#it’s been quite stagnant around here lately

[tetzoro]

GOOD MORNING, INDEED — ༉‧₊˚.

ft. nanami kento !

꒰ SYNOPSIS ꒱ : after a long night, nanami loves nothing more than to laze around with you all morning.

꒰ CONTENTS ꒱ : MDNI. f!reader. established relationship, cockwarming, unprotected sex, praise, multiple orgasms, slight overstimulation, nanami gets a teensy feral, creampie — WC : 1.6k

꒰ NOTES ꒱ : kind of a part two to this fic but you don’t need to read that to read this ! woke up this morning and i needed to write this out so please enjoy <3 this is real and canon btw ᰔ

reblogs and interactions are always appreciated ! (*ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)ᰔ*.ﾟ

the morning sun started to peek past the curtains and into the room, showering everything in soft golden hues, rousing the world to rise with it. nanami’s hold on you tightened, naked bodies pressed together as he refused to let go.

you could feel him twitch inside of you, his cock still nestled deep between your legs from the night before. you unceremoniously clench around him just thinking about how he had come home last night, all desperate and needy for your touch.

but he owes you — promised he’d fuck you first thing in the morning. his gentle snores quieted a while ago and you could tell he was awake, perfectly content just holding you in his arms on this lazy day.

but you need more, his greedy girl, as he likes to say. you slowly move your hips back against his, searching for some sort of friction from your lover. 

the arms he had wrapped around you tightened, involuntarily shoving himself deeper inside of you, chasing your heavenly warmth.

“don’t start something you can't finish.” he rumbles, the deep sound of his morning voice curling around your ears. you almost gulp, thighs rubbing together as he remains stagnant in your hold, cock all snug within your warm walls.

“i can handle it.” you breathe out. “been waiting for you all night, please ken.”

“alright,” he chuckles lightly, peppering a kiss on the back of your head as he adjusts himself. his arms move from where they were nestled around your stomach and cage you in his hold instead, keeping your back flush against his chest. “anything for you, my love.”

with that, he snaps his hips against yours, your eyes flying open at the sudden pleasure. an elongated moan slipped past your lips, the sound only spurring him on more as he began a steady pace.

“hated being out so late last night.” nanami starts talking, the sound of your sopping cunt taking him repeatedly fills the room. “just wanted to be with you, tucked away in our room.”

“wanted to —aah — wanted that too, ken.” you gasp out, his cock driving into you faster, lodging itself up against your cervix, kissing it with each thrust. 

“you’re so good to me.” he groans, burying his face in the crook of your neck, kissing down along the back of your shoulders. “taking me so well. makes me want to quit my job and just stay here with you all day.”

you clamp down on him at his words, wanting nothing more than nanami to quit his sorcerer life, running away with you for a life of pleasure and luxury — the very thing he deserves.

“oh, you like that idea, do you?” he breathlessly chuckles, driving into you harder. whatever mission he was on had taken a toll, one that you knew had him on the cusp of his breaking point. 

“mhm, yes!” you mewl out, trying to meet his thrusts as your high nears. “want you to run away with me.”

“tempting.” he says simply, but his body betrays him — cock pulsing deep within you, screaming for your little shared dream to become a reality. he could see it now, the two of you lounging on the beach, soaking up each others company without a care in the world, far removed from any danger or devastation. “very tempting.”

“please, ken.” you whine, not sure if you were begging for release or for him to go through with leaving the jujutsu world, but you settle on both. in response, his hand moves down your sides, kneading your flesh on his way to your neglected nub, deft fingers quickly encircling it.

your body jolts, pleasure numbing your mind to only focus on him. kento. kento. kento. his name a mantra filling every thought in your head, so full that it slips from between your lips and into the morning air.

“i’ve got you.” he murmurs in your ear before kissing along side it. “let go f’me. always look so pretty when you do.”

with a sweet cry of his name, you clench around him so tightly, a vice like grip hugging and squeezing his cock as you cum, your arousal pooling on the sheets below.

“you’re so perfect, all for me.” his pace drastically slows down, the drag of his cock along your quivering walls had him holding you tighter, getting as close as possible.

nanami takes his time mouthing at your neck, savoring the taste of you as he languidly thrusts his hips. the amount of self control he had was admirable, making sure you came down from your high all safe and sound.

but he had ulterior motives, waiting for you to catch your breath just so he can steal it all over again. as soon as you got a little too comfortable, he snapped his hips back against yours, relishing in your little mewl of surprise.

