#idk this was the only thing i could think of

[prettypieck]

ᴄᴀᴍ ɢɪʀʟ

ᴘᴀɪʀ��ɴɢ: Xavier x Reader

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: cam girl reader and her sweet friend Xavier who sheepishly agrees to sleep with her for 'content', but ends up fucking her so good that it starts to look a little too real on camera

ᴀ/ɴ: This is my first time posting on Tumblr, so please go easy on my writing lol. I also wrote this at 2am hehe. 3.6k words purrrr.

ɢᴇɴʀᴇ: Xavier, Xavier smut, love and deepspace smut, MDNI!, backshots.., fingering, idk what else to put

It was one of those days... you counted through the tips you earned at the local cafe you worked at and realized you were short to be able to pay your rent this month. You throw yourself on your couch in frustration, it was time to do your little side hustle again, except the side hustle isn't actually that little. You log onto your account on your phone and see all the money you were making from your previous videos, if it wasn't obvious, you were a cam girl.

It was something you started about a year ago, you would only film solo on your bed with all the different toys you owned. However, you noticed recently that your views were beginning to tank, maybe you needed to do something different to bring the attention of your audience back.

You quickly post on your account about anyone having any suggestions for your next video. Immediately, responses begin to flood in with people recommending the same thing: film with someone. With the amount of responses you were getting, you would be able to pay rent for next month as well.

You throw your phone on the couch and stare at the ceiling. Fuck. Who could you film with? Who would actually be down for that? You close your eyes and think about your options. But you startle when you hear a loud thud coming from the floor above you and then it hits you.

Xavier...

Your sweet neighbor and dearest friend, maybe he wouldn't mind, but then again he's so reserved and quiet you don't know if he'll even say yes to it. You grab the pillow next to you and scream into it from embarrassment of something you haven't even done yet.

Fuck it, asking him is better than getting evicted. You get up and smooth down your outfit and try to be presentable before heading up a floor to his place. Your heart goes a million a mile as you raise your hand and knock on his door.

You stand and wait as you hear shuffling on the other side, he was coming to the door. When it opens, Xavier stands there with his ruffled hair and rubs the sleep out of his eyes.

"Y/N," he says in his soft voice, "come in." He opens the door wider and lets you in, you rub your arm and walk in. Why were you acting like you've never been in his apartment? You wanted to smack yourself to stop being so shy about asking this silly question. Maybe you need to ease into it...

"Hey Xavier, what was that loud crash I heard earlier," You ask as you walk to his couch and take a seat amongst all his plushies that he had. He walks over after closing his door and picks up one of the plushies off the ground and raises it to show you, "this is the reason."

You follow him with a look of confusion as he also sits on the couch as well, stretching his arms back behind the couch. He lets out a chuckle at your puzzled face, "I guess the plushie we won last week at the arcade together isn't happy in my home, I got up after my nap to grab some water and tripped on it."

You laugh at that, Xavier was always tripping and falling. "Maybe the plushie would rather be with me, I'm the one who got it out the claw machine after you basically wasted all our tokens," you tease him and at that he rolls his eyes playfully.

"Be my guest," he yawns again and raises his arms above his head in another stretch and that's when your eyes begin to wander. His plain white t-shirt just slightly stretched at the collar rode up when he raised his arms and you can see his abs underneath. Your eyes wander even lower where he's manspreading and you notice his grey joggers, and your throat goes dry at the obvious bulge right in the middle. Woah, he was packing. You snap out of looking when he stops and looks over at you, "What's wrong?"

You blink at him twice, "what are you talking about?" He tilts his head slightly, like he's analyzing you, making you more nervous. "You're really red, are you feeling feverish?"

You flush even more at that, why can't you control yourself. "No," you inhale sharply, "actually- I came here to ask you something." You grip the end of your shorts in nervousness and your eyes look around before you finally have the confidence to look at Xavier again. You see he hasn't moved his gaze away from you, he blinks and waits for you to continue speaking. You flush at his undivided attention, Xavier used to be shy when you guys first became friends, but now he has no problem holding your stare.

"Uhm, so you know how I work at the cafe," he nods at that and you continue with a sigh, "well... sometimes I can't make the rent, so I also have a second job and it's online. I make content and I was wondering if you could help me with it."

Xavier's eyebrows come together like he's thinking about something, "...content? What kind of content?" It seems like he's not following what you're saying, you feel like you're corrupting an innocent soul who clearly doesn't dabble in this kind of stuff. Suddenly, you feel like aborting this mission.

"You know what, never mind," you say quickly as you get up from the couch to leave, but you barely make it a step away before Xavier grabs your wrist. Your body is hot in embarrassment, but you turn to look at him still seated on the couch, he looks at his hand on your wrist before looking up at you.

"I'll help you."

You blink once and then you blink twice. "Really?" He nods and you sit back down on the couch when he tugs on your wrist lightly, you liked that Xavier was willing to help, but you needed to be honest about what he was getting himself into. You close your eyes for a brief second and then blurt it out, "I'm a cam girl."

It's deathly silent and you keep your eyes shut as your face flushes once again. After what feels like a minute, you open your eyes and Xavier is staring at you, but this time just as flushed as you are. You can't help yourself when you begin to ramble to help save this situation, "I understand if you don't want to be the one to have sex with me, especially on camera, even though your face won't be shown. I've always done everything on my own. This is also new to me, I just couldn't think of anyone else that would be willing to help me-"

You stop when Xavier interrupts you, "I'll do it."

"Really?!" Another nod from him and you throw yourself at him for a hug. He catches you as you say a million thank you's.

Eventually you are back in your apartment that same night after your shower to prepare to film with Xavier. You gave him a time to come over earlier and were now wearing your best lingerie under your robe and had done your hair and makeup. The camera was set up in your bedroom, you decided it was best to film and post the video later rather than be live. You were afraid Xavier would accidentally show face and you wanted to avoid the awkward parts with him being out there on the internet.

Finally, there was a knock at the door and you go answer. Xavier was dressed casually and you watch him as he looks down at you and then your robe before his ears flush and he looks away for a second. "Hey," you breathe and he gives you one of his small smiles as he enters your place. "Hi."

He takes off his shoes at the entrance and follows you to your bedroom. You glance at him, "are you ready?"

He smiles at you again, "yeah, are you?" You laugh a little at that, before nodding. The next five minutes are spent with you adjusting the camera while Xavier sits in the middle of your bed awkwardly, you were making sure to just show him from his neck down. Once that's set you click record and walk over to your drawer and pull out one of your vibrators.

Xavier follows your every move as you move towards him and take off your robe in one quick motion, leaving you in only your underwear and bra. He feels like the breath left his lungs as he trails his gaze down all of you and back up. You are beautiful. Perfect. He couldn't believe he was going to be able to hold you like this, touch you like this.

You crawl onto the bed and get comfortable between his legs as you look at yourself on the camera monitor. You were much smaller than Xavier, so your whole body and face was in view. "Here," you tilt your head back to look at his face as your hand holds out the vibrator to him. He flushes when he looks at it and then back to you, but you feel yourself pulse when you see the slight heat behind his eyes.

He takes it from you before hesitantly asking, "Can- Can I touch you?" Your heart races in anticipation as you nod at him.

Your body lights up with goosebumps when you feel his left hand trail up and down your waist. You guys hold each other's gaze, as you relax back into his chest. Your eyes drop to see him put the vibrator down next his thigh and he raises his right hand to gently grab your jaw. His thumb caresses your face as he stares at you, and his gaze alone makes you feel damp between your legs and he hasn't really touched you like that yet.

He continues his gentle rubbing and then his hooded gaze drops from your eyes to your mouth. You don't remember whether it was him or you to initiate it, but you guys begin making out. It's gentle, sensual. His lips are soft and every so often his tongue begins to peak through and you allow him in. Your tongues begin fighting for dominance and the kiss begins to get a little more heated, you reach your right arm over to the back of his neck to keep his mouth on yours.

Your body tingles as he hums into the kiss and breaks it to look into your own heated gaze before going in for another kiss. While this continues, his right hand reaches down to your thigh and he rubs it before moving your legs to be against his spread ones. This leaves you open right to the camera and you gasp lightly when you feel the slight breeze against your damp underwear.

Your body slightly jolts when you feel something rubbing against your clothed sex. You break the kiss this time and look down to see Xavier rubbing the vibrator up and down your sex before you throw your head back against his shoulder. He takes the opportunity to kiss your exposed neck and shoulder, as his left hand goes up to squeeze your breast through your bra.

You can't stop the hums and pants that leave your mouth before you can't take the teasing anymore, "more." "More?" Xavier leaves another kiss on your neck before looking down at your flushed face. "Then beg for it."

Your breath hitches, was this really Xavier? Your quiet friend who is the sweetest person you know asking you to beg him. But your body is so heated you actually listen to him, "Please, I want more. I want you."

You watch Xavier as he groans at your words before diving in for another kiss, this time you feel his hands at the waistband of your underwear as he pulls them off. You raise your hips and then your legs as you help with sliding them off. You keep your legs parted and when you guys break away from your kiss for the third time, you can't help but watch Xavier's face. He looks into your eyes before he looks down and groans again, "Look at how pretty you are."

"Touch me, " you beg with a pout on your face, "please."

Xavier wastes no time in tossing the vibrator to the side as his hand reaches between your legs and his finger grazes between your wet folds. "You're soaked," he says into your ear and your eyes rolls when he rubs on your clit for a quick second before going back down to your entrance, teasing you with his middle finger.

Your hips roll in attempt to get his fingers to fill you up, and when he finally finishes teasing you, he sinks one of his digits in. Your eyes roll back with a light moan and when he pulls the finger back out, he eases back in with two this time. One of your hands grips his thigh while the other holds on to the bicep of the arm that's in between your legs. Your hand nor your vibrator would have felt as good as his hand did.

Xavier was reaching spots inside you that had you writhing against him and moaning. He kept talking you through it, "you're doing so good baby." You feel yourself clench around his fingers at the nickname and he hums at that. "You like when I call you baby?"

You can't stop yourself from nodding your head. Your high was coming so fast, your panting louder as your body began to shake. Xavier clearly noticed this, pulling his fingers out at the last second to rub them against your folds, purposely avoiding your clit. You groan out in protest and he shakes his head at that, "Use your words baby. What do you want?"

You have no shame holding his gaze when you speak, "I want you to make me cum. Please."

He smirks at you, "good girl."

You don't expect it when he plunges his fingers into you and begins a deep pace that has you back on edge. Your moans get louder and your nails dig into him when you finally reach your climax.

You feel like you had the life fucked out of you, but it was hardly over. Xavier brings his hand filled with your juices to his lips and sucks them clean. That makes you only want him even more, and you get on your knees in front of him. Reaching the hem of his shirt to help him take it off and then the next moment you're both naked and making out once again.

You both can't get enough of touching each other everywhere.

Xavier positions you on your hands and knees in front of the camera. You both moan when he begins to rub himself against your folds. None of you seemed to care that he wasn't even wearing a condom, you just wanted him inside you already.

"I want you inside me," you whine and Xavier hums in response, "Yeah?"

"Yeah," you push your hips purposely back into his and feel the head of his cock dipping in. He lets out a grunt before tightening his grip on one of your hips and then slowly begin pushing in.

Your mouth falls open as your face scrunches up while he stretches you out inch by inch. Xavier was definitely more on the larger side, so you needed time to adjust. You can't help but let out little whines and pants, before turning your head around to look up at him from behind you. He felt like he could come just like this, the look on your face enough to send him over the edge.

"You're taking me so well baby," he praises as he finally bottoms out inside you.

At some point, you can't remember how many times you've came already. Xavier was relentless, changing the pace each time he made you cum.

“Look at the camera,” Xavier grunts hoarsely as he grabs your hair and pulls your head back. You let out a moan as you lift back to rest on your forearms, arching your back and looking at yourself on the camera. 

You looked more fucked out of your mind than you usually do in your typical content. You could see the skin around your eyes turning red from the tears, the blush on your cheeks and the way your reddened lips hang open with drool threatening to spill from the corners. And this is all due to the cause of one thing.

“X-Xavier,” you can’t help but moan out his name, knowing you’re going to have to cut that part out later to keep his identity a secret. He groans in response, his thrusts not stopping their pace, you feel him kissing your cervix with each one. He pulls out slightly more than halfway and then goes in with a grind at the end of each one. 

“Yes,” he’s breathless, “yes, baby.” You stare at the his sculpted body from behind you through the camera, biting your lip and whimpering as you can only see his mouth hang open. The rest of his face cut off from his height on his knees and the fact that this is how you’ll keep his identity a secret when you post it. But it’s hard when you can feel his name on the tip of your tongue once again, you want to chant it like a mantra. You want to see him.

Fuck it. 

You shake your head slightly and feel his grip loosen on your hair, and you turn your head around to look at him. The sight of him alone has you clenching around him and your eyes rolling, he was glistening with sweat and the look in his hooded eyes was darker than you’ve ever seen. His damp hair stuck to his forehead. Upon seeing your face as well, Xavier couldn’t help but moan, his brows furrowing, and he grips your hips tighter. You looked so beautiful like this, just like this for him. 

You begin pushing yourself back into him again to meet his thrusts halfway and your mouth hangs open once again. Both of you held eye contact, not bothering to even remember that the camera was still rolling with your face not in it. 

“Xavier you feel so good,” you slur your words as you feel so drunk off of every thrust he gives you. His dick was touching places you couldn’t yourself. Xavier was thinking the same thing, your pussy was sucking him in and he felt its pulse with every movement. The way you moaned his name made him even more feral. You felt what he was feeling and now he was never going to let you go. 

“Fuck it,” he says under his breath and you gasp as he suddenly presses forward and his chest is against your back. He wraps his bicep around your neck, using his elbow to prop him up as the lock around the front of your neck has you facing towards the cameras once again. 

“Like that,” you moan loudly as he continues to pound into you, squeezing your neck and face in his arm. Xavier’s face was showing in the frame now, he no longer cared to hide while fucking you for your content. This felt personal now. 

You can feel his breath in your ear as he pants and grunts right next to it. Yet you still can’t take your eyes off him on the monitor, watching him turn his head to nip at the shell of your ear and you can see his smirk forming as he makes a ‘hmph’ sound. 

“Like this,” he grunts as you feel his other arm reach down under you and find your clit. You squeal at the sensation added with everything else and if it weren’t for Xavier pressing you into this position, you would have collapsed. 

“Mmhmm,” you hum as he works you better than you can do with yourself and your toys. 

“Look at us baby,” Xavier’s head is right next to yours on the frame, both of you flushed, “we’re perfect together, this pussy was made for me. Gonna fill you with my cum and you’re gonna take it like a good girl.”

He accentuates the last two words with two hard thrusts. All you can do is choke on your own words as your vision goes white and you feel your walls clench around him. He lets out a groan of your name before you feel the warmth of his cum filling you up.

You both are panting and sweaty as you guys collapse and lay there for a second. You feel like you can't move. Xavier kisses your shoulder before getting up and clicking the end of the recording on the camera. He walks out of sight before coming back with a warm towel as he gently helps clean you up.

Xavier goes back to being the sweet man he's always been. And as he comes back into bed to cuddle with you, you realize you guys aren't going to be just friends.

[imnez-daydreams]

if you notice that this is my 3rd remmick fic, 2nd from this talented writer, no you don't. i know i knowww i haven't watched the movie but cmon i have free will let me read more about this vampire dude !! i'm in love with how rosie writes and almost every single warning tag is very much up my alley. so excited !!

'You didn’t know his name, not back then. You only knew his eyes—gold in the shadows. Red when caught in the light. Like a firelight in the dark. Like a blood red moon through stained-glass windows."

the way your writing makes me visualise such beautiful scenes so easily, its like watching a movie when i read your work.

"No, you survived it," he said, stepping up onto the first board of the porch. The wood didn’t creak beneath his weight. "And that’s only half the bargain."

i like the detail of remmick seemingly not weighing much ? idk if thats a vampire or a movie thing but earlier on also, reader noticed how there wasn't any shuffling or creaking. how remmick doesn't carry the same weight as a human idk its just a neat detail to me.

"Remmick stepped closer, just enough for the shadows to kiss the line of his throat, the hollow of his collarbone. His voice dropped, intimate now—dragging across your skin like a fingertip behind the ear."

lovee the way you describe things ! its always explained in such an interesting manner. instead of just saying his voice lowered, you expand on it by also likening the tone drop to an act of intimacy. i love your brain rosie !!

"That’s the thing about monsters, dove." He leaned down, lips almost grazing the curve of your jaw. "We always do."

giggling at the "dove" pet name. also remmick bending down, justtt a touch away from making contact despite not being able to enter yet is ... a sight.

"I’ll wait out here till you’re ready," he said, turning toward the swing on your porch and settling into it like he had all the time in the world. "But don’t make me knock twice. Wouldn’t be polite."

soft for remmick being soft. letting reader come to this choice by their own accord, even tho he knows the ending they share. that reader belonging to him is inevitable.

"He hadn’t moved. He sat on the swing, one leg stretched out, the other bent lazily beneath him, arms slung across the backrest like he’d always belonged there. A cigarette burned between two fingers, the tip flaring orange as he dragged from it. The scent of it hit you—rich, earthy, and somehow foreign, like something imported from a place no longer on the map."

rosie your writing is soooo immersive. i was able to visualise this whole scene so easily like all the words just fell into place in my mind, painting such a vivid art piece. also that last line wowie, just goes to show how long remmick's been alive. he's probably seen empires rise and fall, experienced the change of lifestyles throughout each century.

"He smiled, small and slow, like he was reading a page of you he’d already memorized."

hmm wow how long has remmick been watching reader i wonder. maybe he's just been looking over reader from the shadows through the years.

"You stepped out onto the porch, barefoot, the boards warm beneath your soles. He didn’t move to greet you. He didn’t rise. He just watched you walk toward him like he’d been watching in dreams you never remembered having."

wow why is that last line so poetic to me. like this moment was something destined to happen or was already set in stone, even if reader doesn't subconsciously realise it.

"You wanted to say no. Wanted to deny it. But you stood there trembling under his hand, your heartbeat so loud you were sure he could hear it."

"Maybe that was why he smiled."

the vampire diaries taught me that they have super hearing but anyways i like to think that remmick smiled because he knew even if reader ran to the other side of the earth, even if they made him wait and wait outside, the road would always lead them back to him. he had always known but tye confirmation of that fact just brought a smile to his face.

"He stepped around you slowly, letting his fingers graze the side of your waist as he moved. His eyes glinted red in the firelight, catching on you like a flame drawn to dry kindling."

"He looked at you like he was already undressing you."

"Not your clothes—your will."

remmick being enraptured by reader, like a moth to a flame. i appreciate the way the bond goes beyond the sexual expect. that tension is there but its more about their connection, the yearning, the coming apart.

"You look just like your mother," he said finally.

...

"I’ve known a lot of people, dove. I just never forget the ones with your blood."

hold awn what. what that mean bro dont just lore drop and walk away. hmm. ok so remmick saved reader and their brother right ? the way reader described it was that they were too desperate to care what form the help took, and that theres a debt to be repaid so im assuming he saved the brother from dying by turning him. but what could have compelled remmick to do this gesture of goodwill im thinking now that he knew reader's mother and was like idk watching over her kids ? what are the chances he shows up in their time of need when no other humans were around yaknow ? or maybe i'm reading too much into this sorry rosie haha.

"A man who remembered empires. A man who had watched cities rise and burn. Who had danced in plague-slick ballrooms and kissed queens before they were beheaded. A man who had lived so long that names no longer mattered. Only debts. And blood."

omg empires and rise and fall im always so giddy when i'm on a similar wavelength as the writers hehe. but those are such beautiful ways to show remmick's age. kissed queens before they were beheaded ?? so unique.

"Then what do you want?"

His smile didn’t reach his eyes.

"You."

He said it like it was a simple thing. Like the rain wanting the river. Like the grave wanting the body.

baby you had me at "hello, dove" cmon lesgaurr. ok jokes aside, like the grave wanting the body ?? rose seriously your writing is genuinely broadening my mind on how the English language can be so beautifully manipulated into forming tuese sentences.

"You dream of me, don’t you?"

umfff the way remmick knows when reader doesn't even know it themselves. he knows them in such an intimate manner, like he's has access to the inner workings of their mind, including the hidden parts that they don't want to acknowledge themselves.

"His hand didn’t move. It just stayed there at your jaw, thumb ghosting slow along the hollow beneath your cheekbone. A touch so gentle it made your knees ache. Because it wasn’t the roughness that undid you—it was the restraint."

love it. a creature like remmick being oh so soft just for reader, holding back his urges and instincts. it probably takes him more effort to not just take from reader.

"He looked like sin and the sermon that came after."

in awe. so so beautiful. both the damnation and salvation.

"He caught your waist in one hand, steadying you with maddening ease."

"I’m gonna ruin you," he whispered against your throat, his nose dragging lightly along your skin. "But I’ll be so gentle the first time you’ll beg me to do it again."

aakdhejdke remmick you are already ruining me !! the ease in his movement, the quiet strength, him saying that about being gentle im so okay.

"Even like this, barefoot, collar open, hair mussed from sleep or maybe just time—he looked unreal. Like a sin someone had tried to scrub out of scripture but couldn’t quite forget."

the domesticity of it all. also ugh that line with the religious theme to describe how remmick looked. like he's something other trying to disguise himself as an angel but bits of his true nature still peeks out.

"His eyes stayed on your mouth."

...

"Remmick didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His eyes tracked the motion like a starving man watching someone else’s feast."

knees weak at the visualisation of remmick leaning against the table so so close, focusing his eyes on reader's mouth despite movement from their hand with the fork. his eyes following reader eat. cant lie i'm a whore for Eye Contact.

But you swallowed.

And he smiled.

"Good girl," he murmured.

ROSIE DO YOU WANT ME DEAD ???? wkdhdkdk im soooo fine over thissss.

"You shouldn’t have touched me."

"I didn’t," he said. "But I wanted to. Still do."

...

"And I know you want me to," he added, voice low enough that it coiled under your ribs and settled somewhere molten in your belly.

thats hot. how remmick controlled himself, yet still has those desires after all those years. how he knows that reader wants it, wants him too.

You pushed another bite past your lips, slower this time, aware of the weight of his gaze with every chew, every swallow. You didn’t know why you obeyed. Maybe it was easier than defying him. Maybe it was because some part of you wanted him to keep watching.

reader and me twinning cos heck yeah i would listen to his instructions if it meant him keeping that Eye Contact.

"You said you didn’t want blood."

"I don’t."

"Then what do you want?"

"You."

i cant. sorry yall i go batshit insane over the yearning, the unspoken and barely contained devotion, the want that extends past just sex.

"Remmick’s other hand came up slow, brushing hair from your cheek, his knuckles rough and reverent."

i love how soft remmick's touches with reader are. his hand on reader's back, his hold around their wrist, sweeping his knuckles over their cheeks. rough n revenant is sooo. like a blood stained creature still practicing that devotion to their person/object of worship.

"Come with me," he said.

"Where?"

"Somewhere I can kneel."

put my phone down im. there's drugs in rosie's writing i can't explain it. ok but seriously the way you write these paragraphs with the most devastatingly beautiful imagery only to sweep the rug out from under my feet with these strong one liners. insane.

He knelt.

And then his hands found your knees.

His hands rested on your knees like they belonged there. Not demanding. Not prying. Just there. Anchored. Reverent.

the small declarations of intimacy are making me lose it in my room at 1am. save me.

"The candlelight licked up his jaw, catching in the hollows of his cheeks, the deep shadow beneath his throat. He didn’t look like a man. He looked like a story told by firelight—half-worshipped, half-feared. A sinner in the shape of a saint. Or maybe the other way around."

rosie i wanna like. i wish i could commit cannibalism on your writing. this is so good i cant even. like remmick's the story that parents tell their children at night. those last 2 lines urghhHh.

im foaming at the mouth. how do i explain like this is better than the sex like AAAA. the yearning THE YEARNING. peeling back a veil, unwrapping something sacred like like like theyre at the alter getting married.

PLEASEEEE ROSIE my heart is weak !!! i am nawttt your strongest soldier. like it meant something like you meant something im. im on the floor. a prayer he answered with his mouth. pleasoelskeieirjfk

"He licked you with patience, with purpose, like he was reading scripture written between your legs—each flick of his tongue slow and deliberate, every pass perfectly placed, building pressure inside you with maddening precision."

like reading scripture ohHHhhHh my dayssss.

SOMEBODY SEDATE MEEEEEE. the. the Eye Contact. remmick still excercising restraint in the heat of the moment. him demanding reader to not take their eyes off him so he can witness them come undone.

remmick making reader say it ohhh im so. help how am i gonna make it to the end rosie.

shaking the bars of my jail cell pulling at my hair he's so. he's SOOOOO. i could practically feeeel remmick crowding around and smiling against skin.

"That’s my girl," he breathed.

well good for him for breathing because i on the other hand, stopped breathing.

omg its been like an hour since i started reading and rambling but i think i mentioned remmick thinking reader would dissappeared if he took his eyes of them :(. ohhh the intimacy of it all. forehead !! touch !!

"Not when the kiss ended. Not when your blood slowed in his mouth. Not when your knees gave and your body folded forward into him. His arms had caught you like he knew the shape of your collapse. Like he’d been waiting for it. Like he’d never let you fall anywhere but into him."

again there's something about remmick knowing reader better than they know themselves. falling deeper into depravity but that's okay as long as reader falls with him.

"You remind me of the last thing I ever loved before I died."

okay rosie just rip my heart out too while you're at it.

their bond is so intrinsically intertwined. reader is his punishment for all his sins up until that point in life, and his absolution for the remaining time he has.

"I don’t know what I’m becoming," you said.

He leaned into your hand, eyes half-lidded."

"You’re becomin’ mine."

gawdDDDD. i need this man.

"Remmick hovered above you, breath warm at your lips, hands braced on either side of your head. He looked down at you like he was staring through time. Like you were something he'd pulled from the fire and decided to keep even if it burned him too."

he would walk through the flames of hell if it meant doing it with reader. would make reader stay by his side even it destroyed him

smut had me insane. kissing inside of wrist. "you feel like sin" "then sin with me". begging. sinful smile. worship. sacred. remakes. "say it". forehead touch.

"Tonight, I’ll hold you. Long as you’ll let me. Won’t leave this bed unless you beg me to. Might even make ya cry again, if you keep lookin’ at me like that."

how does remmick go from being ooey gooey sweetness -> menace to society so quick.

tearing up crying throwing a fit. remmick still giving reader that choice to remain human, still letting reader choose even knowing it would break his very being when it would come the time for him to roam the earth alone again.

"It’d hurt," he said. "But not more than bein’ without you would."

what'd i jus say :"(

"Then I’ll make you eternal," he whispered. "And I’ll never let the world take you from me."

...

He sat up, kneeling beside you on the bed, and pulled the sheet slowly down your body. His eyes drank you in again, but this time there was no heat in them. Just reverence. As if you were the altar, and he the sinner who’d finally been granted absolution.

...

He smiled.

"Welcome home, darlin’."

i'm so blown away i can't even begin to comprehend this gorgeous work of poetry that has me completely bewitched, body and soul. i think its taken me about a little over 2 hours to read and ramble. but wow. rosie i want you to know that i'm looking at showtimes of the sinners movie in theatres near my area as i'm writing this, all thanks to your alluring story. this was everything i craved and more. think it changed the wiring of my brain. soo sorry i got so carried away my rambles are probably gibberish haha, i'm quite certain that this is my longest fic ramble reblog too. thank you sooo so much rosie for writing this. truly a work of art. i'm sending you all the hugs and forehead kisses. thank you <3333.

Mercy Made Flesh

one-shot

Remmick x fem!reader

summary: In the heat-choked hush of the Mississippi Delta, you answer a knock you swore would never come. Remmick—unaging, unholy, unforgettable—returns to collect what was promised. What follows is not romance, but ritual. A slow, sensual surrender to a hunger older than the Trinity itself.

wc: 13.1k

a/n: Listen. I didn’t mean to simp for Vampire Jack O’Connell—but here we are. I make no apologies for letting Remmick bite first and ask questions never. Thank you to my bestie Nat (@kayharrisons) for beta reading and hyping me up, without her this fic wouldn't exist, everyone say thank you Nat!

warnings: vampirism, southern gothic erotica, blood drinking as intimacy, canon-typical violence, explicit sexual content, oral sex (f!receiving), first time, bloodplay, biting, marking, monsterfucking (soft edition), religious imagery, devotion as obsession, gothic horror vibes, worship kink, consent affirmed, begging, dirty talk, gentle ruin, haunting eroticism, power imbalance, slow seduction, soul-binding, immortal x mortal, he wants to keep her forever, she lets him, fem!reader, second person pov, 1930s mississippi delta, house that breathes, you will be fed upon emotionally & literally

tags: @xhoneymoonx134

likes, comments, and reblogs appreciated! please enjoy

Mississippi Delta, 1938

The heat hadn’t broken in days.

Not even after sunset, when the sky turned the color of old bruises and the crickets started singing like they were being paid to. It was the kind of heat that soaked into the floorboards, that crept beneath your thin cotton slip and clung to your back like sweat-slicked hands. The air was syrupy, heavy with magnolia and something murkier—soil, maybe. River water. Something that made you itch beneath your skin.

Your cottage sat just outside the edge of town, past the schoolhouse where you spent your days sorting through ledgers and lesson plans that no one but you ever really seemed to care about. It was modest—two rooms and a porch, set back behind a crumbling white-picket fence and swallowed by trees that whispered in the dark. A little sanctuary tucked into the Delta, surrounded by cornfields, creeks, and ghosts.

The kind of place a person could disappear if they wanted to. The kind of place someone could find you…if they were patient enough.

You stood in front of the sink, rinsing out a chipped enamel cup, your hands moving automatically. The oil lamp on the kitchen table flickered with each breath of wind slipping through the cracks in the warped window frame. A cicada screamed in the distance, then another, and then the whole world was humming in chorus.

And beneath it—beneath the cicadas, and the wind, and the nightbirds—you felt something shift.

A quiet. Too quiet.

You turned your head. Listened harder.

Nothing.

Not even the frogs.

Your hand paused in the dishwater. Fingers trembling just a little. It wasn’t like you to be spooked by the dark. You’d grown up in it. Learned to make friends with shadows. Learned not to flinch when things moved just out of sight.

But this?

This was different.

It was as if the night was holding its breath.

