I asked you if you’d like to bake it with us.”

“Oh, I love key lime pie! Sure.”

He beamed at you. Gracie continued her conversation, and you listened to her talk about the time she almost burned down her house a few years ago trying to make it. It was a peaceful walk, and you felt like you were with old friends.

Maybe, you thought, you could get used to Jason Grace.

[scrollypoly]

Sorry sky im stealing ur tags rq to just discuss a bit more (under the cut, is long sorry)

I think the main and biggest thing I've noticed with anton, and again I'm a person who knew of him before BBTW, and I never got into BBTW because I was already put off by one of his posts dragging the fandom. But that's just it though, isn't it? This fandom and how it interacts with its source material isn't just something you can separate. The source we all orbit around, the horror stories, nosleep forums, is very different from creepypasta as a fandom. As a fandom, we really only focus on a small subset of what's available, we focus on the characters like Jeff or Slenderman or Ben, so on and so forth. Most people that get into this fandom are young: I got into it when I was maybe 11 or 12, I know most people get involved in it around that age to 16 years old. Most of us are neurodivergent, have been bullied or victims of abuse or some form of ostracization or othering, and we connect to this fandom *because of that.* You cannot detach that aspect of this fandom from the rest of the fandom. We saw stories (most badly written but we were young so who really cares) about characters that were bullied and abused and snapped (Jeff), people struggling with mental illnesses and situations out of their control (MH, most slenderverse series really), characters that have had horrible tragedies happen to them (Ben, Sally, EJ, Liu, need I go on?) and they persevere and keep going. This is the essence of this fandom. We are all misfits that found our little community and family on the internet. Ergo, our misfits we imprinted on, we want to see the characters we care about have a happier life. Slender mansion au anyone? Ever noticed how it mimics how we make our own communities?

That was the main thing that stuck out to me about anton's rants. I do understand what he was getting at, he is far from the only person to complain about the "woobification" of the characters of this fandom. But if it wasn't for the silly teenagers who imprinted on these fake killers like baby ducks, most of these characters would have been lost to time in the forums. Again, these stories weren't good!!! There are a few exceptions (jadusable I love you /p), but the main guys like Jeff and EJ had SHIT stories. EJs author Azelf literally removed the og story because they said it was terrible and people deserved better writing. You cannot just disregard the fandom and the kids and teens and young adults that made it what it is; it's a slap in the face to the entire culture of this fandom. It's in bad taste, its shallow, it's not really making anything better (again, havent read the comic so this statement is more on what I've seen from other people in the fandom).

There seems to be a prevalent belief that by adding more violence and gore, that you're somehow making it more "mature" and better written. You're not. Violence and gore and brutality isn't what makes a good "mature" story. Handling complex themes in a thoughtful way is how you make a mature story. And hey, you can do that without making your characters irredeemable horrible awful people. Why is there such a focus on characters having to be awful and irredeemable? There are so many ways to write these guys to be interesting and thoughtful without writing them as literal monsters. Not that that's a bad thing! But it's often seen in fandom as an either or. You get woobified husbando Jeff the Killer yaoi, or interpretations where he's abusive, misogynistic, a rapist, etc. There is so few in-between, and I cling to the writers that find it.

Another prevalent issue with the whole fandom, one that is thankfully being addressed, is how female characters were treated. This fandom was misogynistic as HELL, and I'm so glad people are giving characters like Jane and Nina justice, and are making MORE female characters that are actually complex and don't boil down to just. Self insert ship characters. Again, nothing wrong with that! But as a writer, lover of girls and women, and feminist, *those were our only options back then* and it sucked. I won't address this much more because like I said, times are changing some, but yeah. It was bad.

And I'll gloss over what sky said too, I also personally don't think there's anything wrong writing toxic or unhealthy dynamics. If I did, I'd be a hypocrite, a HUGE one. Purity culture in all fandoms rn is insane, and its especially hilarious in this one cuz baby. We are writing serial killers. And you're. Crying because two of them have an unhealthy relationship 💀 girl they're MURDERERS. I digress, call me a freak or whatever, its perfectly fine to write fictional relationships as fucked up and unhealthy. It's fun to explore, its fun to read, its a way to understand and process these dynamics in a healthy environment and sanitizing it does more harm than good. Some of yall conservative as hell and its concerning.