“didn’t i warn you not to start something you can’t finish?” his warm breath fans your ear.

you hold onto the one arm that remains wrapped around you, clutching onto it as if it’ll protect you from his own vicious thrust. frustrations from the night before ooze out of him — taking it all out on you. 

the way he’s thrusting is nothing short of primal, grunts flowing from his mouth as he takes you the way he wanted to last night if he wasn’t so damn tired. working overtime cut into the time he could be sharing with you, the one that makes his world go round.

“you’re intoxicating.” his voice filled with need as he feels his abdomen tighten, ready to give you every piece of him. “taking me so well, like you were made f’me.”

“we were made for each other.” you hiccup out, trying to keep up with his pace. the coil inside of you was winding up again, pleasure pooling in your gut as you were going to tumble over the edge. your admission has him snapping his hips further into you, unable to hold back any longer. whenever nanami got like this, all you could do was lay there and take it. 

“yes we were.” he pants out, clutching onto you tighter as he loses himself in you. “gonna cum with me?”

“yes! s’close.” you mewl, nanami moving his fingers back to your nub to help push you over the edge. you squeeze around him, ready to milk his cock dry as you twitch under his hold, the pleasure violently consuming you. 

your thighs tremble as the steady pace he had earlier twists into something hurried, erratic. sweet groans of your name drip from his lips into your skin as they press against your shoulder. 

he buries himself within you, hips bucking against the swell of your ass as he cums inside of you, slowly fucking it deeper as you both come down from your high. after a moment, you blink away the pleasurable haze that was settling in your mind, the sound of nanami’s voice bringing you back to him.

“there she is.” nanami says, easily turning you around so you're facing him now. he affectionately caresses your face, eyes filled to the brim with love and adoration for you. 

seeing nanami kento like this was truly a sight to behold, your lips twitching upward knowing you’re the only one that’ll get to see him like this — the walls around his heart all knocked down as he takes your hand and lets you in.

“here i am.” you answer meekly, still trying to catch your breath. you gaze up at him with wide eyes, lashes fluttering softly, one of his weaknesses. the question sat at the tip of your tongue, screaming to be like out yet nothing came out. but like always, he had a knack for reading you all too well.

“you want to know if i was serious, don’t you?” he asks, voice somber. you’d do anything to pack your bags with him now, taking the first flight out of here. but you never wanted to push. after what felt like the longest moment in the world, he answers. “i was going to wait until we were engaged, but yes. i’d love nothing more than to run away with you, leave all of this behind. you’re the only one i want to devote myself to.” 

your smile melts a core part of him, your arms clutching onto him like if you didn’t, he’d float away. but in reality, you were always the very thing to keep him grounded.

“so, when do we leave?” you kiss his face, pressing your lips against every inch of his skin before capturing his lips with yours. the two of you get lost in the kiss, languidly moving against each other like you had all the time in the world. and maybe now you do. the question still swirls around in both of your hands and in a snap, he makes his decision. the ring that was tucked away in his dresser was about to make it’s debut later today, and he couldn’t help give you another kiss in anticipation.

“no time like the present, right?” he said with a smile that sealed both of your fates. “but first, let me make you some breakfast.”

“wait!” you grab onto him before he gets up. he looks down at you in slight confusion before it melts away once your lips press against his once again. “good morning.”

“good morning, indeed.” he says as he pulls away, wrapping you up in the blanket before he moves to the kitchen – ready to start the morning that will define the rest of your lives together.

[citrustan]

hello , can i request a drabble wherein oc finds out that their husband politician Namjoon is having an affair with his secretary? like, oc found Namjoon was cheating when oc was watching the news and there are photos of the affair and a recorder phone call of the affair wherein the secretary was talking bad about the oc and Namjoon was just chuckling. thank u in advance ❣️

aaaa i'm excited to write this one, thank you for sending it in!

all eyes on you (knj)

pairing: namjoon x reader

genre: angst!! husband!namjoon x wife!reader, mayoral candidate!namjoon x housewife!reader. i imagine namjoon to be older than oc.

warnings: infidelity! oc will be trashed a little ok. you have been warned. the contents of this story quite literally replicate the anon's request. please don't read it if you find the topics offensive and/or unappealing. oh u guys r gonna hate me,,

The living room was quiet, save for the soft hum of the television in the background. You weren't really watching anything in particular--- just letting the flicker of images fill the empty silence around you.

You were perpetually tired.

Your mind wandered, lost in the routine of another evening spent waiting for your husband to return home from wherever he was.