And then—

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Not loud. Not frantic. But final.

Your body went stiff. The cup slipped beneath the water and bumped the side of the basin with a hollow clink.

No one ever came this far out after sundown. No one but—

You shook your head, almost hard enough to rattle something loose.

No.

He was gone. That part of your life was buried.

You made sure of it.

Still, your bare feet moved toward the door like they weren’t yours. Soft against the creaky wood. Slow. You reached for the small revolver you kept in the drawer beside the door frame, thumbed the hammer back.

Your hand rested on the knob.

Another knock. This time, softer.

Almost...polite.

The porch light had been dead for weeks, so you couldn’t see who was waiting on the other side. But the air—something in the air—told you.

It was him.

You didn’t answer. Not right away.

You stood there with your palm flat against the rough wood, your forehead nearly touching it too—eyes shut, breath shallow. The air on the other side didn’t stir like it should’ve. No footfalls creaking the porch. No shuffle of boots on sun-bleached planks. Just stillness. Waiting.

And underneath your ribs, something began to ache. Something you hadn’t let yourself feel in years.

You didn’t know his name, not back then. You only knew his eyes—gold in the shadows. Red when caught in the light. Like a firelight in the dark. Like a blood red moon through stained-glass windows.

And his voice. Low. Dragging vowels like syrup. A Southern accent that didn’t come from any map you’d ever seen—older than towns, older than state lines. A voice that had told you, seven years ago, with impossible calm:

"You’ll know when it’s time."

You knew. Your hands trembled against your sides. But you didn’t back away. Some part of you knew how useless running would be.

The knob beneath your hand felt cold. Too cold for Mississippi in August.

You turned it.

The door opened slow, hinges whining like they were trying to warn you. You stepped back instinctively—just one step—and then he was there.

Remmick.

Still tall, still lean in that devastating way—like his body was carved from something hard and mean, but shaped to tempt. He wore a crisp white shirt rolled to the elbows, suspenders hanging loose from his hips, and trousers that looked far too clean for a man who walked through the dirt. His hair was messy in that intentional way, brown and swept back like he’d been running hands through it all night. Stubble lined his sharp jaw, catching the lamplight just so.

But it was his face that rooted you to the floor. That hollowed out your breath.

Still young. Still wrong.

Not a wrinkle, not a scar. Not a mark of time. He hadn’t aged a day.

And his eyes—oh, God, his eyes.

They caught the lamp behind you and lit up red, bright and glinting, like the embers of a dying fire. Not human. Not even pretending.

"Hello, dove."

His voice curled into your bones like cigarette smoke. You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

You hated how your body reacted.

Hated that you could still feel it—like something old and molten stirring between your thighs, a flicker of the same heat you’d felt that night in the alley, back when you were too desperate to care what kind of creature answered your prayer.

He looked you over once. Not with hunger. With certainty. Like he already knew how this would end. Like he already owned you.

"You remember, don’t you?" he asked.

"I came to collect."

And your voice—when it finally came—was little more than a whisper.

"You can’t be real."

That smile. That slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. Wolfish. Slow.

"You promised."

You wanted to shut the door. Slam it. Deadbolt it. But your hand didn’t move.

Remmick didn’t step forward, not yet. He stood just outside the threshold, framed by night and cypress trees and the distant flicker of heat lightning beyond the fields. The air around him pulsed with something old—older than the land, older than you, older than anything you could name.

He tilted his head the way animals do, watching you, letting the silence thicken like molasses between you.

"Still living out here all on your own," he murmured, gaze drifting over your shoulders, into the small, tidy kitchen behind you. "Hung your laundry on the line this morning. Blue dress, lace hem. Favorite one, ain’t it?"

Your stomach clenched. That dress hadn’t seen a neighbor’s eye all week.

"You've been watching me," you said, your voice low, unsure if it was accusation or realization.

"I’ve been waiting," he said. "Not the same thing."

You swallowed hard. Your breath caught in your throat like a thorn. The wind shifted, and you caught the faintest trace of something—dried tobacco, smoke, rain-soaked dirt, and beneath it, the iron-sweet tinge of blood.

Not fresh. Not violent. Just…present. Like it lived in him.

"I paid my debt," you whispered.

"No, you survived it," he said, stepping up onto the first board of the porch. The wood didn’t creak beneath his weight. "And that’s only half the bargain."

He still hadn’t crossed the threshold.

The stories came back to you, the ones whispered by old women with trembling hands and ash crosses pressed to their doorways—vampires couldn’t enter unless invited. But you hadn’t invited him, not this time.

"You don’t have permission," you said.

He smiled, eyes flashing red again.

"You gave it, seven years ago."

Your breath hitched.

"I was a girl," you said.

"You were desperate," he corrected. "And honest. Desperation makes people honest in ways they can’t be twice. You knew what you were offering me, even if you didn’t understand it. Your promise had teeth."

The wind pushed against your back, as if urging you forward.

Remmick stepped closer, just enough for the shadows to kiss the line of his throat, the hollow of his collarbone. His voice dropped, intimate now—dragging across your skin like a fingertip behind the ear.

"You asked for a miracle. I gave it to you. And now I’m here for what’s mine."

Your heart thudded violently in your chest.

"I didn’t think you’d come."

"That’s the thing about monsters, dove." He leaned down, lips almost grazing the curve of your jaw. "We always do."

And then—

He stepped back.

The wind stopped.

The night fell quiet again, like the world had paused just to watch what you’d do next.

"I’ll wait out here till you’re ready," he said, turning toward the swing on your porch and settling into it like he had all the time in the world. "But don’t make me knock twice. Wouldn’t be polite."

The swing groaned beneath him as it rocked gently, back and forth.

You stood there frozen in the doorway, one bare foot still inside the house, the other brushing the edge of the porch.

You’d made a promise.

And he was here to keep it.

The door stayed open. Just enough for the night to reach inside.

You didn’t move.

Your body stood still but your mind wandered—back to that night in the alley, to the smell of blood and piss and riverwater, your knees soaked in your brother’s lifeblood as you screamed for help that never came. Except it did. It came in the shape of a man who didn’t breathe, didn’t blink, didn’t make promises the way mortals did.

It came in the shape of him.

You thought time would wash it away. That the years would smooth the edges of his voice in your memory, dull the sharpness of his presence. But now, with him just outside your door, it all returned like a fever dream—hot, all-consuming, too real to outrun.

You turned away from the threshold, slowly, carefully, as if the floor might cave in under you. Your hands trembled as you reached for the oil lamp on the table, adjusting the flame lower until it flickered like a dying heartbeat.

The silence behind you dragged, deep and waiting. He didn’t speak again. Didn’t call for you.

He didn’t have to.

You moved through the house in slow circles. Touching things. Straightening them. Folding a dishcloth. Setting a book back on the shelf, even though you’d already read it twice. You tried to pretend you weren’t thinking about the man on your porch. But the heat of him pressed against the back of your mind like a hand.

You could feel him out there. Not just physically—but in you, somehow. Like the air had shifted around his shape, and the longer he lingered, the more your body remembered what it had felt like to stand in front of something not quite human and still want.

You passed the mirror in the hallway and paused.

Your reflection looked undone. Not in the way your hair had fallen from its pin, or the flush across your cheeks, but deeper—like something inside you had been cracked open. You touched your own throat, right where you imagined his mouth might go.

No bite.

Not yet.

But you swore you could feel phantom teeth.

You went back to the door, holding your breath, and looked at him through the screen.

He hadn’t moved. He sat on the swing, one leg stretched out, the other bent lazily beneath him, arms slung across the backrest like he’d always belonged there. A cigarette burned between two fingers, the tip flaring orange as he dragged from it. The scent of it hit you—rich, earthy, and somehow foreign, like something imported from a place no longer on the map.

He didn’t look at you right away.

Then, slowly, he did.

Red eyes caught yours.

He smiled, small and slow, like he was reading a page of you he’d already memorized.

"Thought you’d shut the door by now," he said.

"I should have," you answered.

"But you didn’t."

His voice curled into the quiet.

You stepped out onto the porch, barefoot, the boards warm beneath your soles. He didn’t move to greet you. He didn’t rise. He just watched you walk toward him like he’d been watching in dreams you never remembered having.

The swing groaned as you sat down beside him, a careful space between you.

His shoulder brushed yours.

You stared straight ahead, out into the night. A mist was beginning to rise off the distant fields. The moon hung low and orange like a wound in the sky.

Somewhere in the bayou, a whippoorwill called, long and mournful.

"How long have you been watching me?" you asked.

"Since before you knew to look."

"Why now?"

He turned toward you. His voice was velvet-wrapped iron.

"Because now…you’re ripe for the pickin’.”

You didn’t remember falling asleep.

One moment you were on the porch beside him, listening to the slow groan of the swing and the way the crickets held their breath when he exhaled, the next you were waking in your bed, the sheets tangled around your legs like they were trying to hold you down.

The house was too quiet.

No birdsong. No creak of the windmill out back. No rustle of the sycamores that scraped against your bedroom window on stormy nights.

Just stillness.

And scent.

It clung to the cotton of your nightdress. Tobacco smoke, sweat, rain. Him.

You sat up slowly, pressing your hand to your chest. Your heart thudded like it was trying to remember who it belonged to. The lamp beside your bed had burned down to a stub. A trickle of wax curled like a vein down the side of the glass.

Your mouth tasted like smoke and guilt. Your thighs ached in that low, humming way—though you couldn’t say why. Nothing had happened. Not really.

But something had changed.

You felt it under your skin, in the place where blood meets breath.

The floor was cool under your feet as you moved. You didn’t dress. Just pulled a robe over your slip and stepped into the hallway. The house felt heavier than usual, thick with the ghost of his presence. Every corner held a whisper. Every shadow a shape.

You opened the front door.

The porch was empty.

The swing still rocked gently, as if someone had only just stood up from it.

A folded piece of paper lay on the top step, weighted down by a smooth river stone.

You picked it up with trembling hands.

Come.

That was all it said. One word. But it rang through your bones like gospel. Like a vow.

You looked out across the field. A narrow dirt road stretched beyond the tree line, overgrown but clear. You’d never dared follow it. That road didn’t belong to you.

It belonged to him.

And now…so did you.

You didn’t bring anything with you.

Not a suitcase. Not a shawl. Not a Bible tucked under your arm for comfort.

Just yourself.

And the road.

The hem of your slip was already damp by the time you reached the edge of the field. Dew clung to your ankles like cold fingers, and the earth was soft beneath your feet—fresh from last night’s storm, the kind that never really breaks the heat, only deepens it. The moon had gone down, but the sky was beginning to bruise with that blue-black ink that comes before sunrise. Everything smelled like wet grass, magnolia, and the faint rot of old wood.

The path curved, narrowing as it passed through trees that leaned in too close. Their branches kissed above you like they were whispering secrets into each other’s leaves. Spanish moss hung like veils from the oaks, dripping silver in the fading dark. It made the world feel smaller. Quieter. As if you were walking into something sacred—or something doomed.

A crow cawed once in the distance. Sharp. Hollow. You didn’t flinch.

There was no sound of wheels. No car waiting. Just the road and the fog and the promise you'd made.

And then you saw it.

The house.

Tucked deep in the grove, half-swallowed by vines and time, it rose like a memory from the earth. A decaying plantation, left to rot in the wet belly of the Delta. Its bones were still beautiful—white columns streaked with black mildew, a grand porch that sagged like a mouth missing teeth, shuttered windows with iron latches rusted shut. Ivy grew up the sides like it was trying to strangle the place. Or maybe protect it.

You stood there at the edge of the clearing, breath caught in your throat.

He’d brought you here.

Or maybe he’d always been here. Waiting. Dreaming of the moment you’d return to him without even knowing it.

A shape moved behind one of the upstairs curtains. Quick. Barely there.

You didn’t run.

Your bare foot found the first step.

It groaned like it recognized you.

The door was already open.

Not wide—just enough for you to know it had been waiting.

And you stepped inside.

The air inside was colder.

Not the kind of cold that came from breeze or shade—but from stillness, from the absence of sun and time. A hush so thick it felt like you were walking underwater. Like the house had held its breath for decades and only now began to exhale.

Dust spiraled in the faint light seeping through fractured windows, casting soft halos through the dark. The wooden floor beneath your feet was warped and groaning, but clean. Not in any natural sense—there was no broom that had touched these boards. No polish or soap.

But it had been kept.

The air didn’t smell like rot or mildew. It smelled like cedar. Like old leather. And deeper beneath that, like him.

He hadn’t lit any lamps.

Just the fireplace, burning low, glowing embers pulsing orange-red at the back of a cavernous hearth. The flame danced shadows across the faded wallpaper, peeling in long strips like dead skin. A high-backed chair faced the fire, velvet blackened from age, its silhouette looming like something alive.

You swallowed, lips dry, and stepped further in.

Your voice didn’t carry. It didn’t even try.

Remmick was nowhere in sight.

But he was here.

You could feel him in the walls, in the way the house seemed to lean closer with every step you took.

You passed through the parlor, past a dusty grand piano with one ivory key cracked down the middle. Past oil portraits too old to make out, their eyes blurred with time. Past a single vase of dried wildflowers, colorless now, but carefully arranged.

You paused in the doorway to the drawing room, your hand resting lightly on the frame.

A whisper of air moved behind you.

Then—

A hand.

Not grabbing. Not harsh. Just the light press of fingers against the small of your back, palm flat and warm through the thin cotton of your slip.

You froze.

He was behind you.

So close you could feel his breath at your neck. Not warm, not cold—just present. Like wind through a crack in the door. Like the memory of a touch before it lands.

His voice was low, close to your ear.

"You came."

You didn’t answer.

"You always would have."

You wanted to say no. Wanted to deny it. But you stood there trembling under his hand, your heartbeat so loud you were sure he could hear it.

Maybe that was why he smiled.

He stepped around you slowly, letting his fingers graze the side of your waist as he moved. His eyes glinted red in the firelight, catching on you like a flame drawn to dry kindling.

He looked at you like he was already undressing you.

Not your clothes—your will.

And it was already unraveling.

You’d suspected he wasn’t born of this soil.

Not just because of the way he moved—like he didn’t quite belong to gravity—but because of the way he spoke. Like time hadn’t worn the edges off his words the way it had with everyone else. His voice curled around vowels like smoke curling through keyholes. Rich and low, but laced with something older. Something foreign. Something that made the hair at the nape of your neck rise when he spoke too softly, too close.

He didn’t speak like a man from the Delta.

He spoke like something older than it.

Older than the country. Maybe older than God.

Remmick stopped in front of you, lit only by firelight.

His eyes had dulled from red to something deeper—like old garnet held to a candle. His shirt was open at the collar now, suspenders hanging slack, the buttons on his sleeves rolled to his elbows. His forearms were dusted with faint scars that looked like they had stories. His skin was pale in the glow, but not lifeless. He looked like marble warmed by touch.

He studied you for a long time.

You weren’t sure if it was your face he was reading, or something beneath it. Something you couldn’t hide.

"You look just like your mother," he said finally.

Your breath caught.

"You knew her?"

A soft smirk curled at the corner of his mouth.

"I’ve known a lot of people, dove. I just never forget the ones with your blood."

You didn’t ask what he meant. Not yet.

There was something heavy in his tone—something laced with memory that stretched back far further than it should. You had guessed, years ago, in the sleepless weeks after that alleyway miracle, that he was not new to this world. That his youth was a trick of the skin. A lie worn like a mask.

You’d read every folklore book you could get your hands on. Every whisper of vampire lore scratched into the margins of ledgers, stuffed between church hymnals, scribbled on the backs of newspapers.

Some said they aged. Slowly. Elegantly.

Others said they didn’t age at all. That they existed outside time. Beyond it.

You didn’t know how old Remmick was.

But something in your bones told you the truth.

Five hundred. Six hundred, maybe more.

A man who remembered empires. A man who had watched cities rise and burn. Who had danced in plague-slick ballrooms and kissed queens before they were beheaded. A man who had lived so long that names no longer mattered. Only debts. And blood.

And you’d given him both.

He stepped closer now, slow and deliberate.

"Yer heart’s gallopin’ like it thinks I’m here to take it."

You flinched. Not because he was wrong. But because he was right.

"You said you didn’t want my blood," you whispered.

"I don’t." He tilted his head. "Not yet."

"Then what do you want?"

His smile didn’t reach his eyes.

"You."

He said it like it was a simple thing. Like the rain wanting the river. Like the grave wanting the body.

You swallowed hard.

"Why me?"

His gaze dragged down your frame, unhurried, like a man admiring a painting he’d stolen once and hidden from the world.

"Because you belong to me. You gave yourself freely. No bargain’s ever tasted so sweet."

Your throat tightened.

"I didn’t know what I was agreeing to."

"You did," he said, softly now, stepping close enough that his chest nearly brushed yours. "You knew. Your soul knew. Even if your head didn’t catch up."

You opened your mouth to protest, to say something, anything that would push back this slow suffocation of certainty—

But his hand came up to your jaw. Fingers feather-light. Not forcing. Just holding. Just there.

"And you’ve been thinkin’ about me ever since," he said.

Not a question. A statement.

You didn’t answer.

He leaned in, his breath ghosting over your cheek, his voice a rasp against your ear.

"You dream of me, don’t you?"

Your hands trembled at your sides.

"I don’t—"

"You wake wet. Ache in your belly. You don’t know why. But I do."

You let your eyes fall shut, shame burning behind them like fire.

"Fuckin’ knew it," he murmured, almost reverent. "You smell like want, dove. You always have.”

His hand didn’t move. It just stayed there at your jaw, thumb ghosting slow along the hollow beneath your cheekbone. A touch so gentle it made your knees ache. Because it wasn’t the roughness that undid you—it was the restraint.

He could’ve taken.

He didn’t.

Not yet.

His gaze held yours, slow and unblinking, red still smoldering in the center of his irises like the dying core of a flame that refused to go out.

"Say it," he murmured.

Your lips parted, but nothing came.

"I can smell it," he said, voice low, rich as molasses. "Your shame. Your want. You’ve been livin’ like a nun with a beast inside her, and no one knows but me."

You hated how your breath stuttered. Hated more that your thighs pressed together when he said it.

"Why do you talk like that," you whispered, barely able to get the words out, "like you already know what I’m feeling?"

His fingers slid down, grazing the side of your neck, stopping just before the pulse thudding there.

"Because I do."

"That’s not fair."

He smiled, slow and crooked, nothing kind in it.

"No, dove. It ain’t."

You hated him.

You hated how beautiful he was in this light, sleeves rolled, veins prominent in his arms, shirt hanging open just enough to show the faint line of a scar that trailed beneath his collarbone. A body shaped by time, not by vanity. Not perfect. Just true. Like someone carved him for a purpose and let the flaws stay because they made him real.

He looked like sin and the sermon that came after.

Remmick moved closer. You didn’t retreat.

His hand flattened over your sternum now, right above your heartbeat, the warmth of him pressing through the cotton of your slip like it meant to seep in. He leaned down, mouth near yours, not kissing, just breathing.

"You gave yourself to me once," he said. "I’m only here to collect the rest."

"You saved my brother."

"I saved you. You just didn’t know it yet."

A shiver rippled down your spine.

His hand moved lower, skimming the curve of your ribs, hovering just at the soft flare of your waist. You could feel the heat rolling off him like smoke from a coalbed. His body didn’t radiate warmth the way a man’s should—but something older. Wilder. Like the earth’s own breath in summer. Like the hush of a storm right before it split the sky.

"And if I tell you no?" you asked, barely more than a breath.

His eyes flicked to yours, unreadable.

"I’ll wait."

You weren’t expecting that.

He smiled again, this time softer, almost cruel in its patience.

"I’ve waited centuries for sweeter things than you. But that don’t mean I won’t keep my hands on you ‘til you change your mind."

"You think I will?"

"You already have."

Your chest rose sharply, breath stung with heat.

"You think this is love?"

He laughed, low and dangerous, the sound curling around your ribs.

"No," he said. "This is hunger. Love comes later."

Then his mouth brushed your jaw—not a kiss, just the graze of lips against skin—and every nerve in your body arched to meet it.

Your knees buckled, barely.

He caught your waist in one hand, steadying you with maddening ease.

"I’m gonna ruin you," he whispered against your throat, his nose dragging lightly along your skin. "But I’ll be so gentle the first time you’ll beg me to do it again."

And God help you—

You wanted him to.

The house didn’t sleep.

Not the way houses were meant to.

It breathed.

The walls exhaled heat and memory, the floors creaked even when no one stepped, and somewhere in the rafters above your room, something paced slowly back and forth, back and forth, like a beast too restless to settle. The kind of place built with its own pulse.

You’d spent the rest of the night—if you could call it that—in a room that wasn’t yours, wearing nothing but a cotton shift and your silence. You hadn’t asked for anything. He hadn’t offered.

The room was spare but not cruel. A basin with a water pitcher. A four-poster bed draped in a netting veil to keep out the bugs—or the ghosts. The mattress was soft. The sheets smelled faintly of cedar, firewood, and something else you didn’t recognize.

Him.

You didn’t undress. You lay on top of the blanket, fingers threaded together over your belly, the thrum of your heartbeat like a second mouth behind your ribs.

Your door had no lock. Just a handle that squeaked if turned. And you hated how many times your eyes flicked toward it. Waiting. Wanting.

But he never came.

And somehow, that was worse.

Morning broke soft and gray through the slatted shutters. The sun didn’t quite reach the corners of the room, and the light that filtered in was the color of dust and river fog.

When you finally stepped out barefoot into the hall, the house was already awake.

There was a scent in the air—coffee. Burned sugar. The faintest curl of cinnamon. Something sizzling in a skillet somewhere.

You followed it.

The kitchen was enormous, all brick hearth and cast iron and a long scarred table in the center with mismatched chairs pushed in unevenly. A window hung open, letting in a breath of swamp air that rustled the lace curtain and kissed your ankles.

Remmick stood at the stove with his back to you, sleeves still rolled to the elbow, suspenders crossed low over his back. His shirt was half-unbuttoned and clung to his sides with the cling of heat and skin. He moved like he didn’t hear you enter.

You knew he had.

He reached for the pan with a towel over his palm and flipped something in the cast iron with a deft flick of the wrist.

"Hope you like sweet," he said, voice thick with morning. "Ain’t got much else."

You didn’t speak. Just stood there in the doorway like a ghost he’d conjured and forgotten about.

He turned.

God help you.

Even like this, barefoot, collar open, hair mussed from sleep or maybe just time—he looked unreal. Like a sin someone had tried to scrub out of scripture but couldn’t quite forget.

"Sleep alright?" he asked.

You gave a small nod.

He looked at you a moment longer. Then—

"Sit down, dove."

You moved toward the table.

His voice followed you, lazy but pointed.

"That’s the wrong chair."

You paused.

He nodded to one at the head of the table—old, high-backed, carved with curling vines and symbols you didn’t recognize.

"That one’s yours now."

You hesitated, then lowered yourself into it slowly. The wood groaned under your weight. The air in the kitchen felt thicker now, tighter.

He brought the plate to you himself.

Two slices of skillet cornbread, golden and glistening with syrup. A few wild strawberries sliced and sugared. A smear of butter melting slow at the center like a pulse.

He set the plate in front of you with a quiet care that felt almost obscene.

"You ain’t gotta eat," he said, leaning against the table beside your chair. "But I like watchin’ you do it."

You picked up the fork.

His eyes stayed on your mouth.

The cornbread was still warm.

Steam curled from it like breath from parted lips. The syrup pooled thick at the edges, dripping off the edge of your fork in slow, amber ribbons. It stuck to your fingers when you touched it. Sweet. Sticky. Sensual.

You brought the first bite to your mouth, slow.

Remmick didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His eyes tracked the motion like a starving man watching someone else’s feast.

The bite landed soft on your tongue—golden crisp on the outside, warm and tender in the middle, butter melting into every pore. It was perfect. Unreasonably so. And somehow you hated that even more. Because nothing about this should’ve tasted good. Not with him watching you like that. Not with your body still humming from the memory of his voice against your skin.

But you swallowed.

And he smiled.

"Good girl," he murmured.

You froze. The fork paused just above the plate.

"You don’t get to say things like that," you whispered.

"Why not?"

Your fingers tightened around the handle.

"Because it sounds like you earned it."

He chuckled, low and easy. A slow roll of thunder in his chest.

"Think I did. Think I earned every fuckin’ word after draggin’ you out that night and lettin’ you walk away without layin’ a hand on you."

You looked up sharply, heat crawling up your neck.

"You shouldn’t have touched me."

"I didn’t," he said. "But I wanted to. Still do."

Your breath caught.

His knuckles brushed the edge of your plate, slow, casual, like he had all the time in the world to make you squirm.

"And I know you want me to," he added, voice low enough that it coiled under your ribs and settled somewhere molten in your belly.

You pushed the plate away.

He didn’t flinch. Just reached forward and dragged it back in front of you like you hadn’t moved it at all.

"You eat," he said, gentler now. "You need it. House takes more from you than it gives."

You glanced around the kitchen, suddenly uneasy.

"You talk about it like it’s alive."

He gave a slow nod.

"It is. In a way."

"How?"

He looked down at your plate, then back at you.

"You’ll see."

You pushed another bite past your lips, slower this time, aware of the weight of his gaze with every chew, every swallow. You didn’t know why you obeyed. Maybe it was easier than defying him. Maybe it was because some part of you wanted him to keep watching.

When the plate was clean, he reached out and caught your wrist before you could stand.

Not hard. Not even firm. Just…inevitable.

"You full?" he asked, his voice all smoke and sin.

You nodded.

His eyes darkened.

"Then I’ll have my taste next."

Your breath lodged sharp in your throat.

He said it like it meant nothing. Like asking for your pulse was no more intimate than asking for your hand. But there was a glint in his eye—red barely flickering now, but still there—and it told you everything.

He was done pretending.

You didn’t move. Not right away.

His fingers were still wrapped around your wrist, light but unyielding, the pad of his thumb grazing the fragile skin where your pulse drummed loud and frantic. Like it wanted to leap out of your veins and spill into his mouth.

You swallowed hard.

"You said you didn’t want blood."

"I don’t."

"Then what do you want?"

"You."

You watched him now, trying to make sense of what you wanted.

And what terrified you was this—

You didn’t want to run.

You wanted to know how it would feel.

To give something he couldn’t take without permission.

To see if your body could handle the worship of a mouth like his.

Remmick’s other hand came up slow, brushing hair from your cheek, his knuckles rough and reverent.

"You said I smelled like want," you whispered.

"You do."

"What do you smell like?"

He leaned in, mouth near your throat again, his nose dragging along your skin, slow, as if he were drawing in the scent of your soul.

"Rot. Hunger. Regret," he said. "Old things that don’t die right."

You shivered.

"And still I want you," you breathed.

He pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes.

"That’s the worst part, ain’t it?"

You didn’t answer.

Because he was right.

His hand slid down to your elbow, then lower, tracing the curve of your waist through the thin fabric. His touch was warm now, or maybe your body had just given up trying to tell the difference between threat and thrill.

He guided you up from the chair.

Didn’t yank. Didn’t drag.

Just stood and took your hand like a dance was beginning.

"Come with me," he said.

"Where?"

"Somewhere I can kneel."

Your heart stuttered.

He led you through the house, down the long hallway past doorways that watched like eyes. The floor groaned underfoot, the air thickening around your shoulders as he brought you deeper into the home’s belly. You passed portraits whose paint had faded to shadows, velvet drapes drawn tight, mirrors that refused to hold your reflection quite right.

The door at the end of the hall was already open.

Inside, the room was dark.

Just one candle lit, flickering low in a glass jar, its light catching the edges of something silver beside the bed. An old bowl. A cloth. A pair of gloves, yellowed from time.

A ritual.

Not violent.

Intimate.

Remmick turned toward you, his face bare in the soft light. He looked younger. More human. And somehow more dangerous for it.

"Sit," he said.

You sat.

He knelt.

And then his hands found your knees.

His hands rested on your knees like they belonged there. Not demanding. Not prying. Just there. Anchored. Reverent.

The candlelight licked up his jaw, catching in the hollows of his cheeks, the deep shadow beneath his throat. He didn’t look like a man. He looked like a story told by firelight—half-worshipped, half-feared. A sinner in the shape of a saint. Or maybe the other way around.

His thumbs made a slow pass over the inside of your thighs, just above the knee. Barely pressure. Barely touch. The kind of contact that made your breath feel too loud in your chest.

"Yer too quiet," he murmured.

"I don’t know what to say," you whispered back.

His gaze lifted, locking with yours, and in that moment the whole room seemed to still.

"Ya ain’t gotta say a damn thing," he said. "You just need to stay right there and let me show ya what I mean when I say I don’t want yer blood."

Your lips parted, but no sound came.

He leaned in, slow as honey in the heat, until his mouth hovered just above your knee. Then lower. His breath ghosted over your skin, warm and maddening.

You didn’t realize you were holding your breath until he pressed a single kiss just above the bone.

Your lungs stuttered.

His lips trailed higher.

Another kiss.

Then another.

Each one higher than the last, until your legs opened on instinct, until you felt the hem of your slip being eased upward by hands that moved with worshipful patience. Like he wasn’t just undressing you—he was peeling back a veil. Unwrapping something sacred.

"You ever had someone kneel for ya?" he asked, voice rough now. Thicker.

You shook your head.

He smiled like he already knew the answer.

"Good. Let me be the first."

He kissed the inside of your thigh like it meant something. Like you meant something. Like your skin wasn’t just skin, but a prayer he intended to answer with his mouth.

The air was too hot. Your thoughts slid loose from the edges of your mind. All you could do was breathe and feel.

He looked up at you once more, red eyes burning low, and said—

"You gave yerself to me. Let me taste what I already own."

And then he bowed his head, mouth meeting the softest part of you, and the rest of the world disappeared.

His mouth touched you like he’d been dreaming of it for years. Like he’d earned it.

No rush. No hunger. Just that first velvet press of his lips against the tender center of you, reverent and slow, like a kiss to a wound or a confession. He moaned, low and guttural, into your skin—and the sound of it vibrated up through your spine.

He parted you with his thumbs, just enough to taste you deeper. His tongue slipped between folds already slick and aching, and he groaned again, this time with something like gratitude.

"Sweet as I fuckin’ knew you’d be," he rasped, voice hot against your core.

Your hands gripped the edge of the chair. Wood bit into your palms. Your head tipped back, eyes fluttering shut as your thighs trembled around his shoulders.