Anyways. I don't know what other controversies anton has been in, all I know is how he talks about the fandom really. I tuned out after that. And again, don't know about his story, but I remember going through his blog while this was going down and being disappointed because his art is fucking good!! I'm sure his comic slaps ass!! But I just can't vibe with someone who so blatantly hates what this fandom is and has such contempt for the people who literally made this fandom what it is, its nuts really. It truly is just contempt for the media and it seems like he has a lot of spite for the fandom. I also just can't vibe with people who egg on hate-attention and thrive from it, but that's a personal thing and not like. Something i view as bad morally, I don't really think it is because it's not really hurting anyone other than our immediate attention lol.

But yeah. Rant over

Why I No Longer Support Anton Morrow Or Blessed Be The Wicked

Okay, we're finally doing this. As always: Do NOT harass anyone involved. This is not what this post is for.

So, this has been a long time coming. I know I keep repeatedly saying that I don’t wanna cause drama but at this point? It’s not even a drama anymore. There’s a glaring issue that’s been circulating the fandom for a while, and up until now, people have either been ignoring it completely or are too scared to say anything at all — which is understandable. I’m frankly scared to be finally making this post. But with most of the fandom beginning to speak up on this, now is a better time than ever. 

You’ve all most likely seen my latest, very angry, Jeff rant post, and some of you might have already put together as to who it was about: Anton Morrow, the creator of Blessed be the Wicked.

If any of you remember the whole “mistype” situation that happened in 2024 revolving around BBTW, you already know I have gotten into a bit of a spat with him before. Then it was all cleared up, and we were chill. But now, with all that’s been happening, I’m starting to question that situation as well.

When it comes to creepypasta, you gotta acknowledge and respect both sides of the fandom, because more often than not, they tie together. Anton, however, doesn’t do this at all, creating a space where people feel unsafe and uncomfortable like they have to walk on eggshells. 

We are not mad at the fact that you are trying to make BBTW horrifying, grotesque, and realistic. In fact, a LOT of people were hyped for your project. No, we’re mad that you have to be an asshole about it. Shaming anything that doesn’t fit into your view of what a character SHOULD be, hating on the fandom way more than you claim to love it, villainizing characters that should not be villainized, like Jane, who’s a VICTIM of Jeff, not doing proper research (apparently not knowing that Clockwork was an SA victim despite her being your “favorite character”), being a fucking hypocrite (hating shock value yet using it in your work as well), and most of all, claiming to be bringing back the old roots of Creepypasta when you don’t even understand or know what those roots are. 

This fandom has ALWAYS been cringy, weird, and unrealistic. I mean, we have a tall faceless man in the woods, a magical black and white clown, and a guy whose skin turned completely white because of BLEACH. This fandom was never realistic! 

You can only use the “I mistyped” or “you all misunderstood me” excuse so many times.

Are you telling me you didn’t mean ANY of this?

Like, if I recall, David Near’s, MBK’s, Pastra’s, AND Ekatlani’s Jeff’s are NOT soft boys at all. But you refuse to acknowledge that, don’t you? Because even if they are closer to what you claim to be looking for within a Jeff rewrite, you still hate them because they weren’t what YOU THINK the character could be. 

But somehow, that’s not even the worst part. No, the worst thing has to be what you’ve done to Leech. Characters change, I understand that. My personal gripe with her not being the character I initially was excited for anymore is just my personal bias. What’s NOT, however, is the relationship you’ve put her in with Tyrant. 

Now, I’m all for toxic relationships. I’ve written them myself, but this? This is straight-up fucking grooming. It’s non-consensual, and you straight-up called Tyrant PREDATORY. 

And the fact that you tried to edit your post to hide what you said first tells me all I need to know.

Not to mention, you continuously like to bring up how much YOUNGER she is than the other two (Context: She's in a poly relationship with Tyrant and a character named Marc)

This goes past a toxic relationship, this is straight up fucking CREEPY. You admit that Tyrant is using his VICTIM, cause that’s what she fucking is, as a way to feel like he’s not all the negative, that “he deserves love.” No. Just no. 

I’m disappointed. Tired, angry, and disappointed. I thought you were a cool guy, Anton. I thought all of you were cool. I was genuinely excited for Blessed Be The Wicked, as I’m sure a lot of the fandom was. But you showed your true colors the moment your project began to get popular. 

Not so politely, fuck you. And if all you can do is complain about is the fandom having fun, fuck off.