He didn’t stop.

He licked you with patience, with purpose, like he was reading scripture written between your legs—each flick of his tongue slow and deliberate, every pass perfectly placed, building pressure inside you with maddening precision.

And all the while, he watched you.

When your head dropped forward, you found him staring up at you. Red eyes glowing low, heavy-lidded, mouth glistening, jaw tense with restraint. He looked ruined by the taste of you.

"Look at me," he said. "Wanna see you fall apart on my tongue."

Your breath hitched, hips rocking forward on instinct, chasing his mouth. He growled low and deep in his chest, gripping your thighs tighter.

"That’s it, dove," he murmured. "Don’t run from it. Give it to me."

He flattened his tongue and dragged it slow, then circled the swollen peak of your clit with the tip, teasing you to the edge and pulling back just before it broke.

You whined. Desperate.

He smirked against your cunt.

"You want it?" he asked, voice thick. "Say it."

Your lips barely formed the word—"Please."

He hummed in approval.

Then he devoured you.

No more teasing. No more pacing. Just his mouth fully locked on you, tongue relentless now, lips sealing around your clit while two fingers slid into you with that obscene, perfect pressure that made your body jolt.

You cried out, gasping, your thighs tightening around his head as the world tipped sideways.

"That’s it," he groaned, curling his fingers just right. "Cum f’r me, girl. Let me taste what’s mine."

And when it hit—

It hit like a fever. Like lightning. Like your soul cracked in half and bled straight into his mouth.

You broke with a cry, hips bucking, your fingers tangled in his hair as wave after wave crashed through you.

He didn’t stop. Not until your thighs twitched and your breath came in ragged little sobs, not until your body went limp in his hands.

Then, finally—finally—he pulled back.

His lips were wet. His eyes were feral. And he looked at you like a man who’d just fed.

"You’re fuckin’ divine," he whispered. "And I ain’t even started ruinin’ you yet."

The room pulsed with quiet. The candle flickered low, flame swaying as if it too had held its breath through your unraveling.

Your body felt boneless. Glazed in sweat. Your pulse echoed everywhere—in your wrists, your throat, between your legs where he’d buried his mouth like a man sent to worship. You weren’t sure how long it had been since you’d spoken. Since you’d breathed without shaking.

Remmick still knelt.

His hands were on your thighs, thumbs drawing idle circles into your skin like he couldn’t bear to stop touching you. His head was bowed slightly, but his eyes were on you—watchful, reverent, hungry in a way that had nothing to do with the softness between your legs and everything to do with something older. Something darker.

He looked drunk on you.

You opened your mouth to speak, but your voice caught on the edge of a sigh.

He beat you to it.

"Reckon you know what’s comin’ next," he murmured.

You didn’t answer.

He rose from his knees in one slow, unhurried motion. There was a heaviness to him now, a tension rolling just beneath his skin, like a dam about to split. He reached up with one hand and wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of it—then licked the taste from his thumb like it was honey off the comb.

You watched, breath held tight in your chest.

He stepped closer. You stayed seated, knees still parted, your slip pushed up indecently high, but you didn’t fix it. Didn’t move at all. The heat between your legs hadn’t faded. If anything, it curled deeper now, thicker, laced with something close to fear but not quite.

He stopped in front of you.

Tilted his head slightly.

"How’s yer heart?"

You blinked.

"It’s…fast," you whispered.

He smiled slow. Not mocking. Not soft either.

"Good. I want it fast."

Your throat tightened.

"Why?"

He leaned in, hands bracing on either side of your chair, body boxing you in without touching.

"‘Cause I want yer blood screamin’ for me when I take it."

Your breath caught somewhere between your ribs.

He didn’t touch you yet—didn’t need to. The weight of his body, caging you in without a single finger laid, made your skin flush from your chest to your knees. Every inch of you throbbed with awareness. Of him. Of your own pulse. Of the air cooling the places he’d worshiped with his mouth not moments before.

You swallowed.

"You said you’d wait," you whispered.

He nodded once, slowly, his eyes never leaving yours.

"I did. And I have. But yer body’s already beggin’ for me. Ain’t it?"

You hated that he was right. That he could feel it somehow. Not just see the tremble in your thighs or the way your lips parted when he leaned closer—but that he could feel it in the air, like scent, like vibration.

You lifted your chin, barely.

"I’m not scared."

He chuckled low, and it rumbled through your bones.

"Good. But I don’t need ya scared, dove. I need ya open."

He raised one hand then, slow as scripture, and brushed his knuckles along the column of your throat. Just a whisper of contact, a ghost’s touch. Your head tilted for him without thinking, baring your neck.

"Right here," he murmured. "Right where it beats loudest. That’s where I wanna taste ya."

You shivered.

He bent down, mouth near your pulse. His breath was warm, slow, drawn in like he was savoring you already.

"I ain’t gonna hurt ya," he said. "Not unless you want it."

Your fingers twisted in your lap.

"Will it—" you started, but the question got tangled.

He smiled against your skin.

"Will it feel good?"

You said nothing.

"You already know."

You did.

Because everything with him did. Every word. Every look. Every touch. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t holy. But it was real. It lived under your skin like rot and root and ruin.

You nodded once.

"Then take it."

Remmick stilled.

And then his lips pressed to your throat. Not with hunger. With reverence. Like a blessing.

"That’s my girl," he breathed.

And then he bit.

It wasn’t pain.

It was pressure, first.

A deep, aching pull that bloomed just beneath the skin, right where his mouth latched onto you. His lips sealed tight around your throat, and then—sharpness. Two points sinking in like teeth through silk. Like sin through flesh.

You gasped.

Not from fear. Not even from the sting. But from the rush.

Heat burst behind your eyes, white and sudden and dizzying. Your hands flew to his shoulders, clinging, grounding, anchoring you to something real while your mind drifted into something else—something otherworldly.

The pull came next.

A steady rhythm, slow and patient, like he was sipping you instead of drinking. Like he had all the time in the world. You could feel it, the way your blood left you in waves, not violent, not greedy—just…intimate. Like giving. Like surrender.

He groaned low against your neck, the sound vibrating through your bones.

"Fuck, you taste like sunlight," he rasped against your skin, voice thick with hunger and awe. "Like everythin’ warm I thought I’d forgotten."

Your head tipped further, offering him more.

You didn’t know when your legs opened wider, or when your hips rocked forward just to feel more of him. But his body shifted instinctively, meeting yours with a growl, his hand gripping your thigh now, possessive and unrelenting.

Your pulse faltered. Not from weakness, but from pleasure. From the unbearable knowing that he was inside you now, in the most ancient way. That your body had opened to him, and your blood had welcomed him.

Your moan was breathless.

"Remmick—"

He shushed you, mouth never leaving your throat.

"Don’t speak, dove. Just feel."

And you did.

You felt every lick. Every pull. Every sacred claim. You felt his tongue soothe where his fangs pierced, his hand slide higher along your thigh, his knee pushing between your legs until your breath stuttered out of you in something like a sob.

It was too much. It was not enough.

And when he finally pulled back, slow and reluctant, your blood on his lips like a mark, like a vow, he stared at you like you were holy.

Like he hadn’t fed on you.

Like he’d prayed.

The room was quiet, but your body wasn’t.

You felt every beat of your heart echo in the hollow where his mouth had been. A slow, reverent throb that pulsed through your neck, your chest, your thighs. It was like something had been lit beneath your skin, and now it smoldered there—glowing, aching, changed.

Remmick’s breath was uneven. His lips were stained red, parted just slightly, his jaw slack with something like awe. The burn of your blood still shimmered in his eyes, brighter now. Alive.

He looked undone.

And yet his hands were steady as he reached up, cupped your jaw in both palms, and tilted your face toward him. His thumb swept across your cheekbone like you might vanish if he didn’t touch you just right.

"You alright?" he asked, voice quieter now, roughened at the edges like a match just struck.

You nodded, though your limbs still trembled.

"I feel…" you swallowed, the word too small for what bloomed in your chest, "…warm."

He laughed, soft and almost bitter, and leaned his forehead against yours.

"You should. You’re inside me now. Every drop of you."

The words rooted somewhere deep. You didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. You could still feel the heat of his mouth, the bite, the pleasure that followed. It wasn’t just lust. It wasn’t just surrender. It was something older. Something binding.

"Does it hurt?" you asked, your fingers brushing the side of his neck, the line of his collarbone slick with sweat.

He looked at you like you’d asked the wrong question.

"Hurt?" he echoed. "Dove, it’s ecstasy."

You stared at him.

"You mean for you?"

He shook his head once.

"For us."

Then he pulled back just enough to look at you—really look. His gaze swept your features like he was committing them to memory. As if this moment, this very breath, was something sacred. His fingers moved to your throat again, this time to the place just above the bite, and he pressed lightly.

"You’ll bruise here," he said. "Won’t fade for a while."

"Will it heal?"

"Eventually."

"Do you want it to?"

His mouth curved, slow and wicked.

"No," he said. "I want the world to see what’s mine."

And before you could reply—before the heat in your belly could cool or your mind could gather itself—he kissed you.

Not soft.

Not careful.

His mouth claimed you like he’d already been inside you a thousand times and wanted to do it a thousand more. He kissed you like a man starving. Like a creature who’d gone too long without flesh, and now that he had it, he wasn’t letting go.

You tasted your own blood on his tongue.

And it tasted like forever.

The house knew.

It breathed deeper now. Its wood swelled, its walls sighed, its floorboards creaked in time with your heartbeat—as though it had taken you in too, accepted your offering, and now it wanted to keep you just like he did. Not as a guest. Not as a lover.

As a belonging.

Remmick hadn’t let you go.

Not when the kiss ended. Not when your blood slowed in his mouth. Not when your knees gave and your body folded forward into him. His arms had caught you like he knew the shape of your collapse. Like he’d been waiting for it. Like he’d never let you fall anywhere but into him.

He carried you now, one arm beneath your legs, the other braced around your back, his chest solid against yours.

"Don’t reckon you’re walkin’ after all that," he muttered, gaze fixed ahead, voice gone syrup-slow and thick with something possessive.

You didn’t argue. You couldn’t.

Your head rested against the place where his heart should’ve beat. But it was quiet there. Not lifeless—just other.

He carried you past rooms you hadn’t seen. A library, long abandoned, lined with crooked books and a grandfather clock that had no hands. A parlor soaked in velvet and silence. A door nailed shut from the outside, something heavy breathing behind it.

You didn’t ask.

He didn’t explain.

The room he took you to was nothing like the others.

It wasn’t grand.

It was personal.

The windows here were narrow and high, soft light slanting through the dusty glass in thin gold ribbons. The bed was simple but large, the sheets dark, the frame iron-wrought and worn smooth by time. A single cross hung above the headboard—but it had been turned upside down.

He set you down like you were breakable. Sat you on the edge of the bed, knelt once more to remove the slip still clinging to your body, inch by inch, as if undressing you were a sacrament.

"Y’ever wonder why I picked you?" he asked, voice low as the hush between thunderclaps.

Your breath stilled.

"I thought it was the blood."

He shook his head, his hands pausing at your hips.

"Nah, dove. Blood’s blood. Yours sings, sure. But it ain’t why I chose."

He looked up then, red eyes gleaming in the half-light.

"You remind me of the last thing I ever loved before I died."

The words landed like a stone in still water.

They rippled outward. Slow. Wide. Deep.

You stared at him, breath shallow, your skin bare under his hands, your throat still warm from where he’d fed. The room held its silence like breath behind gritted teeth. Outside, somewhere beyond the high windows, something moved through the trees—branches bending, wind pushing low and humid across the land—but in here, it was only the two of you.

Only his voice.

Only your blood between his teeth.

"What…what was she like?" you asked.

His thumbs drew circles at your hips, but his eyes drifted, not unfocused—just distant. Remembering.

"She had a mouth like yours. Sharp. Didn’t know when to shut it. Always speakin’ when she should’ve stayed quiet." A smile ghosted across his lips. "God, I loved that. I loved that she ain’t feared me even when she should’ve."

He exhaled through his nose, slow.

"But she didn’t get to finish bein’ mine."

Your brows pulled.

"What happened to her?"

He looked back at you then, and the heat in his gaze returned—not hunger, not even desire, but something deeper. Possessive. Terrifying in its tenderness.

"They tore her from me. Burned her in a chapel. Said she was a witch on account’a what I’d given her."

Your heart dropped into your stomach.

"Remmick—"

"She didn’t scream," he said, voice rough. "Didn’t cry. Just looked at me like she knew I’d find her again. And I have."

You froze.

His hands slid higher, up your ribs, his palms reverent.

"I don’t believe in fate. Not really. But you—" he leaned in, lips brushing your jaw, voice low like a spell, "you make me wanna believe in things I ain’t allowed to have."

You whispered against the curl of his mouth.

"And what do you think I am?"

He kissed the hinge of your jaw.

"My penance," he said. "And my reward."

You shivered.

"You said you saved me."

He nodded.

"I did."

"Why?"

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, and his voice dropped to a near whisper.

"‘Cause I ain’t lettin’ another thing I love burn."

You didn’t realize you were crying until he touched your face.

Not with hunger, not with heat, but with the kind of softness that had no business living in a man like him. His thumb caught a tear on your cheek like he’d been waiting for it, like it meant something sacred.

"You ain’t her," he murmured. "But you feel like the same song in a different key."

His voice cracked a little at the edges, not enough to ruin the shape of it, just enough to prove that something in him still bled.

You reached up, fingers trembling, and cupped the side of his neck. The skin there was warmer now. Still inhuman, still not quite alive, but it held your heat like it didn’t want to give it back. You felt the ridges of old scars beneath your palm. The echo of stories not told.

"I don’t know what I’m becoming," you said.

He leaned into your hand, eyes half-lidded.

"You’re becomin’ mine."

Then he kissed you again—not like before. Not full of fire. But slow, like he had all the time in the world to learn the shape of your mouth. His lips moved over yours with a kind of tenderness that made your bones ache. A kind of reverence that said this is where I end and begin again.

When he pulled back, your breath followed him.

The room shifted.

You felt it. Like the house had exhaled too.

"Lie down," he said, voice softer than it had ever been. "Let me hold what I almost lost."

You obeyed.

You lay back against the sheets that smelled like him, like dust and dark and something unnameable. The iron bed creaked softly beneath you, and the candlelight trembled with the movement. He undressed with quiet purpose, shirt sliding from his shoulders, buttons undone by slow fingers, trousers falling away to bare the sharp planes of his body.

And when he climbed over you, it wasn’t to take.

It was to be taken.

Remmick hovered above you, breath warm at your lips, hands braced on either side of your head. He looked down at you like he was staring through time. Like you were something he'd pulled from the fire and decided to keep even if it burned him too.

You’re mine, he whispered, but didn’t say it aloud.

He didn’t have to.

His body said it.

His mouth said it.

And when he finally eased inside you, slow and steady, filling you inch by trembling inch—your soul said it too.

His body hovered just above yours, every inch of him trembling with a control you didn’t quite understand—until you looked into his eyes.

That red glow was dimmer now. No less powerful, but softened by something raw. Something reverent.

Not hunger.

Not lust.

Not even possession.

Devotion.

The kind that didn’t speak. The kind that buried itself in the bones and never left.

His hand slid down the side of your face, tracing the curve of your cheek, then the line of your jaw, calloused fingers lingering in the hollow of your throat where your heartbeat thudded wild and uneven.

"Still fast," he murmured, half to himself.

"You’re heavy," you whispered, not in protest, but in awe. Every breath you took was filled with him.

He smirked, the corner of his mouth twitching in that crooked, wicked way of his.

"Ain’t even layin’ on you yet."

You didn’t laugh. Couldn’t. Your body was stretched too tight, strung out with anticipation and need. Every inch of you burned.

He leaned down then, not to kiss you, but to breathe you in. His nose skimmed your cheek, the edge of your ear, the curve of your throat already marked by his bite. His hands traced your ribs, the sides of your waist, slow and steady, like he was trying to learn you by touch alone.

"You’re shakin'," he whispered, voice low, thick with something close to worship.

"So are you."

A pause.

Then softer—truthfully,

"Yeah."

He kissed the inside of your wrist, then the space between your breasts, then lower still—his lips reverent as they moved over your belly, your hipbone, the softest parts of you.

"You ever had someone take their time with you?" he asked, mouth against your skin.

You didn’t speak.

"Didn’t think so," he muttered. "Shame."

His hand slid between your thighs, spreading you again—not rushed, not greedy, just gentle. Like he knew he’d already had the taste of you and now he wanted the feel.

"Tell me if it’s too much," he said.

"It already is."

He looked up at you then, his face half-shadowed, half-lit, and something flickered in his eyes.

"Good."

His cock brushed against your entrance, hot and heavy, and you nearly arched off the bed at the first contact. Not even inside. Just there. Teasing. Pressed to the slick mess he'd made of you earlier with his mouth.

He groaned deep.

"Fuck, you feel like sin."

You reached for him, pulled him down by the back of his neck until your mouths were inches apart.

"Then sin with me."

He didn’t hesitate.

He began to press in—slow. Devastatingly slow. The head of his cock stretching you open with a care that felt like madness. His hands gripped your hips as if holding himself back took more strength than killing ever had.

He moved in inch by inch, his breath hitched, jaw tight, sweat beginning to bead at his temple.

"Shit—ya takin’ me so good, dove. Just like that."

You moaned. Your fingers dug into his back. You were full of him and not even halfway there.

"Remmick—"

"I gotcha," he whispered. "Ain’t gonna let you break."

But he was already breaking you. Gently. Thoroughly. Beautifully.

He filled you like he’d been made for the task.

No sharp thrusts. No hurried rhythm. Just the unbearable slowness of it. The stretch. The burn. The drag of his cock as he sank deeper, deeper, deeper into you until there was nothing left untouched. Until your body stopped bracing and started opening.

You clung to him—hands fisted in the fabric of his shirt that still clung to his back, damp with sweat. He hadn’t even undressed all the way. There was something obscene about it, something holy, too—the way he kept his shirt on like this wasn’t about bareness, it was about belonging.

"That’s it," he rasped against your throat. "There she is."

Your moan was caught between breath and prayer.

He buried himself to the hilt.

And still—he didn’t move.

His hips pressed flush to yours, his breath shaky against your skin as he held himself there, nestled so deep inside you it felt like you���d never known emptiness before now. Like everything that came before this moment had just been the ache of waiting to be filled.

"You feel that?" he whispered, voice thick, almost reverent. "Where I am inside ya?"

You nodded. Couldn’t find your voice.

His lips brushed the shell of your ear.

"Ain’t no leavin’ now. I’ll always be in ya. Even when I ain’t."

You whimpered.

Not from pain. From how true it felt.

He moved then—barely. Just a slow roll of his hips, a gentle retreat and return. It was enough to make your breath hitch, your body arch, your legs wrap tighter around him without thinking.

"That’s right, dove. Let me in. Let me have it."

You didn’t even know what it was anymore.

Your body?

Your blood?

Your soul?

You’d already given them all.

And still, he took more.

But not cruelly.

Like a man kissing the mouth of a well after years of thirst. Like a thief who knew how to make you feel grateful for the stealing.

He found a rhythm that made the air vanish from your lungs.

Slow. Deep. Measured. His hips grinding just right, dragging his cock against every place inside you that had never known such touch. Every stroke sang with heat. Every breath he took turned your name into something more than a sound.

"Fuck, I could stay in you forever," he groaned. "Like this. Warm. Tight. Mine."

You dug your nails into his shoulders, legs trembling.

"Please," you whispered, though you didn’t know what you were asking for.

He did.

"Beg me," he said, dragging his mouth down your neck, over the bite he’d left. "Beg me to make you come with my cock in you."

"Remmick—"

"Say it."

You were already gone. Already shaking. Already his.

"Make me come," you breathed. "Please—God, please—"

His smile was sinful.

And then he fucked you.

His rhythm shifted—no longer slow, no longer sacred.

It was worship in the way fire worships a forest. The kind that devours. The kind that remakes.

Remmick braced a hand behind your thigh, hitching your leg higher as he thrust harder, deeper, dragging guttural sounds from his chest that you felt before you heard. The bed groaned beneath you, iron frame clanging soft against the wall in time with his hips. But it was your body that made the noise that filled the room—the gasps, the breaking sighs, the high whimper of his name torn raw from your throat.

He kissed your jaw, your collarbone, your shoulder, not like he was trying to be sweet but like he needed to taste every inch he claimed.

"You feel me in your belly yet?" he growled, words hot against your skin.

You nodded frantically, tears pricking the corners of your eyes from the sheer force of sensation.

"Say it," he panted, each thrust brutal and beautiful.

"Yes—yes, I feel you, Remmick, I—"

"You gonna come f’r me like a good girl?"

"Yes."

"Say my fuckin’ name when you do."

His hand slid between your bodies, finding your clit like he’d owned it in another life, and the moment his fingers circled that aching bundle of nerves, your vision went white.

Your body seized around him.

The sound you made was raw, wrecked, something no one but him should ever hear.

He kept fucking you through it, hissing curses through his teeth, chasing his own high with the rhythm of a man who’d waited centuries for the perfect fit.

And then he broke.

With your name groaned low and reverent in your ear, he came deep inside you, hips stuttering, breath ragged, body shuddering with the force of it. You felt every throb of his cock inside you, every spill of heat, every ounce of him taking root.

For a long, suspended moment, he didn’t move.

Only the sound of your breaths tangled together.

Your sweat mixing.

Your bodies still joined.

"That’s it," he whispered hoarsely, pressing his forehead to yours. "That’s how I know you’re mine."

The house exhaled around you.

The candle sputtered in its jar, flame dancing low and crooked, like even it had been made breathless by what it had witnessed. Somewhere in the walls, the wood groaned—settling. Sighing. Accepting.

You didn’t move. Couldn’t.

Your body was a temple razed and rebuilt in a single night, still pulsing with the memory of his mouth, his weight, the stretch of him inside you like a secret only your bones would remember. Every nerve hummed low and soft beneath your skin, like your blood hadn’t figured out how to move without his rhythm guiding it.

Remmick stayed inside you.

His body was heavy atop yours, but not crushing. His head tucked into the curve of your neck, the same place he’d bitten, the same place he’d worshipped like it held some holy truth. His breath came slow and ragged, the rise and fall of his chest matching yours as if your lungs had struck the same pace without meaning to.

"Don’t move yet," he muttered, voice wrecked and hoarse. "Wanna stay here just a minute longer."

You let your hand drift through his hair, damp with sweat, curls sticking to his forehead. You carded through them lazily, mind blank, heart full.

He pressed a kiss to your throat. Then another, just above your collarbone.

"You still with me?" he asked, quieter now.

You nodded.

"Good," he murmured. "Didn’t mean to fuck the soul outta ya. Just…couldn’t help it."

You let out the softest laugh, and he smiled into your skin.

His hand slid down your side, tracing the curve of your waist, your hip, the spot where your thigh met his. His fingers moved slowly, not with lust, but with a kind of quiet awe.

"Y’know what you feel like?" he whispered.

"What?"

"Home."

The word struck something inside you. Something tender. Something deep.

He lifted his head then, just enough to look down at you. His eyes had faded from red to something darker, something richer—garnet in low light. The kind of color only seen in blood and wine and promises too old to be remembered by name.

"You still think this is just hunger?" he asked.

You blinked at him, dazed.

"It was never just hunger," he said. "Not with you."

The silence between you was warm now.

Not empty. Not tense. Just quiet, the kind that comes after thunder, when the storm’s rolled through and the trees are still deciding whether to stand or kneel.

You felt it in your limbs—heavy, humming, holy. The afterglow of something you didn’t have language for.

Remmick hadn’t moved far.

He still blanketed your body like a second skin, one arm braced beneath your shoulders, the other tracing idle shapes across your hip as if he were still mapping the terrain of you. His cock, softening but still nestled inside, pulsed faintly with the last of what he’d given you.

And he had given you something. Not just release. Not just blood. Something older. Something that whispered now in the place between your ribs.

You turned your head to look at him.

His gaze was already on you.

"What happens now?" you asked, barely above a whisper.

He didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he ran the back of his fingers along your cheekbone, down the side of your neck, pausing over the place where his mark had already begun to bruise.

"You askin’ what happens tonight," he murmured, "or what happens after?"

You blinked slowly. "Both."

He let out a breath through his nose, the sound tired but not cold.

"Tonight, I’ll hold you. Long as you’ll let me. Won’t leave this bed unless you beg me to. Might even make ya cry again, if you keep lookin’ at me like that."

You flushed, and he smiled.

"As for after…"

He looked past you then, toward the ceiling, like the truth was written in the beams.

"Ain’t never planned that far. Not with anyone. Just fed. Fucked. Moved on."

"But not with me."

His eyes snapped back to yours. Serious now.

"No, dove. Not with you."

You swallowed the knot rising in your throat.

"Why?"

His jaw flexed, tongue darting briefly across his lower lip before he answered.

"‘Cause I been alone too long. Lived too long. Thought I was too far gone to want anythin’ that didn’t bleed beneath me."

He leaned closer, forehead resting against yours, his next words no louder than a ghost’s sigh.

"But you—you made me want somethin’ tender. Somethin’ breakable."

"That doesn’t make sense."

"Don’t gotta. Nothin’ about you ever has. And yet here you are."

You let your eyes drift shut, just for a moment, and whispered into the stillness between your mouths.

"So I stay?"

He didn’t hesitate.

"You stay."

The candle had burned low.

Its glow flickered long shadows across the walls—your bodies painted in gold and blood-tinged bronze, limbs tangled in sheets that still clung with sweat and want. The house had quieted again, the way an animal settles when it knows its master is content. Outside, the wind threaded through the trees in soft moans, like the Delta herself was eavesdropping.

Neither of you spoke for a while. You didn’t need to.

Your fingers traced lazy patterns across Remmick’s chest—over his scars, the slope of muscle, the faint rise and fall beneath your palm. You still half-expected no heartbeat, but it was there, slow and stubborn, like he’d stolen it back just for you.

He watched you. One arm draped across your waist, his thumb stroking your bare back like you might fade if he stopped.

"You still ain’t askin’ the question you really wanna ask," he said, voice rough from silence and sleep.

You paused.

"What question is that?"

He tipped his head toward you, resting his chin on his knuckles.

"You wanna know if I turned you."

Your heart gave a traitorous flutter.

"And did you?"

He shook his head.

"Nah. Not yet."

"Why not?"

His fingers stilled. Then resumed.

"’Cause you ain’t asked me to."

You looked up at him sharply.

"Would you?"

A long beat passed. Then he nodded once.

"If it was you askin’. If it was real."

Your breath caught.

"And if I don’t?"

His gaze didn’t waver.

"Then I’ll stay with you. ‘Til you’re old. ‘Til your hands shake and your bones ache and your eyes stop lookin’ at me like I’m the only thing that ever made you feel alive."

Your throat tightened.

"That sounds awful."

He smiled, slow and aching.

"It sounds human."

You looked at him for a long time. At the man who had killed, who had bled you, who had tasted every part of you—body and soul—and still asked nothing unless you gave it.

"Would it hurt?"

His hand slid up, fingers curling beneath your jaw, tilting your face to his.

"It’d hurt," he said. "But not more than bein’ without you would."

The quiet stretched long and low.

His words hung in the space between your mouths like smoke—something sweet and terrible, something tasted before it was fully breathed in.

Your chest rose and fell against his slowly, and for a long time, you said nothing. You just listened. To the house settling around you. To the wind curling past the windows. To the steady thrum of blood still echoing faintly in your ears.

And beneath it all—

You heard memory.

It came soft at first. A shape, not a sound. The slick thud of your knees hitting the alley pavement. The scream you didn’t recognize as your own. Your brother’s blood, warm and fast, pumping between your fingers like water from a broken pipe. His mouth slack. His eyes wide.

You remembered screaming to the sky. Not to God.

Just up.

Because you knew He’d stopped listening.

And then—

He came.

Out of nothing. Out of dark.

You remembered the slow scrape of his boots on the gravel. The silhouette of him under the weak yellow glow of a flickering streetlamp. You remembered the quiet way he spoke.

"You want him to live?"

You didn’t answer with words. You just nodded, crying so hard you couldn’t breathe. And he’d knelt—right there in the blood—and laid his hand flat against your brother’s chest.

You never saw what he did. Only saw your brother’s eyes flutter. Only heard his breath return, sudden and wet.

And then he looked at you.

Not your brother.

Remmick.

He looked at you like he’d already taken something.

And he had.

Now, years later, lying in the hush of his house, your body still joined to his, you could still feel that moment thrumming beneath your skin. The moment when everything shifted. When your life became borrowed.

You looked up at him now, breathing steady, lips parted like a prayer just barely forming.

"I’ve already given you everything."

He shook his head.

"Not this."

He pressed two fingers to your chest, right over your heart.

"This is still yours."

"And you want it?"

He didn’t smile. Didn’t look away.

"I want it to keep beatin’. Forever. With mine."

You stared at him.

You thought about that alley. About your brother’s eyes opening again.

About how no one else came.

And you made your choice.

"Then take it."

Remmick stilled.

"Don’t say it unless you mean it, dove."

"I do."

His voice was barely more than a breath.

"You sure?"

You reached up, touched his face, fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw.

"I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life."

His eyes shimmered—deep red now, alive with something wild and tender.

"Then I’ll make you eternal," he whispered. "And I’ll never let the world take you from me."

He didn’t rush.

Not now. Not with this.

Remmick looked at you like you were something rare—something holy—like he couldn’t believe you’d said it, even as your voice still echoed between the walls.

Then he moved.

Not with hunger. Not with heat.

With purpose.

He sat up, kneeling beside you on the bed, and pulled the sheet slowly down your body. His eyes drank you in again, but this time there was no heat in them. Just reverence. As if you were the altar, and he the sinner who’d finally been granted absolution.

"You sure you want this?" he asked one last time, voice soft, like the hush of water in a cathedral.

You nodded, throat tight.

"I want forever."

His jaw clenched. A tremble passed through him like he’d heard those words in another life and lost them before they were ever his.

He leaned down.

His hand cupped the back of your head, the other settled flat on your chest, palm over your heart.

"Close your eyes, dove."

You did.

And then���

You felt him.

His breath. His lips. The soft, cool press of his mouth against your neck. But he didn’t bite.

Not yet.

He kissed the mark he’d already left. Then higher. Then lower. Slow. Measured. Your body melted beneath him, your hands curling into the sheets.

And then—

A whisper against your skin.

"I’ll be gentle. But you’ll remember this forever."

And he sank his fangs in.

It wasn’t like the first time.

It wasn’t lust.

It wasn’t climax.

It was rebirth.

Pain bloomed sharp and bright—but only for a heartbeat. Then the warmth flooded in. Then the cold. Then the ache. Your pulse stuttered once, then surged. It was like drowning and being pulled to the surface at once. Like everything you’d ever been burned away and something older moved in to take its place.

He held you as it happened.

Cradled you like something delicate.

His mouth sealed over the wound, drinking slow, but not to feed. To anchor you. To tether you to him.

You felt yourself go limp. The world turned strange. Light and dark bled into each other. Your breath faded. Your heartbeat fluttered like wings against glass.

And then—

It stopped.

Silence.

Stillness.

And in the space where your heart had once beat…

You heard his.

Then—

Your eyes opened.

The world looked different.

Sharper.

Brighter.

Every shadow deeper. Every color richer. The candlelight burned gold-red and alive. The scent of the night air was so thick it choked you—smoke, soil, blood, him.

Remmick hovered above you, lips stained crimson, breathing hard like he’d just returned from war.

And when he looked at you—

You saw yourself reflected in his eyes.

He smiled.

"Welcome home, darlin’."

[cashmoneyyysstuff]

Kind of a request if you're taking those <3 Feel free to just vibe with me abt it tho instead lolll Idk how up to date you are with everything, but Katsuki's heart recovery and all that. Tbhhh I'm a little lost on it bc I'm not perfectly up to date with it all and have vague idea of it. But I feel like with the whole having to keep himself calm and stuff for his heart, he'd probably never really be 100% back to being able to constantly do things the way he was before. Like he'd have to take a day to relax his heart every once in a while when it's too overworked even when he's a pro. Imagine having to have him stay home when you notice his behavior's a little off. Like he's not acting feisty or trying to get into little play fights with you, because he's trying to stay calm without telling you. Idkkk, it's kinda cute to me (not the idea of a heart injury!) having him have to reluctantly take a day off bc you forced him to. Just turning on a corny little movie he grumbles about while cuddling with him. Or making him relax with you in anyway you can think of because you're not letting him leave yours sight until he starts feeling more okay.

heartbeat, my heartbeat..! ♡

synopsis : katsuki's stuck at home, and that sucks. but he's stuck at home with you, and that sucks way less.

an. okay twin first of all so sorry this is a really old ask i actually LOVED this ask sm...but then tumblr literally deleted my og draft and it made me lose inspo forever :> soz!!! i hope this makes up for it and that you enjoyed bc YOU KNOW I LOVE THIS!!!

cw. LIGHT MHA MANGA SPOILERS !! fluff, maybe a teeny bit suggestive ? kissing n smooches ! and into the spiderverse being my favourite movie, theres a little references to the movie towards the end :3

"you got a problem with your bladder today, too ?"

"...the hell are you on about ?"

katsuki scowls, looking down at you in surprise, his thumb rubbing your arm slows to a stop.

"oh katsuki, i'm not stupid. you've been to the bathroom like ten times since the movie started. if you wanted to watch another movie you could've said that." you giggle, desperately trying to hold in your laughter when he flushes at your accusations.

your boyfriend squints "...shut up an' watch your movie." he dodges, scoffing when you laugh.

katsuki's heartbeat is slightly irregular today, and you're watching spiderman into the spiderverse.

it's just slightly off beat, just a bit...off. not exactly in tune with your own when you try to match your breathing.

thump...ba-dump.....thump

just slightly off.

to him, it doesn't matter. it never does, because as long as he can keep moving he's good to go. as long as he could keep standing and as long as he was breathing nothing was impossible for him.

clearly, you don't think the same as him, you're watching spiderman across the spiderverse again.

it's a good movie, the best movie (in your humble opinion). and you're only watching it because katsuki had grumpily told you to "just pick whatever." when choosing a movie for your impromptu chill day but it's almost become a ritual of sorts, whenever katsuki gets a sick heart day, this has always been the movie you put on.

you've completely memorised the script by now but you're still just as excited about it. katsuki thinks that's the only good thing about being stuck in the house like this.

years ago, doctors had told him that while him surviving what he'd been through was a miracle, he was still only human. and being human meant giving his heart a break once in a while. once in a while, when his heartbeat felt too irregular and his chest ached just enough for it to feel uncomfortable and it'd hurt to breathe every few hours, he couldn't be dynamight anymore.

of course, to him, he was always going to be dynamight, day off or not, so you're here to remind him that on off days like this, he could just be katsuki. flesh and bone and slightly off kilter heart.

but katsuki had never been good at just...being: being quiet, being still...he'd never been the type to just sit still and watch a movie. he likes commenting on the acting or the characters actions, cus he would definitely not make the same mistake, but he's watched this movie so many times he didn't have much to say anymore. he's even caught himself repeating some of the lines with you under his breath. (it always makes you giggle when you catch him, but he pretends not to notice.)

besides that though, he's always a bit antsy, always ready to go and always on the move. which is always a bad combo for someone who desperately needs to sit down and rest.

that's why he was so quick to get up to "go to the bathroom"— you won't allow him to do anything else, because apparently he needs to do stupid stuff like "take it easy" and "rest"—just for an excuse to walk around and stretch his legs.

he's always ready to get up to grab you something to drink or eat from the kitchen before you can even stretch to do it. of course, you're always quick to tell him off "sit your ass down ! i got it." you'd laugh while he grumpily flops back into the couch and crossing his arms.

"if it's the bubble guts we have some—"

your boyfriend groans, he dips down to nip your ear "shut the fuck up. stop talking." you laugh, pushing him away weakly while he bites your ear.

"katsuki, stop being rowdy ! you need to—"

"yeah, yeah be careful. i fuckin' got it. yer startin' to sound like my damn doctor." he grumbles, he continues nosing around your neck to nibble at your skin like a dog.

"well, somebody has to remind you to take a chill pill once in a while. it's like you'll die if you're not moving, it's insane." you sigh, running your fingers through his hair when he settles down into your neck, breathing you in.

"you did not just say chill pill." he snorts, giggling into your neck.

you slap his back, biting back a snort "wh-so what if i did ?! shut up, you !" you desperately try to hold in your laugh but fail miserably and soon you both find yourself giggling like idiots on the couch.

when you both calm down, katsuki noses at your jaw, his teeth scrape against it. "m'fine y'know ? 'ts not like i'm incapable of doing anything. not gonna drop dead just because i'm moving too much," he mumbles a quick snarky "by your standards."

you sigh, he nudges his head against you, putting more of his weight onto you so you're taken in by his warmth completely.

"i know that...but i wish you knew when to..relax, you know ? you being here means a lot to a lot of people," you grab both sides of his face to get him to look up you "it means a lot to me. i need you to be healthy and ready to kick ass without risking anything happening to you."

his eyes soften when he looks at you, leaning into your palm after hearing your words "there's always gonna be risk, sweets. s'just what i gotta do."

"that doesn't mean i'm gonna let you chip away at yourself, not if i can stop it." you insist. "i've already almost lost you more than once, lord knows you've got no regard for your own safety, psycho."

your boyfriend flushes at the sincerity, he can't help looking away for a bit. you can tell he's got a snarky remark at the tip of his tongue, but he decides against saying anything, he leans into you more.

"y-yeah, yeah okay—i got it, alright ? i just...wanna be the best. and not just for this hero thing but for..." he trails off.

"for this...us..y'know ?"

he was just so cute, you're heart might start beating erratically next !

you smile sweetly, leaning forward to press a smooch to his nose "cutie." you coo.

"shaddup.." his nose bumps against you when he quickly leans up to get more of you "gimme a proper kiss, at least."

"you're so needy, whatever happened to saying please, hm ?"

katsuki grumbles, diving in for a wet long smooch, grabbing the back of your head to pull you against him. he pushes you downward to deepen the kiss, but you push his chest.

"kashukiii—" kiss "no—" muah ! "no—being rowdy !" you lecture in between kisses and giggles. your boyfriend groans. he pulls you up with him so you're positioned on his lap, hands on your hips.

"fine, just sit here then." he pats your sides, mouthing and kissing your neck. he squeezes your hips when you melt into him, humming into your mouth. his hands run up, up, up, 'till he gets under your shirt but he simply keeps them there, just to feel your skin. he pulls you to sit even closer, you can his heart beating against your own. slightly off kilter, not in sync. but you decide it was yours to protect like he'd protected you and so many others, until he'd be able to go off into the world and be dynamight again.

for now, you'll keep katsuki here with you.

thump...ba-dump.....thump

before katsuki can go back to taking the lead or possibly take things even further, you're pulling away suddenly with a squeal against his mouth.

"ou, ou wait ! this is my favourite part !"

"for fuck's sake...you watched this shit like four thousand times already !"

"katsukiii, you ever hear of the shoulder touch..?" you giggle pressing your hand and forehead against his. he rolls his eyes in response, but he's reminded of why he's doing all of this in the first place seeing you this happy and giggly. you win by saving right ? and katsuki would do anything to save your smile and keep it all to himself. so of course, he does the "hey..." with you at the same time.

you're the only reason days like this aren't hell on earth for him, no matter how many times you watch the same movie or how many times you joke about his bathroom trips, he wouldn't trade these days for anything else. despite how sometimes his chest aches and it hurts to breathe a little bit, you make him forget, even for a little while, and let him be your katsuki and your katsuki alone.

thump...ba-dump.....thump

taglist (if your names in bold i unfortunately couldn't tag you :(() :

@jastoo46 @cecelia77 @erenstitanweave @closehereyes @stoned-anime-babe @taxavoider @yannvi @sugurusmoon @allurearia @kaerotica @wonubby @cupidsblonde @catsoupki @ita606 @andysdrafts @omitea @lili-of-the-vally @serpent-hearted @ghostorchidd @shewki @pirana10 @witch-craft-works @kanvis @okkotsuus @dragonscribble @emmiesarchive @screaming-dough @napbatata @cacaandweewizzsstuff @redollface @meowsannie @katszumi @m-inluv @monchurie @the-hangry-otter @starlostlaiba @moonshuul @katsus-mistress @dondeh-zedonutqueen @liluvtojineteyam @aspiringwriter1111 @redvelvetstan1 @niktwazny303 @nemisimp @kit-katsukii @alphasage @milktea-academia @qyuin @bakugouswaif @themultifandomgirl @icey-wonders

[elliesglock]

ice analysis part ll | after pazzi cuddle

after pazzi cuddle:

this is when carol and ice start acting REALLY WEIRD. but baby truthfully im not looking at that cause what the hell is pazzi doing in the background? paige and azzi are kinda standing together behind the bar and paige is dancing for the camera. i assume azzi is trying to get her attention for a while before she shouts "PAIGE!" right into her ear. aweeee she not used to not having her girls attention. but azzi from the way paige is grinning and her eyes are looking in different directions i don't think she meant to ignore u baby trust 😭 she kinda pulls paige's face to look at whatever she's trying to show her and it lowkey looks like they either kiss again or get really close to doing it. ice covers it with her arm (babe the damage is already done but i appreciate you keeping them safe) and i honestly can't see what they're doing. i think they just got really close or had a little moment tbh. they were close and touchy this whole live so im not surprised. i don't think they're sober enough to even recognize they're being extremely obvious which says to me this is just an everyday natural thing for them. cause flirting w someone and showing ur true intentions while drunk is REAL. and pazzi showed their intentions and who they with too quick. okay so nothing really happens until this next part. it's brought up in the live about a guy named ryan, and that's who i am assuming kayla is talking to and maybe in an argument with. so this is when the two brainiacs azzi and kayla have the wonderful idea imo to give kayla a hickey to make him jealous. you can hear paige go "are you deadass right now?" which might not be directed at azzi or it could be why she later says to distract paige so she doesn't get mad when she gives her one. she legit says "can someone go distract paige? paige is gonna get mad." maybe paige is listening to their talk and is like are you deadass azzi no!! if it was just a friendly thing why would paige CARE who azzi's joking around and messing with. obv it's because she doesn't want her girlfriend to be giving hickeys and paige is also naturally possessive asf over azzi. in her head that stuffs only for her. especially after making out with her and the liquors flowing i'm sure she's even more feral and wants azzi all to herself. but before this you can hear someone come to paige and ask if "a's good?" which just seems so coupley to me. like you go up to someone's girlfriend and ask them if their girls too drunk. idk how they're gonna fix that because both of the girlies are drunk as a skunk. i think aubrey takes one for the team and goes to distract p because you can hear paige going "AUBREY AND I WE LOCKED IN BRUH". and during this time everyone's looking behind the bar giggling because im assuming azzi is giving her a hickey. you even hear yanna say "bro it's a movie when he gets here!". now just to preface this a FRIENDLY funny thing that is happening between friends i am not insinuating azzi is cheating on paige because that's not what's happening at all. before i get the warriors in my inbox. azzi says she needs a shot after that (no you don't babe) and she just gave kayla (and what it sounds like to me) a hickey. little tiny moment a couple minutes after this where ice shows a comment of someone saying paige and andre 👀? and her and carol laugh about it for like a minute cause they know who she with and what she doing in that bar. around the same time, where tf did paige and azzi go haven't we haven't seen them for a good five minutes....they in that bathroom for sure. ice evens reads a comment that asks where's paige and her and kayla kinda stumble over each other trying to figure out an answer.

first ice looks around and doesn't see her (she's w her girl making out in that bathroom im telling you), then kayla says she's playing cornhole, then ice says she's getting them shots. like okay keep joking but we know u fr don't know where paige is. and they also say they don't know where azzi is either. so my agenda that they've been making out this whole time in the bathroom or somewhere off the in corner shall prosper. then azzi and paige come walking back together and lemme just say they looking ROUGHHHH. paige comes dancing but they but they both look so tense and blushy. idk im convinced for sure they had something going on. lowkey ice was being hella careful for the rest of the live cause 1. we don't see paige and azzi again (i think that slight little kiss in the beginning started something elseeeeeee. like they eventually just had to go somewhere and take care of some business tbh) also the whole bar empties out from around her so someone had to of told their drunk asses to move away from the live.

i didn't really watch the end cause im lazy oops but lemme know if there's anything i needa add cause i didn't see anything else. thank you for reading guys! lemme know any thoughts you have!! 🤍

and with that L's in the chat for ice, i'm sorry this live continues to be your destiny and u also had deal w this drunk ass paige all night ❤️‍🩹

[ichorandpride]

#yes i reblogged this twice to let the op of the list know

@endersketch brother lmao there are TONS of ways to get ublock back onto chrome. as i already said: there are ALWAYS ways around stuff. it's just a matter of simply looking into it. for example:

stop using chrome lmao. switch to firefox instead. everything works over there and it's a hell of a lot faster of a browser. you can easily import everything too. given chrome's absolute bullshit, idk why people are still refusing to just. swap over as if it isn't an option. yes im aware that this goes against getting it back onto chrome but i have zero idea why people think chrome is the only option they have.

you can still use ublock origin if you had it previously installed. just select the "keep" option from the extensions menu.

ublock origin lite works and is still on the chrome store. the filters work the exact same, just enable them. input the same stuff and it's fine lol.

you can still install it onto chrome if you're into source coding and github stuff. im not into github stuff, the layout of that site irks me, so i cant help with that. but still. it's there.

stop using chrome lmao...

the majority of this information could be found with a quick search online, which was kind of a major point of my own addition to the post. hence why i said it's important to look these things up yourself.

none of this is informing me or is news to me so... trying to get my attention about this lots is kinda completely pointless. i mean this respectfully, but still.

i implore people to search for alternatives themselves, i implore people to not be afraid to just look things up with a search engine to get immediate answers and solutions.

wikipedia no longer being anywhere near the top of search results when looking up anything feels eviscerating

[lostinlovingrevery]

Entangle

Old Man Logan X F! Reader

Part 2 of Unraveling

He can't let you go without returning the favor

A/N: Lol idk why that glory hole fic has been haunting me. anyway here's part 2. may or may not be thinking of a part 3 already.... also this is fairly tame compared to my other smut but my smut feels rusty lately so !!!!!

Warnings: SMUT, unprotected piv, a little bit of a size kink im ngl, car sex, RIDING DICK!!!!!! logan likes to chat during sex lol, a tad breast play but not really, smoking, almost-creampie, maybe a tad of logan being a little obsessed with reader?

No good deed goes unpunished

Actually, no good deed goes unrewarded.

Logan just couldn’t let you go, not after that. Maybe he was an old pervert but his first taste of you and he was addicted. He had no qualms of admitting to you that it was him on the other side of the wall- but by the look of your face, you already knew. It remained unspoken, but there was tension in the air.  

“You’ve been begging me for a ride for a while now.” He says in a low voice, a small smirk growing on his face at the implication of his words. He placed a hand against the wall behind you, towering over you and observing you like prey. 

Your mouth fell open, and you stammered, your pretty eyes were blinking quickly- as if you couldn’t believe what you were seeing. He watched you glance down, and he could only imagine what you were picturing. 

He knew you enjoyed what you did to him in there- the way your tongue and lips wrapped around him. The hazy, unfocused look in your eyes that told him you were still pent up- the sweet, sweet scent of you was flooding his nose and making him more and more irritable that he wasn’t currently buried balls deep inside you at that moment. Your precious little heart was beating out of your chest.

He could give you so much more.

“I have…to see if I can get off.” You barely whispered, your voice caught in your throat. You couldn’t speak the way he was looking at you. 

“I’ll wait.” He raised a brow, staring down at you. You could barely hear him due to the chatter and music of the bar. A whole world was happening around you, but you could only focus on Logan.

The older man you have developed a crush on since he became a regular- not that you would admit it, or tell anyone. You liked his stoic, grumpy demeanor. His cute little glasses, and the small smiles that seemed reserved only for you. It gave you butterflies when you could draw it out of him. A warm compliment and a gentle touch of his hand and you’d see his ears flush red and just a hint of a smirk on his lips. 

You wondered, did he use that naughty thing in the bathrooms regularly- and by chance you were the lucky one to get a taste of the mysterious man?

Or did he go in, knowing that you were about to try it for the first time?

His hand came down from the wall, his index finger tucking under your chin and lifting it up, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip. 

“I’ll be in the car.” He says, removing his hand and turning away from you. 

You could barely watch him walk away, dropping your head as your eyes stared at his back. He entered the bar, and from the hall, you could see him pull out his wallet and pay his tab. 

When he disappeared from your view, that’s when you went to look for your boss. An excuse on your lips of not feeling well. Apparently, you weren’t good at hiding your feelings. Your boss noticed you did seem off, a certain fluster about your demeanor- better go home, get some rest.

“Slow now, darling.”

He cooed at you, hands holding onto your hips as you lowered down onto his cock. A small whine escaped, 

“I know, you can take it baby-” He leaned forward, pressing kisses into your neck and collarbone, his hand moved to rub your back soothingly. “You did such a good job earlier- Couldn’t let you get away without returning the favor.”

You thought he was big before- but now was a whole different story. He stretched you open in the most pleasurable way, a stinging feeling that slowly melted into something more. Making you feel fuller than you ever felt. It had been awhile for you after all. 

You joined him in the back of the limo, which he fortunately had parked in the far corner of the parking lot, where no light, and no other cars sat. You just hoped no nosy drunks or cops would show up, knocking on windows or shining lights inside and catching you and Logan in the act. You already never done this before, hooking up, hooking up with an older man, an older man that had been your customer for the last 4 months.

He was all ready for you. Sitting in the backseat, his legs spread and his cock stood erect. He was slowly stroking it and fuck even though you had been drooling all over it just 20 minutes ago, you wanted more. 

He had other ideas in mind. 

Made you completely undress, pulling you into his lap where his cock rested heavy against your belly. His hand went to the back of your neck, pulling you in for a sloppy kiss, all spit and tongue that made you moan and sent shivers down your spine. He would nip at your bottom lip, and then your jaw, and down to your neck, before going even lower and sucking on your nipples, his thumb rubbing circles into the one that his lips neglected. 

Once you were whining, grinding over his cock and soaking it with your arousal, his hands grabbed your hips, lifting you up and carefully brought you down over him. 

He watched with delight of your every expression as you came undone on his cock. Lowering yourself inch by inch, small gasps, quivering lips, your eyes squeezed shut. His hands soothed over your thighs. 

“You know what a pretty girl you are darling?” He purrs gently, “Whatchu doing out here with an old man like me?” 

Your hands tightened around his shoulders. You could barely think, as you nearly bottomed out on top of him. You opened your eyes, small pants escaping you. “I…I like you.” You managed. 

For the first time, Logan was the talker between you two. Normally, the nights he comes in- you’re filling the quiet between you with conversation. Anything and everything you could think of, whatever it is that would make him grunt in response, occasionally say his own opinion, or a funny remark about the topic that would make you laugh- louder than you probably should, the remark probably not being quite that funny, but you couldn’t help it. Anytime he was around and you felt like a teenage girl with her first crush, pulling out all the cheesy, stupid ways of flirting. Tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, playfully shoving his arm, 

Something worked though, now that you’re dumb on his cock. 

A small laugh escapes him. “Yeah, you like me, sweetheart?” 

A small nod, and his smile grew wider. A small thrust of his hips, and you were filled to the hilt with him. Your mouth fell open, and you wrapped your arms around his shoulders, leaning in closer. You could smell a mix of his cologne and natural musk- and it made you even more dizzy. 

“What do you like about me, hm?” 

You started to raise your hips, your weight falling on your knees as you circle over his tip, and you brought yourself back down, filling yourself with him again.

“Damn-” He hissed. His hands came to grip your ass, supporting you as you continue to raise your hips up and down. 

You wanted to answer his question- tell him everything you thought about him. How handsome you thought he is, how endearing his quiet nature and subtle self was. However, his cock was just the only thing you could think about. 

“Cocks got you all dumb huh?” His tone was filled with amusement. You lolled your head around, pressing your forehead against his shoulder. 

“You….You’re nice…” You murmured. 

“Nice?” 

A warm, deep chuckle sent a shock down your spine.  

“I’m not a very nice man, love. If I was, I wouldn’t be fucking you.”

The stretch melted into something more- warmth flooding through your body, down into your limbs, fingers and toes, and sent you spiraling. Your head fell onto his shoulder, searching for more warmth- more comfort that seemed an endless feeling being so close to him. Your hips began moving of their own accord, your body seeking for the pleasure- while your mind became static, mouth hanging open- drool slowly escaping down your lip. 

“Fuck you feel so good darling-” He hummed. He began thrusting up into you, letting you set the pace. “So damn warm, and wet. Been eager for this, haven’t you?”

“Mhm…” You barely responded. “You feel so good Logan…” 

A soft gasp escaped him, a small scoff of disbelief. He couldn’t tell you how long it been for him, since he had something so sweet- and you, fuck you were something else. He called you his favorite girl for your pretty smiles and nice compliments and the fact that you served him as much whiskey as he wanted. Now though, as he gets a taste of burying himself deep in your cunt, watching you become limp against him because his cock just felt that good. You were more than just his favorite. 

You were going to be his obsession. 

His hands firmly gripped your ass, as he pushed his hips down to the edge of the seat, leaning back onto the leather cusion of the limo seat he began mercilessly thrusting up into you. 

A chorus of whines and moans filled his ears. He could feel your heavy pants on his neck- your nails dug so deep into his shirt that he could feel the divots you were pressing into his back. Each thrust, your cunt got tighter around him, squeezing him so hard as if you were trying to keep him from pulling out. With the way you were whimpering in his ear, you probably were. 

Thank god you sucked him off earlier. He’s not sure he would’ve been able to last this long. 

Each thrust, as he drilled into your pussy sent you in another world. You felt that warmth in your belly, rising higher and higher as he angled himself into you, listening to your moans grow louder and making sure to hit that spot that seemed to make you happiest. 

Says he isn’t nice, but look how he’s taking care of me

That’s what you thought to yourself, closing your mouth as you realized you have drooled onto his shirt. You never felt this good, so comfortable, and warm. When you were talking to Angela earlier about “living a little”, you didn’t expect the night to turn out like this.

At least you can go brag about it later.

“C’mon darling-” He turns his head, lips pressed against your ear. “I wanna feel that pretty pussy cum all over this cock.” 

“Oh, Logan!” You cried out, his words hit the final nail- sending you off into fireworks. Your hands scratched at his shirt, nearly ripping the fabric apart, you buried your face into his neck. Sobs wracked your body as wave after wave of pleasure rolled over you- Logan ceaseless as he continued fucking you through it. Your limbs were frozen, taking every single thrust without complaint as he slams into you. 

A loud grunt, “where d’ya want it baby?” He groans. You could barely respond, hanging onto him with what little energy you had left. He moaned, just barely pulling out in time for ropes of cum to shoot out, some spilling over his cock, and some painting over your weeping pussy. 

You could hear him panting- practically gasping for air as he tried to catch his breath. Your hand stroked soothingly over his chest, an attempt to give him some comfort- wondering if he pushed himself too hard. It’s not like you don’t notice his limp, or hear the fits of coughing he goes into some nights. 

However, for an older gentleman like him, he sure knew how to fuck.

The breathing of both of you eased. You sat on his lap, wrapped in his arms surrounded by the darkness of the limo, only the occasional headlights of a car driving by that shown into the limo, highlighting you and Logan’s embrace. 

“Need a ride home?” He finally breaks the silence. 

It was a quiet drive. Logan helped you get dressed, cleaned you up with napkins he kept in the front. 

Once you were in the passenger seat, and buckled up. He lit up a cigar, smoking it the entire drive. It was a comfortable silence, similar to the times when the bar was nearly empty- just you, Logan, and the cook who was finishing up in the kitchen. Sometimes you didn’t feel the need to force conversation, just sat with him while you sorted the silverware and took inventory of drinks. Logan was just good company, even if he didn’t seem to think so. 

He however, wondered what the ever living fuck was wrong with him. Why did he let his dick do all the thinking for the last hour? Ruin something nice. Maybe he liked you, maybe he’s fucked his fist to the thought of you nearly every night since he met you. That didn’t give him the right to do this. 

When he turned onto your street, is when you spoke up again.

“This was really nice, Logan.” 

Your voice drew him out of his self-hatred. He looked at you, not saying anything at first as he took a puff on his cigar. 

“I mean, I don’t know about you but…I enjoyed everything.” You say softly. “I don’t do this much, or really at all. I’m glad it was with you.” 

He rolled to a stop in front of your house. You turned to look at it, then back at him. “Well I’ll…see you around?”

“Yeah, sweetheart.” He responds, flicking the rest of the cigar out the window. He opens his door- confusing you as he steps out and walks around the front, now opening your door for you. You smiled, grabbing your bag as you stepped out. 

“Thank you.” 

You leaned forward, kissing his cheek. Turning to your house you began to walk up the sidewalk, before stopping halfway up the walkway- feeling his stare on your back. You turned around, fiddling with your bag as you tilted your head. Logan was leaning against the Chrysler, and your eyes met. 

There was no reason for the night to be over yet. 

“Logan…Do you want to come in?”

[carto0ncritter]

I know we're supposed to view Stella as one dimensional and all, but what about these incestuous comments from Andrealalphus? I feel like they accidentally give her more depth.

The comments could imply that Andrealphus was weirdly sexual towards his sister before. If I grew up with a sibling who made sexual comments about me I'd turn out fucked up too

Not only this, but Andre probably kept insulting Stella's lack of intelligence for years, which explains why she cares so much about status and hates imps. She thinks she's got nothing else going for her, and the mere existence imps reminds her of who she doesn't want to be; worthless. So, Stella sees imps as worthless (because, in Hell's society, they ARE), and since Stolas cheated on her with one, that explains her outrage. If Stolas found a creature at the bottom of the barrel worthy enough to willingly sleep with him but could never show an ounce of enthusiasm while he had sex with her, that means she really IS worthless ─ worth less than an imp.

But the thing that confuses me is that the audience is supposed to believe Stella cares about her public image, but for some reason she had no problem talking smack about Stolas and their sex life in front of other rich people so idk. Shouldn't she avoid bringing up their terrible marriage to others? I mean, she's associated with Stolas, so her status would have 100% suffered if these people had spread the word

[talesofsymphoniac]

Ok so this might just be a really odd reading, but a lot of interpretations of Utena seem to go with the idea that there have been several cycles of the dueling game the way it plays out in the show, up to and including Kanae being the "previous" Utena.

But idk, I've always assumed that yes, there are cycles, and Akio has tried to forge a sword strong enough to break through the rose gate many times before, but each cycle is kind of its own thing?

Like, Mikage was definitely a previous "duelist" in a previous cycle, but he didn't do literal duels, he had a research lab that was implied to be working on creating a path to the power to revolutionize the world, and that pursuit ended up requiring the sacrifice of 100 boys. And that was only maybe a decade or so ago, judging by how much Tokiko aged in the interim.

Certainly there could have been a new set of duels every year (for example), and I'm not completely opposed to the idea that there have been other cycles with literal duelists in them. I do tend to think that Utena's cycle was the first one that included girl duelists in a meaningful way, but there's nothing strictly pointing towards that conclusion except general themes. (Mikage's cycle at least was very male-oriented, and when Dios approaches young Utena, given that he does seem to doubt that a girl could become a prince, the fact that he's trying it at all to me implies that he's not 100% sure it couldn't work because he'd never actually tried it before.)

Anyway, in my mind I always think of each "cycle" as its own attempt at forging a sword, and Utena's attempt happened to be 1. the dueling competition 2. with a girlprince. Mikage's was his research project. Maybe there was another cycle where they were literally forging swords, or where the competition was racecars, you feel?

[mimsycookiiess]

Not to dog on this person’s headcannon especially if it’s based on their own experiences but as someone who tends to like these kinds of theories I personally can’t really see this for Charles as the evidence is kinda lackluster imo it kinda feels like op just has this headcannon but wanted it to make sense so they tried to add evidence to it but there isn’t much so now it kinda just ends up looking like a edgy “looking too deep into things” kind of theory. (I’m not saying that’s what it is btw just saying it looks like that.) But to be fair to op, it seems like that could be the point of their account, now that I’m looking at it. I don’t think op needs evidence for this headcannon btw it’s completely fine to just have it just because. I just thought I would put my two cents on why I felt like the explanation for it kinda sucked but that’s just my opinion, no hate to op.

kinda unrelated but I’m lowk confused bc is tumblr glitched or am I missing something bc there are like 1k ish notes but like only 77 likes and like 4 reblogs (and there are no reblogs with comments or tags so the only reblogs are the empty reblogs but there are only like 4) and no comments 😭 idk im assuming it’s tumblr being weird but I haven’t seen that before

Did Charles commit suicide?

What if he didn’t go north... What if he left for good? (A soul-crushing headcanon about Charles Smith)

What if Charles took his own life? Yes, yes, just like that — what if he left, not north, but FOR GOOD. I keep thinking about this more and more. Because so much about him screams — “I can’t do this anymore.”

Everyone says: he went to Canada. Oh sure, sure. But maybe it’s time to stop repeating that comforting bedtime story. Canada was mentioned once, barely, like a breath. But in another dialogue — he says he wants to go to INDOCHINA. Can you imagine? Indochina! Where is that, and where’s Canada, and where is he? He’s lost. He’s torn. He doesn’t know where to go. Because he feels at home NOWHERE. And all of this — it’s not a plan. It’s emptiness. It’s pain wrapped in scraps of fantasy.

And when he tells John: “What does your family need an old gunslinger for?” — that’s NOT A JOKE. That’s a scream. A plea. A wound masked as a smile. Because he’s the outsider among friends. He’s the extra. He’s just... there. But he’s not part of it. And he knows that. Feels it in his bones. In his heart.

He doesn’t even sleep in the house. Doesn’t sleep on the property. Wanders into the woods. Into the dark. Into solitude. Some would say — it’s just habit, right? He’s used to the wild. Used to isolation. Bullshit. It’s not habit. It’s escape. Because being close — hurts. Watching Abigail, watching John, watching their child — it’s like a blade across the soul. Their dream came true. And him? Who is he? He’s — no one. Once, he was an outcast among outcasts. Now he’s just... the only one left. Alone among the joyful.

And the doubts he voices to John — “Will this life be enough for you?” — that’s not about John. That’s about himself. He’s asking himself. He doesn’t believe happiness is possible for him. That he deserves it. That he’s even capable of feeling something other than this tight, choking loneliness.

And that talk about going north, starting a family, finding a woman... I DON’T BELIEVE IT. NOT A SINGLE WORD. It sounds like a script. A rehearsed line. A mask. A way to say something so they’ll stop asking. He has no plan. No place. No direction. He says it himself. “I don’t know where.”

Not Canada. Not Wapiti. He could’ve gone back there a hundred times. In eight years. But he didn’t. Because he never saw it as home. It was something lost, something nostalgic — not a place he was needed.

And just finding a woman? Really? This is Charles. A man who lets NO ONE in. He’s built like a fortress. In his mind. In his soul. In his silence. And if he lets someone in — it’s forever. And if he doesn’t — no one gets close. This isn’t about “settling down.” This is about finding a soul that moves him. And those are rare. Maybe one. Maybe none.

He says: “These last eight years, I’ve come to accept the things I can’t change.” Is that supposed to be hope? It’s not acceptance. It’s surrender. That’s not light at the end of the tunnel — it’s the tunnel closing in. It’s numbness. It’s emptiness.

And John, dear John… tells him: “You’re the strongest man I know.” I HATE THAT PHRASE. I HATE WHEN PEOPLE SAY IT ABOUT HIM. I HATE WHEN PEOPLE SAY IT ABOUT ME. It’s NOT strength. It’s survival. It’s when life beats you so hard, all you learn is not to fall. It’s not a choice. It’s endurance. He’s not strong. He’s exhausted. He’s shattered. He’s lonely, he’s silent, and he’s so, so tired.

Even if he met “the one” — would she love him? The real him? The broken one? The quiet one? The distant one? Or would she fall for the mask — for the “I’ve made peace with the past” lie? And if she never sees the real Charles — how could he ever be happy with her? He doesn’t do halfway. Not him.

Abigail and John are different. She knew his pain. All of it. His monsters. His sorrow. She accepted it. Who would accept Charles? Who even knows who he became?

And in that last ride... he says: “I’m heading north.” Turns down Sadie’s offer to work together. Says it’s time to move on. But what if he wasn’t moving forward. What if he was moving toward the end.

(Another powerful and unwavering argument for me: we all remember how Charles and John ride out to save Uncle in the epilogue — and how Charles, with a chilling steadiness, says that if the uncle’s wounds are too severe, the only mercy left would be to help him cross over. He speaks of killing — not driven by hatred, not poisoned by cruelty — but as a final act of love, a broken, desperate kindness to release a soul from agony. And I ask: was it only uncle’s suffering Charles wished to end? Or was he, too, reaching for a way to quiet his own howling grief? I believe he was. I believe he desperately was.)

What if that was his way of saying goodbye. Softly. Quietly. Not “farewell.” Just — gone. So they could keep living, believing he’s somewhere out there. Alive. Just... far. But in truth — he had already made peace. He had written his ending.

Not to the north. Not to Wapiti. Not to a woman. But to the place where nothing hurts anymore.

And if that’s what happened... if he really left...

...maybe, finally, he found peace.

[matteoberrettini]

genuinely hilarious btw how people on twt want soo bad to make matteo a villain in jannik's story or some shit like it's a disney movie. less than a month ago he said they'd talked recently and he's never had anything but good things to say about jannik but to some people it'll never be enough because he made a decision for his career that i understand is hard to digest but it has nothing to do with his relationship with jannik, jannik himself said it doesn't bother him, they both have never indicated they weren't on good terms. like yeah we can't ever really know the truth behind what they say in public, but i think we should stick with what we can see and read, yeah? because making wild assumptions based on nothing doesn't lead to anything good, it's just speculation and i don't see what anyone gains from it?? i think maybe some people need to grow up and accept that they don't know these people. they don't know jannik and what he thinks or feels or who he talks to or who avoids him or whatever. we know what he shows and tells us and that has to be enough because otherwise we go down dangerous paths

[000000-000000-000000]

Hiiii I’ve never requested anything on tumblr before but I love your EJ work so much I just had to! 💙🖤

Could you do a smut fic similar to peace offering and have the reader as a cannibal but is kind of more cocky about it? Like she thinks she’s as good if not better than Jack when it comes to that even though she’s a human. Also if you could make the reader like she came out of Texas chainsaw massacre that would also be epic. But for a storyline I’m open to anything, the more weird and feral the better! Cheers!

hiii!!! baby im so sorry this took so long. long story short, i wrote and rewrote it multiple times, and when i was finally happy with it and started the smut, i realized i didn't give her A CHAINSAW??? it's in the title bro. BUT ANYWAY HERE SHE IS LOL it's a beast, i hope you enjoy it and i hope it wasn't too extra for what you imagined :')

𝓓𝓸𝓵𝓵𝔂 (𝐄𝐲𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐉𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐱 𝐂𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐛𝐚𝐥!𝐅!𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫)

BIG CW: where do i even start. VERY explicit mentions of violence, cannibalism, butchering, murder, gore; religious mentions, hallucinations and loss of memory, overall disturbing imagery. very dubcon hate sex (noncon if you read it with a magnifying glass), asphyxiation, violent and painful fr, fucking next to carcasses, little dialogue but degrading when it happens, idk what you'd call this but Jack forces meat into your mouth to shut you up?, also forced oral (f giving), orgasm denial — also reader is an arrogant cocky little shit

summary: you're the star of a southern family of cannibals, but uh-oh! you're too good, so you get kidnapped by a faceless cryptid, get your memory wiped and somehow, your god complex survives.

word count 11.5k

You were born into heat—thick, soupy, clinging heat that made your skin tacky before you could even walk. The kind that turned meat rancid in a day and made the flies come heavy. You knew the stench of rot before you ever knew perfume. It stuck to you like memories, no matter how hard you scrubbed.

That house, your family’s house, sat squat like a wound in the middle of nowhere—peeling clapboard, screen doors that whined like kicked dogs, sun-bleached and crusted with the filth of decades—choked by cornfields high as your shoulders and a forest that sat watching from far off, too dry to breathe, too dead to care. There were no neighbors, only travelers, and travelers didn’t last long.

Your family didn’t have a name for what you did. It wasn’t a cult. Wasn’t a tradition. Wasn’t some ancient ritual passed down through whispered Latin or scribbled symbols in books. It was just dinner. Just the way things were. You never questioned it. They were the food. You were the hunter. That’s the order of things. You knew it before you knew how to spell your name.

You mama called you her darlin’, your daddy called you the bait, and your brothers called you their lucky charm. Their sweet little thing, their pride, their angel. You were the face, the lure, the star. Your family handled the most, always. But you? You were the reason the food kept coming. And they praised you for it. Every time. Told you you were special. Chosen. That God had put you here to feed your bloodline, to keep the family strong. And you believed it. Why wouldn’t you?

You learned the weight of a cleaver before your hands could hold it right. You could slip skin from muscle with a flick of your wrist and a hum on your lips, peeling it back like wet parchment while flies buzzed thick around your braids. Your daddy showed you, patient and proud, guiding your little hand with his own—weathered and sticky with blood—through the fatty thigh of a man who’d screamed until his voice split.

"Gentle, now. Let the knife do the work, baby girl," he'd said, and you hummed while you worked, lips sticky with syrupy red. You’d make shapes in the sinew. Hearts. Stars. Sometimes you gave them names and talked to them while you cleaned them up, like dolls. You always had a tender touch for the dead.

Mama’d dress you up real nice—denim cutoffs, soft plaid tied at the belly, cheeks pinched pink and pretty. You had that Southern sweetness, that drawl that sounded like an invitation regardless of what you said. You’d sit out on the porch swing, cicadas screeching like rusty hinges all around, a pitcher of sweet tea beading with sweat at your elbow. Waiting.

“You’re real good at this, baby,” your mama would coo, running blood-wet fingers through your hair like it was a blessing. “Ain’t nobody bring in the meat like you.” And Lord, could you bring it in.

You got older. Sharper. Meaner. But you never lost that shine, that charm. You had a smile that melted asphalt, lips always painted red like roadkill, a voice like honeysuckle and smoke. The kind that made you feel safe even when the hair on your neck stood up. When they passed by—lost souls, truckers, drifters—you lit up like Sunday morning, looking every bit like salvation, inviting them in for cornbread and meatloaf. Telling them they could rest a spell, cool off from the heat. You watched their eyes soften, watched their guard fall, and you’d think: They don’t even know they’re already dead.

Other times you'd cruise real slow in your rusty, groaning pick-up, eyes trained to clock the thumbs up on the side of the road—sun-dazed hitchhikers that would inevitably trust the genuine sparkle in your eyes. Chatting it up the car while you drove a beeline off the highway and towards your slaughterhouse, saying you just need to pick up something from your place before heading for their destination.

“Won’t take but a minute, sugar. Just gotta grab somethin' from the house. Mama’s makin’ meatloaf. You’re welcome to stay for supper.”

They followed you right up that dusty drive with the smell of rotting meat already thick in their nose, but they never noticed. Not until the door closed behind them. Too wound up in the thought that this was the beginning of every porno they loved, buzzing on the possibility of getting a warm meal, a sweaty quickie and a ride home.

They never made it past supper.

They’d sit in the kitchen, drink sweet tea so strong it made their gums ache, eat meatloaf and cornbread and gravy thick as glue. You'd bat your lashes, laugh too loud, and the sound of it would almost cover the creak of the floorboards as your daddy snuck up behind them with a pipe in his fist. Almost.

And when they woke up, that’s when they met Dolly.

She was hanging there from her hook in the barn, humming with the memory of a hundred deaths, always crusted with the blood of the last dumb bastard who thought he’d get lucky.

You named her when you were thirteen. Called her Dolly because she sang when she worked. Because she was loud and mean and old as sin. Daddy gave her to you like a wedding gift, all proud and reverent, like he was passing down the family Bible.

You cleaned her every night. Talked to her. Told her secrets. Rubbed the oil into her teeth with a lover’s care. Dolly wasn’t a tool. She was kin. She was yours.

And the moment she roared to life—when that engine kicked and the barn filled with that screaming, gasoline gospel—that was your church bell. That was your moment of worship.

They always woke up screaming. Always. Bound up in rope, mouth gagged with rags that smelled like old meat. The barn was dark, walls sweating heat, rafters hung with hooks and chain and the slow drip of old blood. You’d stand over them, Dolly purring in your grip, teeth glinting in the sliver of sun through the boards.

Sometimes they cried. Sometimes they begged. Sometimes they pissed themselves. It didn’t matter. You never flinched. You just smiled, revved her once, and the sound alone was a death sentence.

You’d swing Dolly down and let her kiss bone. Blood fountained up like a prayer, slick and hot, painting your arms, your chest, your grin. Flesh peeled like bark. Bone cracked like dry twigs. You never aimed for pretty or careful. You were just putting down cattle.

You would sit at the table and pass mashed potatoes while their cooked flesh steamed on the platter, hands sticky with marrow and sin as they met your family's, saying grace with a sacred hush in your voice. "Father in Heaven, thank you for this food. Please bless Dolly to the nourishment of my family and guide her body to your service as you will. In Jesus name I pray, Amen."

And when it was done—when the blood soaked through the cracked earth outside the barn, and the dogs out back were licking it up like nectar—that’s when you'd go quiet. That was your favorite part. The hush after. The stillness. Just you and Dolly and the heat pressing down like God’s judgment.

You never saw it as evil. It was just life. Just survival. You were made for this. Built for it. Ain’t your fault the world was full of prey. It made you feel like a god. And maybe you were.

Somehow, somewhere along the routine, something started to change. It didn’t happen all at once. It crept in—like mildew in the walls or maggots in the meat. It started slow, a hiccup in the rhythm honed into your bones since childhood. First came the haze, thick and yellowed, like fat congealing in your skull.

You'd be carving, humming some old tune under your breath—something Mama used to sing when she made stew—and suddenly your hands would freeze, the knife halfway through tendon. Your eyes would go glassy. A pressure would build behind them, a high keening note that split your head open like a ripe melon. You’d stare at the meat on the table and swear it twitched. Like it was still alive. Like it was blaming you.

Then came the sounds. Wet squelching that wasn’t yours. Bones cracking from somewhere behind you when no one else was home. Screaming. Far-off at first—maybe a trapped coyote out in the fields, you told yourself—but then closer. Inside. Inside the house, inside the walls, inside you.

The hallucinations got cruel.

You'd whirl around in the barn and see the hooks swaying just a little too much. See the bodies that should’ve been still start to twitch and pull. Eyeless, jawless things, eviscerated and half eaten, ripping themselves free with sickening pops and tears, blackened fingers clawing at the air, slick with rot and rage. Their mouths opened in impossible angles, throats torn but still wailing—a wet, garbled shriek that filled your ears and slithered down your spine. Crawling, twitching, alive again, just to make you pay for what you did. What you loved doing.

One of the fresher ones lunged at you once—bloated belly splitting open mid-air to spill half-digested meat you fed him before your brother strangled him from behind, all across the floor—and you blacked out cold right there in the sawdust, piss-wet and trembling.

When you came to, your cheek was pressed to the ground, one side caked in dried blood that wasn’t yours. None of it was real, you knew that. Didn't you?

You started to get sloppy after that. Fucking up lures. Wrong cuts. You’d black out for minutes at a time, sometimes hours. Find yourself in places you didn’t remember walking to, hands coated in blood that wasn’t warm enough to be fresh. You started feeling watched, like something less than God was looming just out of sight, like an imposing spectre, waiting, assessing.

You stopped sleeping. Stopped eating. Everything tasted like rot. Every creak in the house made your heart jump into your throat. You thought maybe the devil was coming for you, but part of you didn’t mind. Part of you wanted to see if he’d praise you too.

You didn’t tell anyone, of course. Mama and daddy would’ve fixed it the old way—duct tape and a hammer until the thoughts stopped. You kept smiling, kept playing the part. But you were fraying.

It all came to a head one blistering summer day, the kind where the sun hangs like a dead thing in the sky, and the dirt cracks like bone under your feet. You woke up flat on your back in the field behind the barn, dry stalks rattling all around you, skin cooked red and hot. Your head felt like a wasps’ nest—buzzing, swollen, angry. You didn’t know what day it was. Didn’t even know your name for a minute. Just knew you were soaked to the skin, sweat or blood or both, and your jaw ached like you’d been screaming for hours.

Voices blurred in your ears. Cold slapped your face. You blinked up at sunburnt faces—your family, furious and frantic, splashing icy well water over your cheeks while your brother barked, “She let ‘em run, goddammit! We had—had 'em, and she lost it!”

The food had bolted. One of the hitchhikers—a skinny little thing with sunburnt arms and quick legs, barely enough to feed the lot of you—had run screaming into the fields. And the worst part? You hadn’t even noticed. You’d been out on your feet, blank as butcher paper, staring while he tore ass through the corn.

That’s when you heard it. Sirens. Real ones.

You’d never seen the law move so fast, not out here in God’s forgotten corner. Sirens rising in the wind like banshees. The sheriff’s car tore up that gravel drive faster than you could've prepared for, K-9s yelping, radios barking, boots pounding. It was like God decided to show up for once, and He brought a badge. Your mama screamed at you to run, but your legs didn’t wanna move.

Not until the first warning shot cracked the sky open. Your family scattered like roaches, and you bolted. Barefoot and ragged, tearing through the barn as a shortcut, past the flayed remains on hooks that didn’t even flinch this time—but not before your hand snapped out like instinct, like blood memory, and grabbed Dolly. Hung right on her peg by the door, rusted teeth still wet from last night’s supper.

Your fingers closed tight around her handle and you ran like the earth was coming apart beneath you. Out into the endless gold of the corn, the metal clanking of the shed doors echoing behind you like bells of judgment.

You ran until your lungs burned and bled into your mouth. Maybe it was from the effort, or maybe it was the rot inside you, the old meat you could still taste in the back of your throat. The stalks sliced into your skin as you crashed through them, hands out, eyes wild. The sun glared down so angry it felt like it was chewing through your scalp. You could hear the dogs behind you—barking, hungry. You swore you could feel their teeth on your ankles.

The corn gave way to the forest, and even the light seemed to die there. Trees like dry bones, reaching out, grabbing at your hair, your clothes. The ground cracked underfoot, brittle and dry, every step sending shockwaves through your skull. Dolly bounced at your side with every stomp, the weight of her a grim promise.

That’s when you noticed it. The static.

It wasn’t the radios. Wasn’t the dogs. Wasn’t the wind or the cicadas or the burn of your pulse in your ears. It was something else. A sharp, metallic screech like static from a busted TV, except it was inside your skull. Low at first, like a bad connection. But the further you ran, the louder it screamed. It wormed into your brain, burrowed behind your eyes, grinding against your teeth like gravel. Your balance gave out once, then twice. Your vision split down the middle. The trees started to hum as they grew thicker, the forest yawning open around you like a grave. Blood bubbled up in your throat, thick and bitter. You coughed, and it came up in ribbons, painting the dirt.

You stumbled into the shade, heaving and dizzy. Your ears screamed, the panicked pounding of your heart and the roaring static in your head a nauseating orchestra that blinded you. You tasted rust and rot. Felt wetness trickling down your neck from your ears, sticky and warm. You raised a shaking hand, smeared crimson across your fingertips right as your knees slammed into the ground. The last thing you felt was the heat of the sun leaving your skin, replaced by the cool touch of dry, cracked earth, before the world tilted sideways and got swallowed by shadow.

You had no idea what became of your family.

Whether they were dragged off kicking and hollering to rot in some high-security concrete tomb, or gunned down the second the cops laid eyes on the sun-bleached intestines hanging from the porch rafters like party streamers, never to be stuffed of minced meat for homemade sausages—you didn’t know.

You didn’t care. That whole world, that whole life, every blood-slicked summer afternoon spent in the back, feeding leftover fat or skin to the dogs, every bone-pile supper spent watching the faces of the people you were ingesting flash on the news, every praise-filled pat on the head and hissed warning under a bloody butcher’s breath—it was gone. Wiped.

Flushed into the deep, wet-black cracks of your memory, where even your own thoughts didn’t dare poke around too long.

Decades of ritual. Hundreds—hell, maybe thousands—of strangers with empty stomachs and full bladders, trailing dust and naivety through your front door. Their blood was burned into your nose, your throat, your skin. You could still feel the slick slide of raw tendon under your nails, the tremor of the chainsaw eating through bone, if you focused hard enough. But now? Now it was all buried beneath a thick, impenetrable fog. A swamp of forgetting. Of rewriting.

You couldn’t give a fuck even if you wanted to.

Nowadays, your mind was occupied by something much taller. Much quieter. Wrapped in a dark suit and a heavier presence—one that made your teeth feel loose and your spine ache like it remembered something your brain refused to translate. You spent your time in a rotting mansion deep in a stretch of nowhere, proving yourself to a creature that didn’t speak, didn’t blink, didn’t need to. One look—one twist of static in the air around him—and your guts curled like a dog showing its belly.

You didn’t remember the static from that day in the woods. Didn’t remember falling. Didn’t remember the way your body had gone limp or how something tall had watched from the edge of the treeline, invisible to your eyes but not to whatever still twitched beneath your skin.

But the static came back to you now. In waves. In pulses.

Sometimes it crackled in your ears at night, just under the cicadas and crickets. Sometimes it echoed in the corners of the mansion halls, where no footsteps should be. You caught flashes sometimes—split-second glimpses in the mirror, or in your plate, or in the blood painted on the chainsaw's blade right as it left your assignments. Faces. Fields. Screams. Hooks.

You didn’t ask questions.

Out of sight, out of mind.

The others here didn’t pry. Not really. You were the new one, sure. But something about you—about the way you smiled with that same corn-fed charisma as if the disfigured faces all around you didn't even phase you, about the way you cut meat like you were born with a boning knife in your hand—kept them quiet. Kept them curious.

And you were focused. On proving you belonged here. On ignoring the burning gaps in your past. On staying useful to something ancient and unknowable that hummed with electricity when it got too close.

Because deep down, you somehow knew. You weren’t dragged here. You were chosen. Right?

It wasn't long after making yourself known as a maneater that a name kept popping up again and again. Not many people around here talked for long, but when they did, his name always came up, followed by a change in temperature. Like it left frost on their teeth just to say it out loud.

Jack. No eyes, but always watching. Tall, quiet, moving like he’s part of the walls, like the shadows suck him in and spit him back out in different corners of the mansion.

They were warning you. Not in any outright way, but it was there.

They talked about him the same way folks used to whisper about monsters in the walls—like he was the thing people oughta fear in the dead of night, in the belly of the woods, in the hush between heartbeats. That still silence before a scream. THE cannibal around here. That’s how they said it. Like there was a fucking crown to wear. Like your years of blood-marinated living didn’t put you in the same weight class, if you could remember them.

One night, Jeff had told you that "you might wanna keep that shit quiet around here" when he walked in on you stuffing the ancient freezer in the kitchen with bags of meat slabs. You weren't stupid, you knew it was meant as a warning. And yet, all you heard was the treacly ring of a dare.

You didn’t say anything about it, not even when the mention of him started feeling like a ghost story told over and over with the same shaky flashlight under the chin. Chilling, sure. But you didn’t rattle so easy.

You played the part of the amused listener, lips curled and head cocked, never asking questions you didn’t need answered. You didn’t argue. But deep in your gut—down where instinct and pride still chewed on each other like dogs—you couldn’t help but smirk.

He had nothin’ on you.

You were the girl who could charm a man into gutting himself with a smile and a slice of pie. You didn’t need shadows and silence. You had Dolly.

It was cute, really. Like the others had conjured up a campfire monster to keep themselves entertained. Don’t go near the dark hallway, that’s Jack’s territory. Don’t bother him, don’t try anything. Don’t fucking stare. The usual superstition disguised as advice.

But eventually, the novelty wore off. You got tired of the little warnings they laced into conversation like it wasn’t obvious they were all just a little bit scared of their own housemate.

So when word came down that you’d been paired with him for a job, you thought that was just the perfect opportunity to see what the fuck all this fuss was about.

You didn’t bother waiting for the upcoming mission. That’d be too passive. Too obedient.

Late afternoon baked the walls of the mansion in gold and heat, dust floating lazy in the beams through warped windows as you strutted down the hall like you’d owned it since birth, dragging your fingers along the wall like a bored child, the ends of your smirk twitching like it could taste a challenge in the air.

His door sat at the far end of one of the hallways, quiet and colorless, wood grain faded to ash-gray like nothing wanted to stick to it. You rapped your knuckles against it—sharp, intentional. You crossed your arms and leaned your weight into one hip, smug and settled. You waited like you were entitled to be answered. Like he owed it to you just for having the gall to knock.

And when the door opened, all that smoke in your lungs twisted tight. Your smirk twitched.

He was taller than you expected—a lot taller. He had to duck a little just to clear the frame, and even hunched like that, he still looked like he could cast a shadow long enough to cover your entire goddamn body count. Broad like he was carved from raw stone, gray skin stretched over lean muscle, the kind of frame that made you feel human again just by comparison. But what got you—what rooted your boots to the damn floor—no eyes. Should've expected it, naturally, but it somehow slipped your mind.

Just two hollow sockets filled with something you couldn’t quite name—black, uneven, scarred tissue, as if the void itself had tried to fester in his skull and gotten stuck there. And still, they pinned you. Right to the floorboards.

But you didn’t flinch. You just grinned slow, tongue curled behind your teeth.

“Well fuck me sideways,” you drawled, voice syrupy with amusement, “guess the name came from somewhere, huh?”

He didn’t move. Didn’t tilt his head or shift or twitch like people usually do when they’re taken off guard. He just stood there, his entire presence like an open grave—still, silent, and full of something you didn’t want to look too hard at. His voice, when it came, was a low hum of disinterest. Cold. Dry. More formality than curiosity.

“Can I help you?”

God, that was it? No hiss, no looming shadow tricks, no growling threats or blood-curdling stares? The others had practically pissed themselves describing him. You half expected to be picked up by your throat and slammed into the wall. But all you got was calm.

Underwhelming.

You let your eyes drag over him, lazy, appraising. Like you were checking cuts of meat at a butcher’s. His arms looked strong. Veins coiled like roots beneath the surface. If he moved, you imagined it’d be slow and methodical, like some patient predator that never had to chase because the prey always came to him.

“Hm,” you hummed, tipping your chin. “So you’re the big bad shadow with teeth, huh? The one they keep whisperin’ about like a damn ghost story. I figured I’d come see for myself.”

He didn’t reply. Didn’t blink—couldn’t, you guessed—but the silence that followed felt heavier than a noose. You went on anyway.

“I just figured,” you said, casually flicking nonexistent dust from your shoulder, “if we’re gonna be rippin’ apart bodies together, might as well say howdy. You’re Jack, right?”

He gave a slight nod. Nothing more.

“They’ve been real poetic about you downstairs, y’know. Call you all kinds of names.” You let out a small laugh, dry and dismissive, rocking back on your heels as you gave him a look—half teasing, half challenge. “Can’t lie, I was kinda hopin’ for more teeth. Bit more snarl.” You tapped your chin, faux thoughtful. “Not complainin’, but all that talk? Feels like they’ve been talkin’ out their asses.”

Nothing. Not even a twitch of reaction. Not a bite. Not even the courtesy of annoyance. You might as well have been talking to a statue.

So you smiled wider, letting the heat of your own pride seep through. Just a little.

“Maybe it’s time you think about retirement, old man. I’m here now. Meat-eatin’ business is in good hands.”

It was cocky. Downright disrespectful. You knew that. But you said it with a wink in your voice, like it was all in good fun—like you weren’t sizing him up just as much as he was you. Even if you couldn’t see it.

Jack just stood there, unmoving, unreadable, like a mountain that didn’t care what you screamed at its face. Watching you like a noise he was deciding whether or not to acknowledge. The silence stretched, bone-dry and drawn taut between the two of you.

Then finally, he spoke. Low, even, and colder than a blade left out in the dead of winter.

“If you need to announce your worth,” he said, voice flat as a sheet over a corpse, “it’s because no one’s seen it.”

His voice was smooth, not smug and final, like a scalpel against soft tissue. No emotion, no heat—just clinical dismissal. Just standing there like he was cataloging every fragile thread of your ego—and finding it… unremarkable.

The cockiness froze on your face like you were just whipped by something too real to make sense of right away. Bullshit, of course, wasn't it?

And before you could even open your mouth to snark something in return, he spoke again, so bored that you almost wished he beat the snot out of you instead.

"Next time you want to measure your cock against mine, do it somewhere where you can actually impress someone. See you at the mission."

Just like that. No venom in his voice. No snarl. Just ice cold water splashed in your sunburnt face, followed by the slightest nod that only came out of habit rather than a deliberate gesture of respect or goodbye.

And before your pride could even catch up to what just happened—the door clicked shut. No slam. No dramatic ending. Just a quiet, measured click that somehow echoed down the hallway like a dropped bullet casing.

You stood there, staring at it. Arms still crossed but now limp, jaw clenched so tight it started burning at the hinges.

Your ego stung. Not shattered—never shattered—but bruised like a peach left out in the sun too long. Because he hadn’t humiliated you. Hadn’t even tried to. He just... stripped the meat from your words and tossed the bones.

You turned on your heel with a muttered curse under your breath, that practiced smirk now twitching from the wrong side of your face. Heat flushed your skin. Not from embarrassment. No, not that.

From the slow, simmering burn of being dismissed. You didn’t even get the satisfaction of a good fight. You’d get him back for that. One way or another, that much was gospel.

And yet... You had been seething for days.

Not yelling, not pacing—but it burned in you anyway, deep and slow behind your ribs, the kind that made everything else feel sticky. Like Jack’s words were tar in your ears, repeating themselves in that bored, dispassionate drone.

He saw through you. Or worse—he didn’t see you at all. Just another loudmouth with blood on her hands and a chip on her shoulder.

You hadn’t slept since. Just laid in bed with your eyes open, sweat slick on your neck from the heat that never broke in this godforsaken place, thinking about every word he said. Thinking about how he didn’t even say them mean. He said them like he was reading off a grocery list. Like you weren’t worth the effort of tone.

So when the mission night came—Slender’s voice in your head, static clinging to the words like rot to meat, instructions bleeding through the fog—you were ready to prove Dolly's teeth were sharper than his.

The air outside the mansion was stifling and scratchy, moonlight filtered through a haze of pollen and heat like an old bulb dying out. The trees out here didn't rustle—they creaked, dry to the marrow, their leaves brittle and sickly yellow along the edges. The dirt road leading into the woods kicked up dust with every step, and somewhere far off, an owl called like it was mourning something.

Jack was already at the tree line, waiting. Silent and still, like something carved out of the dark.

You should’ve been behind him, chainsaw handle in your hands, waiting for his signal. That was the plan. He’d go first—quiet, invisible—scout the site, get them just where he needed them. Then you’d come in swinging. Loud. Messy. Ripping through screams and woodsmoke like thunder, while he tore into ribs and throats like a famished wolf breaking into a barn.

You should’ve felt the weight of it by now. The hum. That electric buzz up your arms, that promise of carnage curled up against your palms.

Instead, you were empty-handed.

You realized it halfway down the path. That the one thing—the only fucking thing—you were supposed to bring, the piece that would've proved you weren't just a child in a butcher's skin, was still sitting back in your room like a sleeping dog. Dolly. Your Dolly. The growling, howling son of a bitch you'd named and sharpened and carried like it meant something.

Forgotten.

You didn’t scream. Didn’t cuss. Didn’t turn back. Just kept walking. But the burn in your jaw from clenching too tight—that was real. The twitch in your brow. The way your footsteps hit the dirt too hard, too fast, like punishment.

You'd been too in your head, too hellbent on proving something, on making Jack eat his fucking words, you’d left the one thing that could’ve made your point loud enough.

Now, you were back to the role you’d been given by the Heavens, not the one your pride thirsted for. Play bait. Smile sweet. Talk slow. Let them think you’re lost and harmless and pretty enough to keep around. Long enough for Jack to sink his filthy, unworthy claws in.

It seemed easy enough—familiar enough. Like it had somehow been wired into your marrow, instinctual, natural. But it felt less than you. It tasted like surrender, and it tasted bitter.

The campsite glowed soft through the gaps in the trees, the air heavy with campfire smoke and burnt marshmallow sugar. Three of them. Two boys, one girl. Probably college-aged. Young enough to feel invincible, old enough to think they were clever for camping somewhere so isolated.

You stepped into the clearing like you'd always belonged there, face softening into something guiltless and trustworthy. No crunch of twigs, no heavy footfalls—just a sway of hips and a soft smile drawn across your face like honey on a blade.

“Evenin’, y’all,” you said, voice dipped in honey, that Southern lilt curling around the words like smoke. “Didn’t mean to startle you. Got a little turned around out here, you wouldn’t believe how easy it is to get lost in the dark.”

They turned, startled—but not defensive. Not yet.

“Holy shit, are you okay?” the girl asked. “Where’s your tent?”

You giggled. Giggled. Tilted your head and let your hair fall to one side like a trickle of molasses. “Oh sugar, I don’t have one. I was just passin’ through. Got dropped off a bit down the way, then my phone died and—well, y’know how it goes.”

They relaxed. Just like that.

You let them see you—dust on your legs, sheen of sweat on your collarbones, that subtle glint in your eyes that said not harmless, but not dangerous either. Just lost. Just a girl.

The fire crackled. Conversation swelled around you. They asked questions—where you were from, if you needed to use a phone, if you were hungry. You answered just vaguely enough to keep them wondering, but not so vague they got suspicious. You had them. Wrapped around your little pinkie.

And here you were. Drenched in moonlight. A rotten feeling bubbling in the back of your throat. No claws, no teeth. Just charm.

Your heart didn’t race—but your eyes did scan the tree line. Not looking for him, not looking for salvation. But a solution. A diversion. Anything to buy you time, anything to help you reach the finish line unaided.

You were still smiling, but your jaw had tightened.

It was subtle—just a flicker of tension at the hinge, a twitch of your lip that didn’t quite match the sugar in your voice. You crossed your legs, leaning forward like you were settling in for a chat, but your eyes kept straying to the dark behind the firelight. A little too often. A little too sharp.

“What’re you looking at?”

The question broke the air like a stick snapped underfoot. Not hostile. Not even wary yet. Just curious.

You blinked once, slow. Smoothed your palms against your thighs.

“Oh, it’s nothin’,” you said with that breathy, innocent lilt. “Thought I saw somethin’ movin’ out there, but… probably just a raccoon. Or a deer.”

You punctuated it with a soft laugh, a half-shrug, like it was no big deal. But you saw it—just a flicker of something in the girl’s face. That animal twitch of the gut. The what if.

You shouldn’t have looked again. But you did.

And this time, the silence that followed it was thicker.

The fire snapped.

The mood soured. Like milk turning in real time. You could feel it curdle, souring in their expressions, stiffening their postures. Something crawled down the back of your neck—hot, slow, primal.

One of the boys, the one who’d been crouched beside the logs, brushing embers back into place with a stick, didn’t even get to scream.

The sound he made wasn’t human. It wasn’t even a sound, really—just a choked, wet grunt, a stutter of breath that was swallowed up by the crack of bone splintering like dry kindling. You felt it more than heard it. A snap deep and wrong, like a wishbone being pulled apart uneven.

Then came the sound of the fire roaring a little louder.

You turned your head and saw the body—or what was left of it—drop half-way splayed across the burning logs.

There was no ceremony to it—just a heap of limbs and ruined flesh, the kind of thing that didn’t make sense at first glance. It took a second for the brain to register the shape. That the torso was missing something. That the head was at the wrong angle. That something had ripped into it.

It took a moment for the smell of burnt flesh and hair to waft in the air like a shroud. It took a moment for you to snap out of it and realize it was go time.

The girl screamed, a raw, high-pitched, guttural wail that split through the trees like a signal flare, before running straight into your arms. Poor thing probably thought you were a victim too.

You didn’t hesitate.

Your hands went for her throat like they were starved. She could only gasp like a fish on a dock, wide-eyed and stunned as your fingers dug in and your thumbs crushed her windpipe against her cervical spine, pinching the sound into a canid whine. You held her there, straining, gritting your teeth as she kicked, scrambled, fingers clawing at your arms, your face, your hair, but it was panic—sloppy and directionless.

You felt the pulse under your fingers hammering like a hummingbird’s wings. The wet gargle of her trying to suck in air around your grip. Her nails bit into your forearms, but you held steady, grounding yourself in the heat of it. The struggle, the intimacy. The kind of power and control you missed. The kind that started to slip through your fingers like sand.

Behind you, the clearing was chaos.

Jack moved like smoke. Like something ancient that had never forgotten how to kill. You didn’t see his face—you didn’t need to. You saw the aftermath. One of the boys—still trying to stand, trying to crawl away, his legs shredded like wet paper, a smear of red dragging behind him. He reached for a branch. Jack stepped on his arm with a muffled crunch.

Then came the claws—long, black, lethal keratine—sinking into the side of his ribs, dragging upward like peeling back the skin of a fruit. You heard the ribs crack and split, flesh folding open in ribbons.

The boy keened once before Jack’s second hand came down. Right into the soft spot of the stomach, reaching in and tearing. Steam curled in the air, viscera spilling onto the ground with a wet slop, like the forest was vomiting up something rotten.

You didn’t stop choking the girl, even as she went limp, face puffed up in sickly blues and reds. You watched him work, eyes narrowed, chest heaving with a feeling that poked and scratched uncomfortably through the high of power.

She sagged against you finally—twitching like a puppet with the strings cut—and you let her fall into the dirt like discarded meat.

Jack stood in the middle of it all. Calm. Composed. Painted in gore from collarbone to boot, untouched and unflinching. As if this truly was just another Thursday for him, another task to cross off a list, another mission he completed without breaking a sweat. While you were panting from the nauseating mixture of exertion, and envy, and an ugly, bubbling sense of failure.

He turned his head slightly, like he was listening to something you couldn’t hear. Then those eyeless sockets tilted toward you. And something deep in your chest buzzed—low and bitter and uncomfortable.

You’d come here to show him up, and you were beginning to realize you might not be in his league.

The forest was still again.

That strange, unnatural hush that came after carnage settled over the clearing like a second skin—thick, heavy, cloying. The kind of silence that soaks into your ears, makes your pulse feel louder than it should. You stood there in the red hush of it, heart hammering against your ribs so hard it hurt, chest rising and falling in sharp, shallow bursts.

One of the bodies was folded inside out against a log, limbs bent wrong, half his face missing. The other had his guts draped out like some sick garland, trailing behind him in a sticky line as he lay twitching, godless. And the girl, who should've been minced to unrecognizable pieces by Dolly's teeth, lay mostly complete at your feet like a physical manifestation of everything between ego and failure. Like it was mocking you.

Your hands were shaking.

The adrenaline was still flooding you, washing over the seams of your bones like hot tar. It burned, made your teeth grind and your fingers twitch. It had kept the anger at bay for a minute—just long enough for you to kill her, just long enough to revel in it. But now it was loud again, fast and unforgiving, rising like bile in your throat.

Because he’d stepped in before you could do it your way.

You weren’t stupid. You knew the fault was yours, your improvisation shallow, delivery shaky, the atmosphere turning too fast to play your hand. But you could’ve fixed it. You would’ve fixed it. Somehow. Right?

But Jack had ended it before you had the chance. Cutting you off again, like this was merely an inconvenience for him. Like you were just a minor setback. And now the anger was coiling tight in your stomach, bleeding into your limbs.

You turned to him.

He stood there, still slick with blood. Some of it glistened on the curve of his throat, some of it dried to a matte across his arms. The empty voids of his eyes were unreadable, as they always were, fixed somewhere through you.

“You couldn’t wait five fuckin’ seconds?” you snapped, voice too loud in the quiet. “Jesus, I had it. I was handling it—”

“You weren’t.”

It wasn’t even a rebuttal. Just a plain fact, said like he was pointing out the color of the sky.

Your spine went rigid. “Excuse me?”

Jack finally looked at you. Really looked—head slightly tilted, mouth in its usual flat, unimpressed line.

“You were unraveling. They noticed. I stepped in before you wasted more time.”

Your hands clenched. “I wasted time? You actin’ like I wasn’t doing what I was told to do—”

“This was supposed to be an ambush,” he said, cutting you off again. “You got sloppy. Kept looking for me when no one asked you to. Gave yourself away.”

“I was checking if you were—”

“You weren’t supposed to check anything,” he replied, and now there was just a hint of steel in his voice. “You were supposed to do your part. Wait and jump at my signal. But you couldn’t even do that.”

You stepped toward him. He didn’t flinch.

“You’re a real piece of work,” you hissed. “Walk around like you’re too good to breathe the same air as the rest of us, like you’re some apex fuckin’ boogeyman—”

“You forgot a weapon,” Jack said, louder this time. Still calm, still infuriatingly collected. “No... Chainsaw, was it? No blade. Not even a shard of glass. You came out here to prove something and brought nothing.”

You froze.

His words hit like dull nails hammering into your ribs—slow and deep and exact. Your chest heaved. Your hands curled and shook, but now it wasn’t just adrenaline—it was fury. Pure, pulsing. You could feel your lip curl, a snarl almost forming, and for a split second you thought about punching him. Just to break that lack of expression on his stone cold face. Just to prove that something about you could land.

You stepped up to him. Got close. Closer than you should’ve. Chest to chest—or, chest to his abdomen—chin tilted up so you could glare into that abyss of a face, your rage clawing against the inside of your ribs like a caged dog. You stared into that featureless calm and you wanted to set it on fire. Wanted to see anything there.

But Jack didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t shift. He just looked down at you and said, so casually it nearly made your jaw unhinge, “Start carving."

Your breath caught.

“What?”

“She’s yours, isn’t she?” he asked, gesturing with one blood-darkened hand toward the body you’d dropped. “You choked her out. She’s yours to clean. Start carving. We don’t have all night.”

And then... silence.

Because you hadn’t brought anything.

You looked down at her body, pale and cooling, throat bruised but not broken open. Flesh still intact. Unopened. Useless without teeth or steel.

You didn’t move. Not at first.

His words hung between you like smoke, clinging, choking, bitter. Do your share. Like it was nothing. Like you were nothing. Just a faulty cog in the machine, a mouth that ran too hot and hands that brought no tools. That calm detachment of his stoked the fire already roaring in your chest—made it blister, made it seethe.

And the worst part? He still hadn’t stepped away.

Your chest—your whole front—was still pressed up against his abdomen, close enough to feel the slow, infuriating rhythm of his breathing. He was warm through the blood and grime and fabric. Solid like a wall, like something that had never been moved against its will. You tilted your head back just enough to see his face, that inhuman, blank slate with its tar-black sockets aimed somewhere over you, through you.

God, he was tall. And broad. And so composed it felt like mockery.

You hated him. You hated him and his restraint and his accuracy and the way he made you feel small without even trying.

So you did something stupid.

“Why don’t you do it then?” you snarled, your voice low, sharp with something almost trembling at the edges. “Since you’re so big and bad and feral. With your claws and your calm and your fuckin’—void eyes. Go 'head, Jack. Do it all. I’m sure you’ll jerk yourself off to how efficient you are later.”

And you shoved him. Not hard. Not really. Just a bristling, angry push to the chest. All bark.

And you should not have done that. Because he moved before you could even have the chance to realize what you'd done.

Your back slammed into the dirt with a thud, shoulder-blades skidding across leaves and wet moss and bits of stray flesh. His weight followed, crushing, one hand flat across your throat, just shy of cutting air flow. The other planted beside your head in the soil.

Your breath hitched.

The pressure was exact. Controlled. Terrifying in its restraint.

And his face was suddenly right there, above yours, looming in your vision like the sky collapsing, and this close, you could smell the meat on him. Metallic. Old. Wet. It clung to the curve of his jaw, smeared across his temple, soaked into the seams of his shirt.

You were caught between fury and something that shot white-hot through your gut and up your spine.

“You couldn't even bring your personality the one time it was needed,” he growled, voice low and even but taut now—barely containing something sharp, serrated. His breath ghosted across your cheek, steady and unshaken. “You sabotaged the mission to stroke your ego. You were sloppy. You were loud. You made it worse. And you have the nerve to bark orders when you brought nothing.”

You grit your teeth, rage bubbling up so hot behind your eyes it burned. But you couldn’t let him finish. You wouldn’t let him.

So you did another stupid thing.

You socked him in the jaw.

It was clumsy—sloppy—but it hit, sent his face turning just slightly on impact. You felt the shock travel up your arm, the dull ache already blooming in your knuckles. Satisfaction flared white-hot in your chest for half a second.

That half-second was all you got.

The shift in him wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t loud. It was a drop. Like something slipping off a ledge inside him, something patient shattering into something else entirely.

His hand on your throat, already hot and heavy, tightened. Slowly. Like he wanted you to feel every millimeter of breath leave your windpipe. Your eyes snapped wide as the pressure crept up and up, turning the inside of your head into a hot, ringing cavern.

You gasped. Tried to, but no air came.

Panic lanced through your spine, white and spiky and mean. Your hands scrabbled at his wrist, digging, clawing, nails useless against the iron band of his fingers. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t blink. He just leaned closer, until his chest was pinning yours to the ground and the blood on him smeared slick down your sternum.

Your vision started to blur at the edges, a dark vignette blooming with each thudding pulse of your heart. Your ears roared. Your legs kicked weakly against the dirt.

And then—then—he growled. Not a man’s sound. Not even an animal’s. It tore from his throat like it came from deeper, from somewhere hollow and starving, a sound that trembled through your ribcage and made your bones ache with a fear instilled in your marrow since Hell tore from the Heavens.

You tried to scream. Couldn’t.

The tips of his claws punctured your neck.

Pain exploded across your skin—white-hot, real, a searing twin stab on either side of your windpipe. You felt the exact points where they entered, where blood welled up in hot little trickles to meet his palm, and you couldn’t stop the choked, mangled sound that crawled out of your throat.

You were thrashing now. Legs kicking, hips twisting, teeth bared in an ugly, helpless snarl.

And still—he didn’t move. Not to ease up. Not to finish it. You felt your strength ebbing like bathwater draining slow—vision ghosting out, brain screaming in a static haze—and somewhere in that blood-slick panic, a thought skidded through your head like gravel.

Maybe the others were right.

About him.

About the way he moved. The way his silence held something much more disturbing. The way he killed. They weren’t exaggerating. If anything, they’d undersold it.

You were going to die.

You were going to die, and it was going to hurt.

But then—God—something twisted in your gut. A deep, low burn you didn’t understand. You were shaking, body failing, barely conscious, but the pressure between your legs was real, sharp, unmistakable. The dull throb of arousal that shouldn’t be there, shouldn’t exist, not now, not with him holding your life in his hand like a meaningless speck of dust.

You didn’t even notice the heat between your thighs, not until he did. His head tilted just slightly. Those eyeless sockets bore into you with a sudden, vicious awareness.

And his voice sounded like a death knell when it came slicing through the dark.

“Really?”

One word. Flat. Disgusted.

You couldn’t answer. You were barely breathing. But he didn’t need you to. He smelled it.

His grip didn’t ease, not even a little. His claws stayed embedded, his thumb pressed up under your jaw.

“You’re fucking dripping,” he said, voice low and cutting, no inflection beyond disdain. “Is this what you wanted? Hm? To get put down like a bitch in heat so you could get off on it?”

Your heart stuttered. Your breath rasped.

“I should tear your throat out and leave you twitching.”

He dipped lower—close enough for your blurred vision to catch the glint of blood drying on his chin.

“But you’re not even worth the cleanup.”

You were thrashing beneath him now, wild and raw and animal, but it didn’t do a damn thing. His body didn’t budge.

Your nails scraped at his arm, trying to claw him off, trying to find purchase on that cold, iron grip cutting off your air. Black spots flickered in the corners of your vision, pulsing in and out like a camera shutter—your pulse thudding so loud you couldn’t think, couldn’t hear, couldn’t—

You tried to spit the words out—fuck off, maybe, or get off me, something half-mangled and slipping through your crushed throat. But it was too late. The second your mouth opened, the second your back arched in that desperate, useless kick under him, he slammed his knee between your thighs. Punishment.

“Fuck off?” he repeated, voice low, detached.

It cracked up between your legs like a sledgehammer. Blunt, cruel, bruising. Pain screamed through your pelvis, throbbed through bone and flesh, made your limbs seize before they could go slack. You gasped—tried to—and your mouth fell open around a ragged, voiceless wheeze. The weight of him held your body taut around the pressure, your cunt grinding instinctively into the bone of his knee, something primal overriding the ache. Your hips rolled before you even realized it, before the mortification could catch up to your nerves.

Your muscles screamed to get him off you—and your hips ground into his knee all the same, frantic, obscene, desperate like they belonged to someone else entirely.

He fucking felt it. His claws dug in just a little deeper, blood rolling warm down your neck as he looked down at you like something scraped off his boot.

“You needy little hole. If I split you open right now, you’d die with your pussy clenched.”

You gasped again when he finally—barely—let you breathe, the grip on your throat loosening just enough for air to wheeze back into your lungs. It felt like fire, like dragging breath through razors, but you sucked it in anyway, coughing, heaving.

And then—like a fucking curse—you tried your luck again.

You didn’t know what possessed you to throw another hit when your lungs were still clawing for breath. Maybe it was the firestorm behind your ribs, or the bitter heat of humiliation pooling low in your stomach. Maybe it was that twitch of his lip—barely there, not even a smirk, just the absence of one—that made your blood howl.

Your fist didn’t make it far. He caught your hair like he’d been expecting it, a fistful of it gripped tight at the crown of your head, claws pricking your scalp so sharp your vision spat sparks. There was no warning. No preamble. No care.

The ground spun as he hauled you over like you didn’t weigh a thing, and slammed you face-first into the dirt so rough and fast your cheek split on a rock. Your breath left you in a choked grunt, lungs burning and the wounds on your neck stinging with the sweat that clung to them, limbs scrambling, half from shock and half from instinct.

You tried to cough but choked instead, nose crushed half into soil, throat still raw and burning. You should’ve stayed still. Should’ve let your humiliation rot into the mulch and swallowed it down with the blood. Still, the ever proud and defiant, you snapped your teeth like a chained thing.

"Big, bad fuckin' demon... need all that strength just to take a girl half your size."

He didn’t give you another second to think. You wasted your chances. One hand slammed down between your shoulder blades, flat-palmed and unforgiving, driving your chest into the ground until your ribs ached and your cheek split deeper against the grit. The other flew down between your legs, claws catching on the middle seam and ripping down.

The sound was awful, the feeling was even worse. Denim gave way with a shriek that made your teeth feel like cotton, flesh just behind it splitting from the sheer force, and your ass hit the air fully exposed, raw and scraped and red. A breeze passed and made it worse. You twitched, but he shoved your face down harder.

He didn’t prep. Didn’t spit. Didn’t warn. You didn't even hear when he unzipped his fly. Didn't give a single fuck about whether or not you had a change of heart at the threatening sensation of his head, thick and angry, sealing your fate as it pressed between your folds.

The shove of his cock was sudden, one long, solid thrust splitting you open from behind like a fucking sword. Too thick, too deep, too fast. The air ripped out of your lungs like you’d been kicked. Your stomach turned so hard you almost barfed, eyes bugging wide, mouth hanging open in a soundless scream against the earth.

Your hips jerked. He didn’t move. Just sank in until your cunt was forced to take every brutal inch of him. No stretch, no slick, just the bladed ache of it all, and the sick realization that he was rock hard.

The motherfucker was just as gone as you were.

But he wasn’t panting. Wasn’t twitching or thrusting fast, like someone caught up in the moment. He was still. All control. Letting your body struggle to make room around him, letting your walls twitch and flutter in panic. The wet squelch between your thighs was all you could hear over your own labored wheezing.

"What, can't take it?"

He started fucking into you. No rhythm. No mercy. Just the relentless punch of his hips slamming into the backs of your scratched up thighs, over and over, like he wanted to drive you through the ground. One hand fisted in your hair again, yanking your head back with zero care as the other kept your jaw pinned to the filth. The position twisted your back, bent you like the lifeless carcasses littered around you like godless spectators.

Each thrust forced you forward an inch, face dragging through blood and dirt, your knees scraping raw. The stench of blood and fresh meat curled up your sinuses as your lungs scraped for air against dust, the smell once sweet and promising a full stomach, now sharp and nauseating.

You tried to squirm away. Like you hadn't brought this upon yourself.

Your body was betraying you. Fingernails carved grooves into the dirt like a dying animal, grit and rot wedging under your nails, clawing at the earth like it could offer salvation, your hips pulling forward, trying to escape the merciless pounding of his cock against hour cervix. But your back arched for him, like your cunt was torn between fleeing and begging.

And God help you, your throat was pushing out these tiny, desperate moans, like it wanted to humiliate you.

Every thrust slammed you forward like you weighed nothing—hips bucking, back arching in a spasm as Jack drove you closer and closer to the heap of what was left of one of the campers, opened to the sky like a slaughtered pig.

Without a word, without giving your cunt a single moment to heal, Jack leaned forward. His chest skimmed your back, hulking weight pinning you harder into the rot and every inch of cock forced to the hilt in your stretched cunt until your breath left you in a wheeze. One hand stayed on your hip, claws biting into your skin through the denim like hooks, but the other reached forward past your head.

You didn't look. But a wet rip—a sound like thick silk tearing underwater—made your eyes snap wide open.

You tried to twist, but he was already looming over your arched body like judgement day, one palm flattening against the side of your head to turn it and force it still into the dirt. The other—dripping, gore-caked—pressed something still warm and yielding against your lips.

"Open up," he grunts through bruising thrusts, motion knocking you back and forth against the wet flesh in his hand.

"Eat— My shit," you spit back through gritted teeth, lips barely parting in an attempt to keep him from forcing it inside your mouth.

But that moment of bravery was quick to screw you over, like they all had been so far. You refuse to learn. You refuse to give in.

The fingers splayed on the side of your head started curling, so slowly, so calmly, tips of his claws pushing into your scalp like shards of glass until your mouth fell open on a failed yelp. He shoved the torn chunk past your lips and teeth, stuffing your cheeks with it like a Thanksgiving turkey, before slapping the same blood soaked palm over your lips with a stinging, wet smack.

You couldn't even tell what the fuck he even tore from the body—too spongy for heart, too fatty for liver, maybe lung—but it didn't matter. You wanted to barf. Not because of the taste, or the texture, or even the gesture—but because you fucking liked it. Your moans spilled through his fingers like the taste of sweet, tangy iron was the cherry on top to the relentless pounding of his cock into you.

Jack's thrusts came to a screeching halt behind you, balls deep into your pussy, twitching in angry throbs against your g-spot like even his cock couldn't stand the loss of friction. And you whimpered—fucked out and strained and desperate—like you were confessing all your sins. You were left raw and pulsing in the hollow absence of him, muscles spasming, skin clinging to the ground with sweat and spit and blood and whatever sense of dignity you had left wrong out of you. It all ached.

"...You have to be fucking joking." His voice was nothing like the steely, monotone mockery of calm that grated your ears until now. No. He was in complete and utter disbelief, that even with your cunt brutalized and your mouth stuffed to silence, you were still moaning, taking it, enjoying it.

"Get the fuck up."

But he didn't wait for you to obey—he knew you wouldn't. Couldn't. Not when your knees buckled under you the moment he pulled out with an obscene, slick sound, not when your pussy sobbed and clenched helplessly around nothing.

His hand knotted into a fistful at your roots, dragging you backward until your spine folded, your knees buckling and your ass hitting the ground in front of his hips.

You opened your mouth to snarl, spit, whine—and his cock was already pushing past your lips.

"Shut the fuck up. Shut— the fuck up."

No teasing. No slow slide. Just a hand on your jaw and a hard, bruising shove of his hips, stuffing your mouth full like it was owed to him. He held you there—hand wrapped tight around the back of your skull, fingers in your scalp, pelvis pressed to your lips so all you could do is take it.

Your nose mashed against the base of him, breath catching in your chest, throat convulsing. You were choking on your own slick, retching around him from the sheer pressure in the back of your throat, and he was dead silent, like this was just another means to shut you up.

He fucked your mouth the same way he fucked your cunt—rough, unforgiving, like he was trying to scrape something out of you.

And somewhere in that hot, wet fog of spit and gagging, with tears leaking down your cheeks and your body limp from the brutal rhythm, something shifted.

You looked up at him through your clumped lashes, through burst capillaries and glassy veil of tears, and you swore you were staring into hell. The black smears that pass for eyes, the sickly sheen of sweat on a face carved from stone, the teeth that flashed when he bared them like an animal losing patience with its prey. Breathing hard through his nose, jaw tense, every inch of him trembling like a thundercloud waiting to split.

You saw the Devil. And for one fractured second—just one—you saw your past. When days started blurring together into visions and rot and dread—and you thought the Devil was watching you. And you wanted him to be proud.

He wasn't.

He was punishing you with every violent slam of his cock that left your throat raw, with every yank of your hair when you choked and tried to pull away on instinct. And God, you couldn't stand the gaping hole he left between your legs, throbbing and needy because of him. Because of the taste of you on his cock, the feeling of your lips stretched taut around his shaft, the burn in your jaw.

So, without thinking, out of sheer instinct—your fingers found your swollen clit, slick and aching, rubbing frantic circles in a desperate bid for some fucking relief. Something to hang onto. But you didn’t even get to swipe twice.

His hand shot down fast—no warning, no hesitation—and caught your wrist in a bruising grip, tearing it away from between your thighs like you’d tried to steal from him. The movement jolted through you, and in the same breath—

Smack.

The sharp crack of his palm against your drenched pussy echoed louder than it should’ve in the blood-soaked clearing. Pain bloomed instantly, raw and stinging, your thighs jolting inward like your body didn’t know whether to flinch or clench.

He didn’t snarl. Didn’t raise his voice. His tone was low, calm, but ragged at the edges—like he was barely keeping it in check while balls-deep in your throat.

“You don’t get to come.”

That was all he said. Like it was a fact. A verdict.

You whimpered around his cock, drool sliding past your lips as your jaw twitched from the weight of him. He didn’t let go of your wrist. Just slammed it down into the dirt, grinding your palm into the filth like it didn’t belong on your body.

“You didn’t earn that, whore."

Then, just when your lungs started to ache from holding your breath, when the buzzing behind your eyes started to creep in—he shoved forward. Deeper. Until your nose crashed into his skin again, until your throat clenched around him like a vice and your body bucked involuntarily.

And he just held you there.

Fingers fisted tight in your hair, body pressed flush against your face, cock twitching at the back of your throat while you gagged and choked and couldn’t do anything but take it. Your nails dug uselessly into the dirt, knees raw, breath gone. Tears streaked your cheeks in slow rivers as your body trembled, cunt still throbbing and aching and stinging from where he slapped you—so close to breaking, needing, empty.

Finally, he pulled back with a slick drag of spit and heat, his cock sliding from your raw throat with a wet pop that left your lips open and twitching, jaw slack. You gasped, collapsing forward on your hands, spit and leftover blood stringing from your mouth onto your dirt caked shirt.

His hand slid down over your chest, steadying you with a firm press before he fisted your shirt at the collar and yanked it down the front of your body—until the fabric stretched taut over your belly, until it was all exposed and helpless and shaking beneath him.

Jack grunted—quiet, tight, barely audible—and heat splattered across your skin in thick, hot ropes, coating your chest, your stomach, your shredded shirt in streaks. His cum hit your skin like a final insult, mixing with blood and sweat like it belonged there.

You didn’t dare move. Not when he was still looming above you, not when your cunt throbbed in open defiance, empty and twitching with frustrated, raw need.

Your skin stung. Your chest heaved. And when the last drop dripped from the flushed tip of his cock, he tucked it away, zipped up, and turned.

Didn’t say a word. Didn’t even look at you.

The crunch of boots in dead leaves was the only thing that told you he was walking off—away from you, away from the three corpses cooling nearby, away from the bloodbath he left you to clean up alone.

No blade. No bag. No help.

Just you. Your aching cunt. Your slick, sore throat. And three disfigured bodies you were expected to carry like penance.

You didn’t even have enough voice left to laugh, or to pray that you'd have the strength to get up and figure out a plan.

[pawberri]

Some ppl have brought up that they don't understand being mad because the output of the AI is not something that could be considered "theft" or copyright infringement. I think the best way I can explain it as an artist is that the output is not what I'm concerned with at all. I agree that AI can create works that are not infringing, etc, etc, and that copyright is a flawed system etc etc. But what bothers me is that a large company is taking people's works and using them to create a product which generates profit. The products cost a fee and are intended to make massive amounts of money. I'm not talking about any independent or non-profit-driven AI. So, my reaction is much the same as a large newspaper or something taking stock art without paying the licensing fee. You've made a thing that relies on working class artists' labor but taken the wages from them. Whatever the result is, it's the action prior that bothers me and many other people. That's why someone might be upset that one of their employers took their work without transparency or direct payment for use in a product, even if the products resulting output is not direct theft.

To compare it to non-AI stuff: sometimes small fashion designers will post that Shien or whatever clearly put their shit on a mood board and produced a legally distinct but extremely close copy of their work. Putting stuff on a mood board isn't copyright infringement, and I mostly think anyone should be able to be inspired by whatever. But if a giant fast fashion company with 100x the access to capital creates a version of a small artists work and sells it at a fraction of the price... while also exploiting more labor and hurting the environment more... I'll be like, wow. How shitty and capitalist and exploitative. Idk.

Also i don't consider saying "my stuff got stolen by a company" to be a euphemism for "my copyright was violated." I think it's just an average persons frustration at having their labor alienated by a large company. Most of these people are not pursuing copyright cases. Some of them might think copyright is Good because it's superficially the only thing in our economy protecting their labor, but I don't think this conversation is inherently about copyright.

I know that a lot of artists are stupid about labor and don't express their critiques of AI in a productive way but I really feel like it's odd that so many people defend large companies taking freelancers work without paying for it as if its the same as the average individual doing it. Like, when I say I think it's bad for Large Company OpenAI to take a bunch of art from middle-class artists who survive partly off of royalties in order to extract massive profit from it, I get replies like "so you think it's bad for me to make my own independent AI model?". I don't understand why there's this refusal to analyze the specific circumstance of a large, capitalist entity essentially stealing potential wages from workers. It's like. I hope someday we get rid of copyright and have a socialist utopia with equal wages, etc, but why should I pretend OpenAI is on the side of that dream? Like I just do not see why I need to apply the same logic to working class people violating copyright and appropriating work freely as I do giant companies. I think if giant companies are going to exist, they should be forced to pay the people whose labor they appropriate. I'm not advocating for copyright lawsuits or any other existing punishment in our system, I'm just objecting to it without planning any formal backlash. But if you even say this is exploitative, people who I generally find really compelling just dismiss you as a pro-copyright idiot.

It's like. I think that Lisafrank 420 by Macintosh Plus is an amazing work that is legally not transformative yet still deserves to exist. And even if it was bad, it would deserve to exist. But if it was made by Universal Music Group and they said they didn't have to pay Diana Ross for it, my opinion would differ. I would not be going "wow anyone who thinks this is shitty is clearly shilling for copyright law." Like UMG clearly knows and cares about copyright law when it benefits them, so their appropriation of her and her team's work clearly takes on a different meaning. Is that an insane take??

[spaceycat]

Tony x Reader?? pretty please 🥺

I AM CLAWING AT THE BARS OF MY ENCLOSURE!!!!!! YES, i have been waiting for this one!! this has been in my drafts for literally 2 months but guys.. thats so okay!!!

⋆★⋆ one night only ⋆★⋆

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☆˚₊ ɴᴏᴡ ᴘʟᴀʏɪɴɢ ...  ╰┈➤ 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚒 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚘��𝚎? ᝰ.ᐟ

♫ ᴘʟᴀʏɪɴɢ: she's my collar by gorillaz + kali uchis (3:29)

✰ pairing: tony stark x oblivious!fem!reader

✰ cw: pepper x tony, does NOT exist - think about the first iron man movie, smut, p in v sex, stomach bulge kink LOL, swearing, dirty talk, tony and reader are lowkey freaks tbh

✰ word count: 1.3k+

✰ summary: you and tony hook up, you didnt know that he was a billionaire but you were just there for the thrill - afterwards tony cant forget about you and tries to convince you to stay with him, you dont want to get tied up with the press.

✰ a/n: creds to @loversrocktvgirl2 for the gif !!! <3 uhh we might make this into a series but IDK, this is my first tony fic so be lenient with me guys..

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༺colour chart༻ reader ❀ tony ♕

Tony first saw you in a local bar, that he so happened to own but he doubted you knew that. You were sitting up at the bar, alone. Looking all pretty and shit, how could he not be interested?

He dismissed his security to stand by the door as he walked over to you, he simply leaned against the bar next to you - ordering a whiskey, neat with one of those square icecubes.

You didn't even look his way, continuing to drink whatever cocktail you had in your hand.

"You waiting for someone?" He spoke up, grabbing your attention - you looked over to him, not a single sign of recognition in your eyes. "You could say that.. got stood up." You fiddled with your now empty glass. Tony simply turned to the bartender who passed him his whiskey, "I'll order whatever she had aswell, put it on my tab." He tilted his head in a way to gesture to you. "Oh-- no, sir, you don't have to do that." You chuckled nervously. "Call me Tony."

"Well, Tony- I don't particularly like owing people things." He faltered a bit, when he noticed you really didn't know that he was a multibillionaire, a multibillionaire that owned the very bar that you were sitting in, that was paying for the liquor in the drink you were just sipping on. "I bet." He regained himself - smirking, taking a sip of his drink. You didnt seem amused by his sarcasm. "I'll pay you back." You reached for your purse, thats when his hand stilled yours - pushing your purse back down to your side. "Please, princess- just let me buy you a drink, it's what guys like me do for pretty girls." "Do you commonly hit on girls who have been stood up?" "You're a comedian too.." He smiled while he earned a chuckle from you, you nodded. "Alright alright, you've earned my time until I finish this glass." "Then I'll ensure it never runs out, sweetheart."

Thats how Tony managed to get you back to your penthouse, kissing you as soon as you got through the door - he'd drag you towards his master bedroom. As his lips touched yours, they tasted of the expensive whiskey he was drinking before.

He'd practically shove you onto his large bed, joining you - locking lips with you again. His hands dragging up your thighs, pushing them apart to make his place between them more comfortable. His hands slipping underneath your dress - pushing it up higher as his lips moved to kiss your neck.

You ran your hands through his neatly combed hair, encouraging him even more. He placed his hands under your thighs, pulling you down a bit to rest comfortably on your back.

He moved back a bit, leaning back on his calves - just admiring you for a minute. "Alright. Off, cmon now." He said already pushing off your dress.

Every piece of clothing was taking off and thrown somewhere in the large room. Leaving you heaving beneath him, the adrenaline of the situation kicking in. "You're a pretty little thing under all of that arent you?" "Tony--" "You should really be thanking me, princess.. letting you come here into my place?"

You just stared at him, like a deer in headlights. He looked at you expectingly, "..Thank you." "Atta girl.." He'd move closer to place another kiss to your lips.

He reached over to his nightstand, pulling out a condom - passing it to you. You looked confused for a moment, "You gonna help me put it on or what? I payed for your drinks." Without another moment of thinking you grabbed the condom off of him, ripping the packet with nimble fingers.

You settled to sit infront of him, leaning back onto your calves as you looked up at him - placing his cock into your hand, pumping it slowly as you settled the condom over him. "There we go.."

He then wrapped an arm around your waist, settling you on his thighs - "All good?" He tilted his head at you, you couldnt nod faster. "I need words, sweetheart." "Yes, Tony."

He'd place a kiss to your lips, slowly picking your hips up with his hands to settle you onto his cock - a small moan leaving your lips as he settled, thick and warm, inside of you.

He'd wrap an arm around your waist to get some leverage on you, slowly lifting you up out of his lap - his cock nearly slipping out of you. His eyes trained on your stomach as he sat you back down in his lap, seeing how his cock pocked out off your stomach.

"Y'see that baby? That's how deep inside you I am." You only could let out a whimper at the sight of it.

"So warm, so soft." He'd move you up and down on his lap, his cock slipping in and out of you and all you could do was sit there, your legs moving instinctively as his hips moved in tandem with yours.

You felt your orgasm impending, head resting on his shoulder as you clenched around him. "You close, baby?" "Mhm--" "Cum on my cock baby, show me." You moved your hand to your clit, coaching your orgasm more.

He'd then grab your wrist, pulling it away from you. "You think I'm gonna let you do that?" He then replaced your hand with his, fingers moving in slow circles.

You then came, your vision going white as you clinged onto him like a lifeline, he followed suit - coming into the condom.

He then slipped you off of him, you laying back into the pillows - worn and tired, placing kisses to your neck and chest.

The next morning, you woke up - suddenly becoming very aware of your surroundings - a fancy penthouse with windows looking out onto the ocean. Okay, whoever you hooked up with last night was not a normal guy. You'd sit up, the sheets pooling at your hips - realising you were wearing one of Tony's AC/DC shirts. "What the fuck is going on.." You'd notice a tablet open on the bed next to you on Tony's side of the bed, you picked it up - scrolling through it. Revealing a picture of Tony shaking hands with some big stakeholder of some company, "Tony Stark" in large bold letters.

Well, shit.

You just hooked up with a multibillionaire, and the worst part is you didn't even notice it. Tony then walked in, a cup of coffee in hand when he realised the tablet in your hands and the confused look on your face. "Well that didn't take long at all.." "You're kidding." He'd click his tongue, setting down the mug - his hands moving into his suit pant pockets. "No I'm not, sweetheart." "I seriously hooked up with Tony Stark?!--" You'd groan, placing your head into your hands. "You're acting like it's a bad thing." "It is-- now I'm going to be in newspapers and shit." "Most people thank me for it." "Oh really?" "Mhm.." "I have to go-- like right now." You'd get out of bed, fishing your clothes and shoes that were scattered across the floor. "What?-- no, stay for a coffee or.. or something." Tony almost scrambled to stop you, but he didnt want you to realise that he wanted you to stay. You pulled a pair of jeans you found splayed across the floor onto yourself, buttoning them up. "I'm probably late for work anyways." You'd walk past him, towards the door of the bedroom. You left, you left the Tony Stark alone in his bedroom and as you recall it later at work, you knew it was dumb - you thought it was so dumb. But you didn't want to get caught up in all of his publicity drama, it's for the better.

But you then realised, you left with his AC/DC shirt still on, and jeans that were not yours.

[clanwarrior-tumbly]

Hello! Can I ask for an Dream BBQ Ena with a reader who is a genie? Like maybe Ena finds a new door and thinks that the genie can help her find the boss. Reader is the genie of the door and is just like "???" at this strange but kinda endearing humanoid. IDK, I just think Genie!Reader's redaction to Ena would be funny.

This reminds me of that one Door that's hidden in the Lost Village (there's a pathway in the top right corner of the area). It's like a mermaid

Makes me wonder if the door itself just got abandoned here, or if there's a world inside it that's still ran by a Genie. But anyways I'm gonna base Reader off of what I think this Genie would've been like!

........

'Huh..another Door.' Ena mused as she came face-to-face with another blue entity. This time, it was a mermaid-shaped figure with the head of a fish, being only connected by a spine or backbone of some sort.

She had the feeling that she definitely shouldn't be here, but after wandering and looking for clues as to which house in the Lost Village was the correct one to enter.....she just happened to stumble upon this Door.

Something told her to use the humanboard to cross over to it, and that's exactly what she did, determined to explore this new "ocean of opportunity". She was always one to venture into the unknown.

It was still part of her job, after all--it could lead her to the Genie who could clear that smoke away.

Stepping onto what little platform was holding up the door, she was teetering on the edge, not daring to look down into the abyss, knowing it'd be staring back up at her.

After recalling her trusted companion tool, she looked at the head in-between her hands for a brief moment, thinking..

Should she be here?

Shouldn't she be heeding the words of Sir Frank?

Regardless, her curiosity won over...and it may be her undoing.

There was a cracking sound, like bones snapping, and she glanced up to see that the Door reattached its own head. It stared at her with one blinking eye, almost as if it was expecting something out of her...

The moment she reached out to make contact with it, the creature suddenly grabbed her arm and yanked her closer, aggressively wrapping its limbs and tail around her in a crushing embrace, before dragging her downwards into the blue--like she was being pulled underwater.

For a few seconds she gasped, fighting its hold on her....but it didn't take long for her vision to go black.

Next thing she knew, she was falling and hit the ground hard.

She could breathe again, and after coming to her sense, she found herself in a new place: A large room that resembled an abandoned swimming pool area. She looked around, finding faded motivational posters, a deflated beach ball or two floating in the air, and of course....a lot of mannequins who have somehow found this Door, too.

Some lied dead in their lounge chairs, holding empty martini glasses, others were trapped at the bottom of the pool, and a few took turns hopping off the diving platform, only to respawn on the board as soon as they touched the water.

It seemed like a lot of fun, but she ignored it.

She allowed it to distract her once, and look where that brought her....

Now she knew she definitely wasn't any closer to finding the Bathroom. But what else could be done except continue on?

Surely, there had to be another way.

Up ahead, she spotted a decrepit canopy that piqued her interest. It just screams "Genie Hideout Here" with flashing neon signs and red arrows all pointing to its entrance.

So she pressed on, stepping into the pool and realizing that she didn't sink right away. She was able to walk on the water, but it didn't bother her as she marched onwards with newfound determination.

When she made it to the other side, she drew back the curtain, discovering the canopy to be much bigger on the inside--not to mention more glamorous, full of shiny things and strange fish in aquatic tanks on all sides of her: left, right, up, down, and diagonal.

At the very end, you were sitting there, meditating in the middle of it all. You looked like a rather important figure, so she did the only sensible thing and walk right up to you with her request.

"Excuse my intrusion, but perhaps you could help me?"

Hearing the footsteps of a newcomer, you opened your eyes and looked up to see that you indeed had a visitor. It's an ENA, much to your surprise, but you welcome it.

"Hello, my friend. I don't know how you found this place, but I must say...I'm impressed." You rise up, your cloak swishing around your form. "I am the Genie of this Door, although...what you've seen is all that remains of it. Time has passed so quickly, I've even forgotten what its purpose was." Your earfins fold downwards as your smile becomes forlorn, a sentimental feeling washing over you.

"A Door...within a Door?!" Ena's Meanie side huffs, taking out a megaphone and shouting into it. "I'm sick of all these conundrums! I just want to find the Bathroom!!!" She was so worked up, she didn't even realize there was no force overtaking her--no higher power that was making her say "Bathroom" instead of "Genie"--anymore.

"..Bathroom? Ah..you must mean Theodora." You sigh. "The fact that you winded up here means you were close to reaching it....but you've fallen short. You won't find her here. Only her remnants, which the village has been protecting for a long time. If forgiveness is what you seek, unfortunately I cannot give you that blessing, for I've lost the power to do so."

"Grrahh..then what services can you provide for me, fish fry?" She sneered, tapping her foot, hands on her hips as her disconnected head tilts to the side.

Normally, you wouldn't tolerate anybody speaking to you like this. But this was the first time you've really gotten to know an ENA who was...stable. Her emotions seemed balanced, united in search of a common goal, instead of being an aimless wanderer like many before her and one side having an extreme overreaction at the drop of a hat.

She wasn't annoying, but interesting. And it's been a while since anything or anyone interesting has come to see you. So you decided to entertain her.

"Well, it'd be cruel to let you leave emptyhanded. So I will grant you one aspiration. No more, no less."

Your response satisfied Ena's Salesperson side, as she grinned, knowingly exactly what she must aspire for. She didn't need a moment longer to think about it.

It's not about what she truly wanted deep down, as only one thing mattered right now.

"Dear Genie, our target today is your Boss. They've been giving us trouble, but the smoke is in the way of our work. If it's within your power, would you kindly eradicate it for us?" She clasped her hands together. "Pretty please?"

"Hmm...are you asking on someone's behalf? Or out of your own volition? Is this what you really want?" You ponder out loud, but when she doesn't answer, you continue. "Ah...very well. Just know that a time will come that you'll earn the freedom you desire in your heart. Liberation. Happiness. Unburdened by responsibility. You'll no longer be a cog in the machine."

Again, she said nothing, although you could see it in her eyes....that she liked the idea of that.

You then gestured behind you. "Dive into the code behind me. It's a shortcut to the answer to your prayers, and a way back to your physical form."

Ena looked past you, seeing a small pool of blue code, layered in realistic watery textures. Then she gazed back at you one more time, her Meanie side almost looking like she wanted to say something else...

But instead, she makes another snarky business joke. "Should I hold my breath? I'm already drowning in debt here."

"That's up to you. May you find peace with yourself someday, my friend. If we cross paths again...hopefully it's under better circumstances."

Without saying anything further, she walked behind you and jumped into the pool of code. No hesitation.

And as white greeted her vision, your voice echoed in her mind--from somewhere beyond:

"Remember, ƎNA: All it takes is a place and the right food"

[suliigwp]

I DESPISE MY ROTTEN MIND AND -HOW MUCH IT WORSHIPS YOU

Oscar Piastri x Mean!Reader

SULI: Reader is the daughter of someone powerful in McLaren like a co-owner or sm idk go along with it please🫶 (ignore my obvious love for lando here) this is my first fic be nice ; I plan on part two ; I tried to speak around her name to not say y/n ; Olivia Rodrigo I bow down to you - stream 'Lacy'!

Warnings: reader is straight up a horrible person (kinda - this is my guilty pleasure), Toxic?, smoking, he just can't stay away, English is not my first language.

Lacy, oh Lacy, it's like you're out to get me.

Oscar Piastri was never one to particularly like audience. He didn't mind company, but preferred the comfortable whispers of silence of whom he learned calmness from. He tried to keep reminding himself that what people thought was not important, and what he did with his time was, but it was different this time.

Having just signed a contract with McLaren, he stood in a big room in his new dress-shirt, glass in hand, speaking to people involved with the team at a 'get-together' before the season started. Zak Brown and Lando Norris taking it upon themselves to introduce him to everyone. He had to make a good impression.

Eventually they introduced him to the small group of people owning the McLaren Formula 1 team and shaking their hands he cursed at himself silently for forgetting to wipe his hand on his pants, hoping his palm wasn't sweaty.

"I like how calm you are. Gives the sense of stability." Chuckled the man, taking a sip of the drink in his hand. "That's good. A driver making you feel steady straight on is exceptional."

"Thank you, Sir." He kept his answer short as he glanced down.

Oscar knew the truth. If anyone in this room was exceptional, it was Lando Norris. The teammate he needed to keep up with, the one he wanted to outrun, he didn't want the second seat, he wanted the first one and Oscar knew that wasn't an easy point to get to.

"I think it's time to change our driver dad. Really, how many times do I have to be late?"

Said a woman's voice behind the man, Oscar watched as the grey-haired man's face twisted into a warmer smile as he turned around.

"Darling!"

Some feeling went down Oscars frame. Warmth? Or was it freezing cold? He couldn't tell. Only thing he knew was that it wasn't a good feeling. The girl now in front of him shined off a feeling that he could only call whimsical. Dark but comforting, heavy but so easy to breathe in. Like something was warning him, stay away.

She nodded to everyone when they greeted her, smiling an off smile, eyes glancing at everyone and then landing on him. His consciousness shook.

"Darling, Meet Oscar Piastri. Our new driver." Oscar gave a soft smile and a nod, offering his hand.

"Pleasure to meet you."

She took his hand and shook it slowly, looking him up and down, darkly painted lips twitching upwards. "I've heard a lot about you, Oscar."

Oscar blinked away, slowly taking his hand from hers, offering another soft smile, not knowing what else to say.

As the talk around them picked up again, he never lost that heavy feeling. The weight of her eyes pushing down on him as he continued trying to breathe.

...

"Breathe Man, you're doing fine." Landos voice comforted him as they got away from the scariest circle in the room.

Oscar took in a large breath as he put down his finished cup on one of the small tables around the room. Looking at his teammate as he laughed. "Shut up."

"Sorry, sorry, I would be this sweaty too if she looked at me like that."

"What?" He turned to the curly haired man.

"What? You're kidding right? You caught the eye of one of the most scary people here." The man chuckled, leaning on the table.

"Scary?"

Lando raised a brow at him. "Do you only know how to ask one word questions?" And shook his head teasingly when Oscar gave him a deadpan look. "Depending on who you ask, She's not a very pleasant person. That's how dumb people think, I think she's awesome." He smiled.

Oscars brows furrowed, that feeling came back. "Why would people think that?"

"Ah, long story... To say it short she was an intern at some event, she leaked a private recording of some executive making corrupt comments. She didn’t go to the press. She posted it herself with zero warning. It exposed real corruption—but it also broke dozens of NDAs, compromised trust with an entire network of professionals, sparked a scandal, you know? People got fired. Security got tighter. She didn't really care but... A lot of people lost their jobs so..." He trailed off.

"...oh" Oscar muttered, looking back at the glowing figure behind him, he couldn't really tell if that glow was white or as dark as a black hole.

"That's the main thing, she doesn't really like staying quiet about things, she's brave, I could never." Lando muttered the last part under his breath, bringing a drink to his lips.

Oscar watched her as she ran her fingers through her hair and looked at him, the dark pencil around her eyes pulling him in. She smiled and looked back at the men in front of her.

He felt dizzy.

...

"Too pretty to be caught up in all of this, don't you think?"

He jumped a bit when he heard her voice, whipping around to face her, and for a second, he's speechless.

"I'm just... trying to enjoy the night." He muttered, trying to gather himself.

"I'm sure you are... Don't worry about my father, he likes putting a lot of pressure on everyone but, he really likes you." She said, smiling as she looks over him again.

Oscar cleared his throat, not knowing what to say. She chuckled "See you around." She called out as she walked away.

...

2023 BAHRAIN QUALIFICATIONS

She was reviewing something on her tablet, tucked into a far corner of the garage where no one would bother her. The usual flurry of team personnel moved around like clockwork—headsets, data, tires, noise. She liked the noise. It drowned out everything else.

Oscar had spotted her, but only because she looked like a fixed point in a sea of chaos—calm and sharp. He froze 'she's here?' He almost starts shaking. He wasn't trying to bother her. Just grabbed a bottle of water and stood near her, needing a quiet corner himself.

She glanced at him smirking to herself and going back to her screen, thinking he didn't see her.

"Oscar!" Someone shouted out suddenly, carrying out the garage. Oscar, startled, whipped around—smacking his water bottle right into the edge of a tool cabinet.

The cap flew off. The water went all over his shirt.

Her mouth dropped open.

He looked down at himself. Wet shirt. Clinging fabric. Silence.

She raised an eyebrow.

"...well," he said, monotone. "This is deeply unfortunate."

That did it. She laughed. Not loud, but real—like something cracked in her, like she'd been holding it in for years. It startled her more than him. She even looked away like she hadn’t meant for it to slip out. Holding a hand over her mouth.

He grinned slowly. That heavy feeling when he looked at her was gone. That voice. Her laugh. God, was she casting a spell on him? He hoped she knows a million spells “Is that my reward for humiliating myself?”

She didn’t respond. But she didn’t go back to her tablet, either.

...

It was after qualifying. Chaos had simmered down in the garage. She hadn’t meant to linger—but she did. Arms crossed, sitting on a crate that clearly wasn’t meant for sitting. Watching.

Oscar was standing alone for a second. Helmet off, suit unzipped to the waist, undershirt damp with effort. He was flipping through something on a monitor, lips pressed, jaw tight.

She studied his side profile. Pretty. So pretty. She spoke before she could stop herself. “You looked pissed after Q2.”

He turned, brows lifted, clearly surprised she was talking to him. “Did I?”

She hummed. “You stomped past the cameras like they insulted your mum.”He laughed softly, quiet. Gosh, is he testing her?

“Guess I need to work on that poker face,” he said.

“No,” she replied coolly. “It was entertaining.”

He gave her a look, half amused, half curious. She's fun to be around. People don't know what they're talking about...right? “You always hang around garages just to roast drivers?”

“Just the ones with weak qualifying laps,” she said, then smirked.

He blinked, taken aback for half a second and then grinned. “Okay, now I know you’re flirting.” immediately regretting it, heat rising up his neck.

She raised a brow, surprised at his boldness “I don’t flirt.”

“That’s what all good flirts say.”

She rolled her eyes but chuckled. For a few moments, they just stood there in the humming silence of the paddock. Not much said. But she noticed how his fingers tapped against the table. How he kept glancing at her like he was trying to figure her out.

He's so soft, so quiet, beautiful... And oh, did she love breaking pretty things. They start talking regularly after that day.

...

Oscar hadn’t meant to find her.

He was just looking for some quiet during the chaos of a post-qualifying press circuit. The hotel was packed, the lobby was louder than the paddock. So he slipped through a door that led to a narrow balcony, needing a breath.

She was already there.

Leaning on the railing, cigarette in hand. The night was velvet dark and gold-lit, and the glow of the cherry cast her face in an almost cinematic silhouette. She didn’t look at him right away. Just exhaled slow, smoke dancing around her like flames. He froze for a second.

Everyone had whispered things about her. Harsh. Cold. Dangerous, even. But standing there, her shoulder blades rising and falling with each breath, she looked more like someone who’d built her armor carefully and wore it heavily.

She finally glanced over her shoulder. “Lost, golden boy?” He blinked, not sure whether to answer or leave.

“You can stay,” she added after a beat, tapping ash off the side with a flick that said she didn’t really care either way.

He leaned on the opposite end of the railing, giving her space. “Didn’t know you smoked.” He muttered awkwardly, tapping his finger on the glass.

“You didn’t know me,” she said. Not cruel. Just matter-of-fact.

He looked at the skyline instead of her. “Guess I still don’t.”

She smirked, finally looking at him. “Smart boy.”

The silence hung, comfortable and strange. That feeling is back, he thinks, but it's different this time, it doesn't bother him, maybe he's gotten used to it. Then she offered the pack toward him without looking. Not really asking. Just holding it in his direction.

"No, thank you." He didn’t take one. But he didn’t leave either.

And she didn’t say a word about it. She just smoked her cigarette and let him share her quiet, the way someone might hand over a piece of themselves without even knowing they did.

She lit a second cigarette. Oscar watched her. “I don’t smoke often,” she said suddenly, voice quieter now. “Only when I feel like I’ll explode otherwise.”

He glanced at her, brows pulled slightly. “Bad day?”

She laughed, low and bitter. “Bad life, maybe.”

He didn’t smile at that, didn’t make it a joke. Just nodded like he understood. Like he wasn’t afraid of that edge she lived on. “I get it,” he said. “I don’t smoke, but… I’ve had days like that. Where it feels like if one more person asks how I’m feeling or tells me to smile for the camera, I’ll just—” He made a vague exploding gesture with his hands.

She looked at him. Really looked. “You don’t seem like the explode type.”

He shrugged. “I hide it better than you.”

She tilted her head, intrigued. Oscar lost his breath for the way the lights from the hotel hit her “So there’s a version of you that screams and throws things?”

“Maybe not throws. But I’ve thought about it,” he said, smiling now.

She grinned, soft but surprised. “Huh. Maybe you’re not as boring as I thought.”

He blinked, she's been thinking about him? He gave her a look. “You thought I was boring?”

“I thought you were safe,” she corrected, a little too honest. “And I hate safe.”

“Maybe you just don’t trust safe.”

That landed a little too hard. She went quiet, fingers tightening around her cigarette.

“Sorry,” he said softly. “That was... too much.”

But she didn’t get mad. She just looked out at the skyline again. “No. You’re not wrong.” putting the poison to her lips.

A long silence stretched between them, something warm and brittle. A truce.

Then she glanced sideways and muttered, “Still not taking a cigarette?”

He shook his head.

She exhaled smoke toward the stars. “Golden boy.” And she didn’t say it like an insult.

...

After that night on the balcony, the air between them shifts just a little. Next race week, she walks past him in the paddock. Doesn’t say anything at first, just shoots him a knowing look. He offers a tiny smile, the kind that doesn’t reach his eyes unless he means it. This time, he means it.

As she's about to turn the corner, he calls after her quiet, but clear.

"Hey."

She stops. Looks over her shoulder.

He walks up, a little sheepish, rubbing the back of his neck. The golden baby hairs at the nape of his neck catching light. “I figured... if you ever need someone to talk to. Or not talk to. Just… stand around and keep quiet next to you.” A soft laugh. “I’m good at that.”

She eyes him, chin tilted, unreadable. Then, after a pause, pulls her phone from her back pocket and hands it to him without a word.

He takes it, surprised but not stupid enough to question it, and enters his number first name and a little racecar emoji. Hands it back.

“What should I save you as?” he asks.

She smirks, plucking the phone back. “Don't worry golden boy, you'll figure it out.”

That night, he gets a text.

New contact added...

...

The garage had quieted, the roar of engines long since faded, replaced by the low mechanical murmurs of winding-down systems and the occasional clang of tools being packed up. Overhead lights cast long shadows, soft and golden against the cool gray of concrete floors and carbon fiber. Most of the team had cleared out, only a few stragglers remained, their voices echoing faintly from the far end.

She sat on the edge of a workbench, one leg crossed over the other, ankle bouncing lazily. Her lips were parted slightly, gloss smudged from biting the inside of her cheek. She was dressed sharply as always, but the sharpness dulled in this quiet hour, jacket shrugged halfway off, strands of hair falling messily from where she’d tucked them behind her ears.

Oscar was leaning against the wall opposite her, helmet in hand, still suited up. His curls were messy with sweat and humidity, cheeks flushed faintly from the day’s heat. He looked tired but content, relaxed in a way she’d only seen when no one else was around. They’d been talking for a while, longer than either of them intended.

He'd made her laugh. Really laugh, something startled and unguarded, a sound that cracked out of her like lightning. It silenced them both for a moment. She blinked at him, stunned, as if she'd just let something important slip out.

"What?" he’d said, smiling crookedly.

"You made a joke," she replied, feigning horror. “I thought you were the serious one.”

“I have layers.”

“Like an onion.”

“Wow. Thanks.”

And she laughed again, quieter this time, but closer to him. The distance between them had been shrinking all evening, physically and otherwise. Every time she leaned in to say something, her perfume wrapped around him like a whisper. Every time she pushed his shoulder or smirked at him, he had to fight the instinct to reach back.

Now, the air between them hung heavy, still. She stared at him. He stared back.

Then she uncrossed her legs and hopped lightly down from the bench, stepping closer, too close. Her chest brushed his arm, her fingers lightly skimming the fabric of his sleeve, a touch so casual it felt intentional.

“You’re not as boring as you look,” she said, voice lowered just slightly, eyes darting to his mouth for the briefest second.

He huffed a laugh, lips curling up, but his heart was thudding in his chest. “You always flirt by insulting people?”

“Only with special ones."

The words landed between them like a strike. His gaze dropped to her lips. Hers flicked to his. He leaned forward a little. She tilted her head, fractional movements, both of them holding their breath. Her hand was still on his arm, nails lightly brushing the fabric.

It would take nothing, just one more inch, one more second, for them to close the distance.

And then—

“Oscar!”

They flinched apart like they'd been caught. He stepped back, blinking fast. Her hand dropped. The moment splintered like glass under pressure.

She tried to brush it off. “Guess they still need you,” she said, recovering faster than he did, but her voice was quieter now. Her walls didn’t go all the way back up, but the door was closing.

He nodded slowly, trying to smile but not quite managing it. “Yeah… I guess they do.”

She didn’t move. Neither did he.

Until he turned away, slow and heavy-footed. And even as he walked toward the voices calling his name, his mind stayed behind, with getting the taste of her so close he could’ve sworn he still felt her breath against his cheek.

...

You poison every little thing that I do

“Watch out for her, mate. She’s not someone you want to get too close to.”

Oscar raises an eyebrow, a little surprised by the caution in Lances voice. “What do you mean?” he asks, genuinely curious. He’s seen the way her boldness and confidence have always left him on edge, but he’s never really thought of her as dangerous, at least not in any serious way.

“She’s... got a reputation,” the driver says, glancing around as if to make sure no one’s listening. “People say she’ll use anyone to get what she wants. Doesn’t care who she steps on. And the rumors she spreads? She’s good at making people believe them. She gets inside your head, makes you question everything.”

Oscar feels a knot tighten in his stomach. That feeling is back. The warning stirs something in him. He’s seen her as this intriguing force, someone who’s always had a way of challenging everyone, pulling him in. But this doesn’t sound like the woman he’s been getting to know.

“Who exactly is saying all this?” Oscar asks, trying to keep his tone light, but there’s an edge of doubt creeping in.

Lance looks away, his expression turning serious. “It’s not just one person. Ask around, Oscar. You’ll hear the stories. She’s not someone you want to be mixed up with.”

Later that night, unable to shake the warning, Oscar starts digging. He asks a few more people, cautiously at first, but it doesn’t take long before the whispers start pouring in. Everyone seems to have an opinion on her. some avoid her entirely, others just don’t trust her. But the more Oscar hears, the darker the picture gets.

Rumors swirl about her—how she manipulates situations, uses her beauty to get people to do what she wants, and how she’s torn apart friendships and relationships in the past. Stories about her spreading lies and causing chaos are repeated again and again. It’s clear now: She isn’t just a woman who plays by her own rules; she plays with people’s lives like they’re chess pieces.

Oscar’s heart sinks as the weight of the reality settles over him. He thought he saw something good in her, something worth fighting for. But now, it feels like he’s been blinded by his attraction to someone who’s far more dangerous than he could have ever imagined.

The realization hits him hard, and as he stands in the middle of the paddock, the buzz of the race weekend around him, he’s left with a choice: walk away from this whirlwind he’s been caught in... or keep going, despite knowing the truth.

...

He’s lying in bed. Lights off, the room silent except for the low hum of the hotel air conditioning. But Oscar can’t sleep. Every time he closes his eyes, it’s her face he sees.

The way she looked at him on the balcony. The softness in her voice when she said his name. The smirk when she caught him staring too long. But now all he can hear is “You don’t want to get too close to her.”

He turns onto his side, frustrated. Grabs his phone off the nightstand. Just a peek. Just something to quiet the noise in his head.He types her name into the search bar.

Big mistake.

The results hit like a slap: headlines from glossy tabloids, anonymous gossip blogs, F1 forums with threads full of theories and rants. And then… videos. Short clips from events, shaky footage of her arguing with someone in a VIP lounge, walking out of a gala, stone-faced while a woman behind her is crying. Tweets calling her manipulative. Reddit threads filled with speculation and story after story from “insiders.”

“She said I was irrelevant to my face.”

“She told my friend she wasn’t pretty enough to date an F1 driver.”

“She leaked that PR scandal before the team could control it. I know it was her.”

He scrolls. He reads. He watches. Each new click feels worse than the last, but he can’t stop. He’s consumed.

And then he finds a post -long, detailed. An anonymous user claiming they knew her personally. It’s brutal. Cold. A timeline of friendships destroyed, opportunities taken by force, people she "exposed" for things no one was ever supposed to know. Some things might be exaggerated. But others… they line up.

He sits there in the dark, lit only by the glow of his screen, the sick feeling in his stomach growing stronger. He should block her. Forget her. Walk away. But he doesn't. He still wants to see that smirk again.

...

It wasn’t supposed to feel like this. They weren’t even officially friends at first. Just two people orbiting the same space, brushing past each other between interviews and paddock chaos, trading a look here, a quiet nod there. But something shifted slowly, then all at once.

It started with the laughing.

It wasn’t loud or wild. Just soft moments, shared glances, little jokes muttered under their breath when no one else could hear. Oscar had a way of drawing out a laugh she hadn’t used in years. Not the sharp, cynical kind she usually wielded like a weapon, but something warmer. Something reluctant. Genuine. She started looking for him, tracking the way his shoulders shook slightly when he tried not to smile too wide.

He made her feel… human again.

And somehow, despite her walls, despite the rumors and the carefully sculpted exterior she showed to everyone else, she started letting him see her. Really see her.

Late night texts turned into voice notes. Voice notes into video calls. She sent him songs without lyrics that said everything she didn’t know how to. He sent her blurry photos of the sky, his cat, his face half-hidden by the sun behind him, each one followed by a soft, “Thought you’d like this.”

In the paddock, he walked a little slower when she was around. She leaned closer when he talked. There were days when their shoulders brushed and neither of them moved away. Nights when they found each other on balconies, sharing secrets like confessions, smoke curling through the quiet between them.

He never pushed. Never asked for more than she was willing to give. And she hated how much she liked that.

There was a moment, a stupid, tiny moment, when she realized it had gone too far. He had made her laugh so hard during a rain delay that her eyeliner smudged, and she’d reached to gently wipe her eyes, when she looked up, he was already watching her with that look. The kind of look that says, I’d follow you anywhere even if I knew I’d get hurt. And I don't know why.

She had to walk away then. Pretend it didn’t matter.

But it did. Every little thing mattered now.

The way he waited for her after media duties without ever saying why. The quiet way he’d ask if she was sleeping okay when her her eyes looked darker than usual. The time he wrapped his jacket around her shoulders and didn’t make a big deal of it when she didn’t give it back.

And she let him in. Slowly. Recklessly.

He saw her, and she let him.

So when things changed, when his texts became shorter, his eyes colder, his laughter quieter around her, she felt it like a knife to the chest. She knew something had happened. Someone had told him something.

But before the silence, there had been this... almost. Like they were standing on the edge of something real, something wild and sacred. Like they were about to step into something neither of them could undo.

And now? Now he was slipping away.

And the worst part? She was starting to realize she cared.

More than she should have. More than she wanted to.

...

Lacy, Oh Lacy, I just loathe you lately

2023 JAPANESE GRAND PRIX

He was pulling away. She could feel it.

Oscar didn’t say anything outright, he was too polite, too careful for that. But she had always been good at reading tension, and lately, he’d been a damn novel of it. Shorter glances. Polite nods. No more waiting for her after interviews. No more inside jokes muttered under his breath.

It infuriated her.

Not because she needed his attention, she didn’t need anything. But because she let herself want it. Want him. And now he was acting weird. Distant. Like someone had whispered something in his ear that made him look at her differently.

So what did she do? She burned.

She stalked through the paddock like a storm cloud in heels. People whispered again when she passed, just the way she liked it. She leaned too close to Lando during a pre-race briefing, laughed too loud at something Charles said just as Oscar walked by. And when she caught Oscar’s eye across the garage, she tilted her head and smirked, sweet, dangerous, knowing. As he looked at her like a kicked puppy.

“You’re being horrible again,” Lando muttered, watching her from the side.

She popped her gum and said, “Am I?”

He wouldn’t say what was wrong? Fine. She’d make it worse. She showed up in the garage when she didn’t need to be there, lounging on the pit. She didn’t even look his way, not until he had to pass her. And then? A slow, calculated look up and down. One brow raised. Her lips curled like she was enjoying a private joke at his expense.

It was driving him insane. She knew it.

Every time she got a little too close to someone else, every time she smiled at the wrong guy for a second too long, Oscar's jaw clenched tighter. She caught it all. He never confronted her, never said a word—but she knew he was watching.

Good. Let him. Let him stew in whatever guilt or judgment he was choking on. If he wanted distance, fine, she’d give him a show. But underneath it all—beneath the smirks and the chaos—she was fuming.

Because he was pulling away And it was starting to hurt.

...

Oh, how he hates her lately.

He hates the way she smirks at other drivers, all flirt and fire and nothing left for him anymore. Hates how she doesn’t look at him like she used to, not with curiosity or teasing challenge, but like he’s a pawn that disappointed her. Like he’s beneath her now. A momentary lapse in her otherwise flawless taste.

He hates that she’s everywhere.

He hates that she leans too close to Lando, that her laugh rings out sharp and loud like a damn warning bell. Hates the way she struts into the paddock like she owns it, sunglasses hiding the eyes that used to meet his in stolen glances. Hates that she gets under his skin without even trying, because she’s not trying anymore, not with him.

But worst of all, He still wants her. Maybe even more now. This boiling need to touch her. This angry, uncontrolled want.

Still finds himself glancing over his shoulder in case she’s there. Still hears her voice echo when he tries to focus. Still checks his phone at night, half hoping, half terrified she’ll text.

He told himself to back away, convinced himself he had to. After everything he heard, after everything people warned him about her... he believed them. Tried to listen.

But she didn’t make it easy. She never did.

She’s turned cruel again. She’s turning heads and twisting knives and pretending he never mattered. Oscar is unraveling.

Because he can’t stop wanting the girl who now acts like she never wanted him at all.

...

And I despise my jealous eyes and how hard they fell for you

She’s laughing again. Louder this time. Her hand grazes the arm of someone else - he can't remember who, he doesn't care, she's touching someone else. Just to tempt him, make him snap. And it works.

Oscar doesn’t even realize he’s walking toward her until she turns around, and raises a perfect brow at him. Her smile freezes.

God how she missed looking into those eyes. “Can I help you, golden boy?” she asks, sugary venom dripping from every syllable.

He grabs her arm and pulls her away, not harshly, but firm. Behind the garage. Out of sight. He's breathing heavily. Her heels clack on concrete until they’re alone.

Letting go of her hand, he turned to her, chest rising and falling “Are you done?” he asks, voice low, sharp.

She leans back on one hip, lips curling as she takes in the way he's shaking. “With what?”

“With whatever the hell this is,” he snaps. “You being a nightmare to everyone and making it my problem.”

Her eyes flash, face falling. “I’m not your problem anymore, remember?”

“You never were my problem. You were-” He chokes on the words, throws his hands up. “You were something else. And now I don’t know what you are.”

“Oh, poor Oscar,” she mocks, stepping closer. Her voice dropping to a whisper, darkly painted lips casting a spell, he feels. “You get scared off by some rumors and now you can’t handle the consequences?”

“I trusted you!” he breathes out frustrated “And then you flipped a switch and started acting like I’m nothing.”

“You made me nothing first,” she snaps, suddenly too close, fire in her eyes. “You believed them. All of them. You didn’t even ask me.”

His jaw tightens. “Because I thought if any of it was true, even a little... I had to get out before..."

“Well,” she says, lifting her chin. “Guess what?"

The silence between them crackles. Breathing heavy. Hearts pounding. His eyes breathe her in. His head is buzzing, the world is is too light, or maybe she was too dark. He can't breathe, only breathe her.

“You’re a menace,” he mutters.

Her face holding a hidden pain only he notices “Took you long enough.”

And then, like fire catching on gasoline, he kisses her. Pressing his lips to hers harshly, her lips were so soft he needed to press harder to feel her, or maybe that's what his mind was telling him to rationalize wanting to get closer. More. More. Like he’s furious. Like he’s starved. Like he hates himself for it. His big arms come around her, one gripping her side and she melts into him, she kisses him back, just as angrily. Teeth, hands, a silent war with no winners. Her hands sliding into his hair, those golden strands she couldn't think about, the strands that had seamed her heart together without him even noticing. She pulled on it, bringing him closer, drawing out a soft groan from him and he pressed her body closer. She caught his lips between her teeth and pulling away, catching their breaths.

She watches him as he kept his eyes shut, creases on his face making him look so desperate, little whispers between breaths escaping him-

"-hate me. Why do you hate me-"

She grabs his face with her palms, her dark eyes sliding along his face, painting this image onto her brain.

"If there's anything in the world I don't hate, it's you, Oscar."

He lets out a shaky breath at her words and dropped his head on her shoulder.

...

Yeah, I despise my rotten mind and how much it worships you

Before the champagne, before the podium, before the trophy touched his hands - Oscar was already gone.

The second he crossed the finish line, engine cooling, helmet still on, the world around him exploded in cheers. His team was rushing over the barrier, pulling him into hugs, clapping his back, yelling his name into the chaos of victory.

But he wasn’t really there.

Helmet off, breath uneven, hair a mess, he turned. Eyes scanning wildly, past the cameras, the pit crew, the flashes.

There. Just out the garage. Arms crossed, watching him, expression unreadable.

But he knew her. Knew the tension in her jaw. Knew that if he got close enough, he’d hear her heart hammering under her calm.

He can't wait. He pushed past the clamor, weaving through people shouting his name. Someone tried to stop him, probably PR, but he brushed it off like static. None of it mattered. Not when she was there.

When he reached her, he didn’t speak. Didn’t ask. Just pulled her into his arms like he was starved for her. She stiffened only for a moment before melting into him, fingers tangling in the back of his suit. His forehead dropped to her shoulder, body trembling, not from exhaustion, but relief.

“Podium.” she whispered.

He nodded into her neck. “Couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

And in that quiet moment, hidden in plain sight, before the cameras turned their gaze, Oscar Piastri let himself fall. Not from the high of victory, but into her. He can't stay away. He can't.

[aspenmissing]

omg idk what it is about you writing creatively inclined readers but i LOVE IT, and i’m not even musically inclined ;^; . i had an idea, what about silcoxreader where the reader is a relatively famous musician that jinx really LOVES, like her music really speaks to her and the loud sounds and stuff. soooo silco being the good father he is takes her to one of her gigs under his and sevika’s surveillance only to realize that they both know her and that he kinda had a thing with her in his youth, maybe they can go out for a drink after the show? reminiscing on the past, and questioning the present? idk feel free to change this to whatever fits your ✨creative self✨the best. love your work :333🫶

ᴄʜᴏʀᴅꜱ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴀʀᴋ

ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ || ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ/ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ-ɪꜱʜ || 3138 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ || ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ᴀʙᴀɴᴅᴏɴᴍᴇɴᴛ?

ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀ: ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ ꜰᴏʀ ꜱᴜᴄʜ ᴛʜᴇ ᴋɪɴᴅ ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ ᴍʏ ᴅᴇᴀʀ! ɪ'ᴍ ɢʟᴀᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏɪɴɢ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋ, ᴀɴᴅ ɪ ᴅᴏ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏ ᴛʜɪꜱ! <3 <3

ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ | ᴊɪɴx | ꜱᴇᴠɪᴋᴀ

The bass was pounding through the old walls of the venue — a run-down warehouse tucked between layers of Zaun smog and forgotten alleyways. Once, it might’ve been a shipping depot, its bones made of rusted steel and reinforced concrete, the kind of place that saw too many hands and too little care. Now it pulsed with life. Fluorescent neon strips twisted like vines up the metal support beams, casting violet and crimson shadows over the sea of moving bodies. Smoke machines hissed in the corners, sending plumes into the rafters where old signage still clung, chipped and stained with time and ash.

The crowd was wild. Unapologetic. Youthful, furious, desperate. They danced like they were trying to shake the world loose from its hinges.

Jinx was already lost in it, her boots grinding into oil-stained floors as she bounced to the rhythm. Her manic laughter burst through the strobes like lightning. She swayed like a live wire, her blue hair whipping in time with the snare hits, arms thrown up like she was trying to catch the sound itself.

“Isn’t she amazing?” Jinx shouted, turning to Silco with wide, dilated pupils and a grin that carved straight through the noise. She clutched her face in mock-reverence. “Her tracks sound like a bomb going off in your soul, right?! Like—like everything's on fire and it’s beautiful! Gods, I think I’m in love.”

Silco said nothing.

He hadn’t said anything for the last two songs.

He stood rooted to the edge of the chaos, his black coat dragging like a pool of shadow, absorbing the flash and frenzy around him. The crowd flowed around him without touching him, like they could feel the gravity he carried—like something coiled inside him might snap if disturbed.

But he wasn’t looking at Jinx. Or the crowd.

His eyes were locked on the stage.

On you.

You emerged in a blaze of light and sound. Not as someone he recognized—not at first. No. You were a storm given flesh, backlit by crimson strobes and framed by digital flames. You hit the first notes like they owed you a debt, voice cracking through layers of distortion and synth like a war cry. Hair damp with sweat, eyeliner smudged into sharp wings, you gripped the microphone like a blade, like it was your only weapon in a world too cruel to yield.

Behind you, the projection screen exploded with your name in graffiti-style lettering—sharp, jagged lines that pulsed with every drop of bass. The visual shattered, rebuilt, morphed. The letters danced, burned, faded into cityscapes and glitching stars.

Your music was pure defiance. Anarchy and art stitched together with neon thread. You didn’t just perform—you claimed the stage. Claimed the room. Commanded every wandering eye like gravity incarnate.

And Silco… Silco had been staring for nearly three minutes before he realized he wasn’t breathing.

Not fully.

There was a tick in his jaw. A subtle tilt of the head. The slow narrowing of his eye as something clawed its way up from the depths of memory. Familiarity. Disbelief.

“No,” he murmured, mostly to himself.

He took a step closer to the edge of the crowd, ignoring how Jinx kept dancing, shouting her praises with abandon. Ignoring Sevika’s side-eye from where she leaned against a pillar, cigarillo glowing faintly in the gloom.

Another spotlight arced across the stage. You spun with it, caught in the light.

And then you smiled.

That crooked smile.

The same one you used to flash him across low-lit tables in bars that reeked of sweat and electricity. The one you wore when you sang him your unfinished songs, barefoot and drunk on possibility. The one you gave him the night before he walked away—for a cause he chose over you.

His blood ran cold.

He didn’t hear the crowd anymore. Not the static of the speakers, or the thump of the bass, or Jinx yelling something about “murder-synth soulcore.” He didn’t hear Sevika stepping closer, or the hiss of smoke at his shoulder.

All he saw was you. You, alive. You, still burning. You, not a ghost like he’d convinced himself.

“Shit,” Sevika muttered beside him, exhaling slowly. “You didn’t know, did you?” Silco’s jaw clenched, the muscles twitching.

His voice was barely audible. “I thought she was dead.”

Sevika scoffed, dry and bitter. “You thought she would die quietly?”

The memory hit him like a punch.

You, throwing your boots up on his table, demanding he listen to your demo. You, shouting at him in the rain outside the Last Drop, tears mixing with stormwater. You, laughing in bed, half-naked and strumming your guitar with chipped black nails. You, gone before the war started in earnest—vanished without a goodbye.

He’d told himself you ran. Got out. Got lost. But part of him had mourned. Quietly. Privately. He’d never expected to see you again.

And now here you were, standing under a sky made of smoke and lasers, electric and untouchable, and singing like you had a score to settle with the gods.

Your last note rang out like a scream in the dark. The lights faded. The crowd erupted.

Jinx was still howling, now practically vibrating with excitement. “That was insane! I wanna die and come back as one of her guitar strings!”

She was halfway through tackling a merch girl for signed posters and a guitar pick when Silco turned away from the stage, his expression unreadable. He nodded once toward Sevika, who took the gesture without question.

“Deal with the crowd,” he said, his voice low and tight.

Sevika grunted. “You going to talk to her?” He didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure if he could. Because there you were—his past, his what-if, his Y/N—very much alive.

And walking straight toward the green room at the back of the warehouse.

The corridors behind the stage were narrow and hot, the walls stained with decades of grime and layered graffiti. The air was a cocktail of ozone, sweat, and the tang of electrical burn. Overhead, exposed copper wiring pulsed like veins beneath flickering overhead fixtures, casting sickly light across the concrete floor. Every few feet, speakers mounted with duct tape and rusted brackets buzzed with residual feedback, a ghost of the music still echoing.

Silco walked slowly, footsteps silent on the worn metal grating. His presence made people part around him, even back here—stagehands, lighting techs, and a bassist vomiting into a bucket. None of them met his eye. None of them dared to.

He moved like a shadow, a storm wrapped in black wool and leather. His coat brushed the backs of his calves, weighted at the hem, and in his gloved hand he carried nothing but time—measured and heavy. He passed cases of battered equipment, tangled cords, a cracked amp with your name stenciled on it in peeling neon ink.

Your name.

He hadn’t seen it in years.

And he hadn’t known—not truly, not until the lights hit your face—that it was you.

His Y/N.

He had stood still in that pulsing warehouse, like someone sucker-punched him clean in the gut. Watching you—alive, electric, on fire beneath a sea of ultraviolet chaos—had made the rest of the world drop away. Gone was the thrum of bass. Gone was Jinx’s delighted shrieking. Gone was Sevika’s voice in his ear.

All that remained was you. Like you always had been, in the places that mattered. In the quiet corridors of his mind that shimmer hadn’t touched.

Now, as he approached the dressing room, the air thickened. The hallway narrowed like a throat. He could hear the gurgling pipes in the walls, the hiss of an ancient ventilation system wheezing above him, the buzz of a half-dead neon arrow pointing toward your room.

He stopped in front of the door. Chipped paint. A faded sign that once said “Talent Only” now read “Ta__nt O__y.” He didn’t knock.

He pushed it open.

Inside, the room was a cluttered shrine to noise and heat and memory. A cracked mirror stretched across one wall, its corners yellowed and rust-specked, ringed with old band stickers and torn setlists taped in crooked lines. A string of coloured bulbs hung haphazardly above it, only three of them still working. A vanity littered with makeup, empty bottles, guitar picks, cigarette butts.

And you.

You sat on a worn leather stool, elbows on your knees, head slightly bowed. A towel hung around your neck like a medal from battle, damp from the performance, curling at the edges. Your eyeliner was smeared down your cheekbones in the way Silco remembered—effortless chaos. A chipped ceramic mug steamed between your hands.

For a second, you didn’t see him. Then your eyes lifted—and found him. The tension hit the room like a dropped amp. Your whole frame stiffened, knuckles going white around the mug. The moment stretched like a guitar string pulled too tight.

“…Silco.”

The name escaped you like breath punched from lungs. Quiet. Staggered. But unmistakable.

And it did something to him.

His spine locked, his fingers curled slightly at his sides. You saying his name—it echoed in him. Like it always had. Not a greeting. Not yet. But recognition. Memory.

“You remember,” he said, and his voice was lower than the room, smoother than the ruin in his face would suggest.

You scoffed. One corner of your mouth quirked upward, but it didn’t reach your eyes. “Hard to forget the man who gave my sound system its first explosion. Literally.”

That smile. Still dangerous. Still sharp enough to draw blood.

Silco huffed, just a shadow of a laugh. “You always said the acoustics in The Sump were shit.”

“They were,” you said, standing slowly, the towel slipping from your shoulders. “You didn’t have to detonate a bass amp to prove it.”

His eyes traveled over you with something like reverence—haunted, careful. You looked older. Hardened. But not broken. Never broken. Your boots were still scuffed, laces fraying. Your jacket was patched with mismatched fabrics, sleeves rolled to the elbow to reveal forearms inked with soundwaves and jagged lyrics. Your hair was wilder than he remembered—longer, streaked with fresh color—and your eyes had that same molten fire behind them.

“You’ve changed,” you said finally, voice softer, not accusing—just noting.

“So have you.”

“The world forced us to.”

You walked past him then, slow, deliberate, and tossed the towel over the back of a folding chair. The room felt too small for the two of you now. Too cramped with unsaid things, shared ghosts. You picked up a half-smoked cigarette from the edge of the vanity and lit it, exhaling toward the ceiling.

“It nearly killed me. Twice,” you said after a moment, voice bitter around the smoke. “But the music? Still mine. Still loud. Still me.”

Silco didn’t move. Just studied you in the mirror’s fractured reflection.

“I looked for you,” he said, eventually. Your gaze snapped to him. He continued, slow and honest. “After the Undercity burned. After the refinery riots. I searched for months. I asked everyone.”

“And when they told you I was dead?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

His jaw clenched. “I believed them.” You turned away, shoulders rising and falling with something held back. The smoke curled around your fingers. “That night,” he said, “the fire by the old rail yard—”

“I made it out. Barely,” you cut in, tone clipped. “No thanks to you.” Silco took the blow without flinching. He deserved it. You both knew it. “But I stayed gone,” you continued. “Let people think I didn’t make it. Easier that way. Cleaner. No attachments.” He let the silence settle.

Let you have your breath.

“There’s a bar not far from here,” Silco said finally, voice quiet. “Quiet. Safe. I’d like to talk. Just… talk.” You didn’t respond right away.

Instead, you looked at him—really looked. Your eyes moved over his face, the scars, the strange stillness in his frame, the ache in his expression he probably didn’t realize he wore so plainly. The silence stretched again, this time different. This time uncertain.

Then—your shoulders lowered. Just a fraction. The wall cracked, only slightly, but enough.

“…Ten minutes,” you said, reaching for your bag. “I pack fast.” Silco nodded once, turned to go—but your voice stopped him again. “Silco.” He glanced back. You met his gaze. “I thought you were dead too.” Then you turned away.

And Silco stood there a second longer, letting those words sink deep into the place in him that still burned, still bled, still remembered you.

The bar was nestled deep in the industrial underbelly of Zaun, tucked behind a set of rust-flaked freight containers and a chain-link gate no one bothered to lock anymore. It wasn’t the kind of place you stumbled into by accident. No neon sign blared its name; only a dangling green bulb buzzed above the door like a half-dead firefly. The door creaked on its hinges when you pushed it open, reluctant to welcome guests. The interior was a dim sprawl of shadows and amber light, with low ceilings and peeling wallpaper the color of dried rust.

The few patrons inside didn’t look up. Regulars, mostly—men with oil under their fingernails, women in soot-smeared coats, the occasional Shimmer-burnt junkie curled in a booth like a warning. Smoke hung in the air like old memories, clinging to the warped wooden beams overhead. A radio in the back crackled low, the signal warped and static-laced, playing some jazz tune that had no business surviving down here. It was a place for ghosts and those who hadn’t realized they were ghosts yet.

You slid into the cracked vinyl booth across from him without a word. The seat hissed beneath you. The table between you wobbled slightly when you leaned your elbow on it. Silco was already seated, his coat draped neatly beside him, shoulders tense beneath the clean lines of his black suit. He hadn’t touched his drink.

You glanced down at his glass—brown liquor, ice long since melted—and then to your own. Whiskey. Cheap, warm, but sharp enough to hold your attention. You took a sip and let it burn down your throat before you spoke.

“So,” you said, casually, as if the question didn’t ache behind your ribs. You tapped a slow rhythm against the side of your glass, just three knuckles brushing the rim. “Is this nostalgia… or guilt?”

The corner of his mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. Not quite denial.

In the amber light, Silco looked smaller somehow. Still sharp around the edges—those knife-like cheekbones, the molten scar that split his face like a broken seam—but the years hung on him now like extra weight. He looked tired. Older. Not just in the grey at his temples, but in his posture, his eyes. In the way he sat like the world still had teeth.

“Is it wrong to say I missed you?” he asked, voice low, barely rising above the hum of the bar.

You studied him for a long beat. Watched the way his fingers curled around the base of his untouched glass, the way his gaze stayed on the table like it might crumble if he looked up. You remembered that voice. That silence. The way he used to speak only when the words truly mattered.

“Not wrong,” you said softly, “just late.”

Your fingers never stopped moving. They traced a lazy beat on the rim of your glass, a sound only the two of you noticed. You always tapped when you were thinking. He’d once called it your metronome—your way of keeping time in a world that never stopped trying to take it from you.

“I waited for you once,” you said, the words heavier than the glass in your hand. “Back when you disappeared after the refinery raid. Everything went to hell, and you just… vanished. No note. No word. No body.”

He flinched, barely perceptible. But you saw it. Felt it like a drop in pitch.

“I thought you were dead,” you went on, quieter now. “Or worse—that you chose to walk away. To let go of everything we built.”

“I didn’t think I had a future to offer you,” he said, voice frayed at the edges.

You watched the shadows move across his face. His eyes flicked up, met yours. Still sharp. Still unreadable.

“And now?”

There was a pause. A beat in which the world seemed to lean in, listening.

“Now I have a kingdom of ash,” he murmured, “and a daughter who only smiles when she listens to you scream into a microphone.”

You blinked, startled. Not at the metaphor—Silco had always spoken in poetic ruin—but at the word.

“…Daughter?”

He gave a single nod. “In every way that matters.”

You sat back, brows furrowed. “The girl with the grenades and the warpaint?”

He exhaled, a ghost of a smile flickering across his lips. “Jinx.”

You let out a low breath, almost a laugh. “She’s… electric. Beautiful, in a terrifying way. I didn’t know she was yours.”

“She isn’t,” he said. “Not by blood. But by choice. I took her in when the world abandoned her. Or maybe she found me. Hard to say anymore.”

“And my music?” you asked, softer now. “She listens to me?”

“She memorizes your lyrics. I hear her singing them in the dead hours of the night. When she thinks no one’s listening.” He paused. “It’s the only time she’s truly calm. Your music gives her something that isn’t rage. That isn’t pain.”

You stared down at your drink. Your hand had gone still.

“That means more than you know,” you whispered. And it did. More than applause, more than credits or fame. That it reached someone.

A silence settled then. Not the brittle kind that comes before a fight, or the aching kind that follows regret. This was heavier. Thicker. Full of things unspoken—of years lost and moments too fragile to touch.

Silco leaned forward. His voice dropped to a near-whisper. “Stay. Just for a while. Play more shows here. Let her have this. Let me have this. Even if it’s only a flicker of what we lost.”

You didn’t answer at first. You couldn’t. You looked at him—really looked—and saw not the man you’d once loved, but the remains of him. Scarred and shrouded, built of ash and fury and compromise. But somewhere under the soot… the ember still burned.

You slid your hand forward, fingertips grazing his.

“For one drink,” you whispered, “and one song.”

He didn’t smile. Not fully. But his eyes lit with something old. Something vulnerable. And you both knew.

There would be more.