It's not just this though. Namjoon had been distant lately, buried in meetings and late-night phone calls, but you had brushed it off as just part of his life as a politician.

This was the price of being married to a man like him, or so you'd tell yourself.

It was peak campaigning period. Namjoon was running for mayor. So it wasn't out of the ordinary for him to pull all-nighters.

Yet, you couldn't help but stay up for him anyway.

Unintentionally, you switch to a news channel.

Normally, you'd prefer to stay far away from anything to do with politics, as ironic as it sounds with you being married to such an ambitious politician. But, you yearned to feel closer to him, and the news channel his (and sometimes your) name(s) frequented on was the only way for you to satisfy this urge.

You sat on your luxurious yet cold, leather sofa and zoned out, staring into space.

And, oh, what a choice that was.

“Now in. Breaking news on mayoral candidate Mr. Kim Namjoon...”

Just like that, your attention snapped back to the screen when the news anchor mentioned your husband's name. Your heart skipped a beat or two.

In only a second, a thousand thoughts crossed your mind, hundreds of scenarios where he'd hurt himself, or been hurt, maybe his opponent backed out and he was pronounced mayor right this instant, maybe his opponent was hurt, or maybe he was advocating for yet another controversial decision.

Not even close.

What followed wasn’t about a new policy or a political scandal--- it was something way worse.

Photos. Of him. Your husband. Kim Namjoon. With her. His secretary. Bae Joohyun.

They weren’t just working. The pictures showed them at some dinner, leaning in close, laughing in a way that made your stomach churn.

They looked too comfortable, too familiar, as if this was second nature to them.

How cliché.

It felt like the ground beneath you had cracked wide open, eager to swallow you up and wipe every trace of your existence.

It felt like time had stopped. The air around you was stagnant. You couldn't hear anything but a high-pitched ringing in your ear; until what the channel displayed next.

The screen transitioned to a recorded phone call.

You hadn’t realized you were holding your breath until you heard Joohyun's voice, dripping with smugness.

“I don’t know how she doesn’t see it. Honestly, it’s almost pathetic,” you hear the woman sneer. “She’s too busy playing the good housewife while you’re here with me. I mean, what does she even bring to the table? It's not like you don't have staff handling your home.”

You don't even have time to digest the attack on you because what came next completely shattered you.

Namjoon's laugh.

It wasn’t just a polite chuckle, not something he gave when uncomfortable. It was genuine, full of warmth--- the laugh you used to think was reserved just for you, not against you.

“She’s a bit clueless, isn’t she?” Your husband murmured, amusement clear in his voice.

The remote slipped from your hand and hit the ten thousand dollar carpet with a dull thud.

Your mind was racing, trying to make sense of it, but nothing could explain what you had just seen and heard. All you could think was a mix of 'Namjoon' 'he hates me' 'what went wrong?' 'how could he dare to do this?' 'Joohyun was so nice to me' and 'I want to lie down.'

The man you loved, and cherished, the man you trusted, had betrayed you. And worse, he had laughed at your expense, as if you were nothing more than a convenient joke?

You can't even begin to feel the humiliation of the news being broken to you by TV emission, because your husband's betrayal had struck you so hard, all your thoughts surrounded only him.

Yet another irony; the news of his betrayal was broken to you so publicly, yet you were so, so lonely.

You can feel your cheeks and ears heating. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, but you don't cry.

Not yet. You don't know why.

Instead, you continue to sit there, numb, as the rest of the world kept spinning around you.

The hours (two hours) blurred together as you sat in silence, staring at the news segment on repeat.

There was no new information. Just the commentators discussing your life. They had managed to dig into your and Namjoon's past. Then his secretary/mistress' as well.

Yeah, she had been promoted to 'Mr. Kim's mistress.'

They discussed, and agreed with Joohyun's take on you being a lousy wife to Namjoon. How Bae Joohyun is a better fit for him. Then another counter argument stating you were 'the perfect, submissive, wife material' for Namjoon.

They went into detail about Namjoon's past relationships, then moved on to scrutinizing every single interaction he had with a woman since your marriage being made public.

Then, they brought on more guest stars on the show to react to your husband's leaked voice recordings.

You felt hollow, with every heartbeat punctuated by that same mocking laugh playing in your head.

All your devices, phones, iPads, landlines, had been vibrating and ringing non-stop. You wonder if any of those are from Namjoon.

It wasn’t until the door clicked open and you heard Namjoon’s familiar, hurried footsteps that you finally snapped out of your daze. He was almost stomping the floor. Following close behind, you hear another unmistakable 'click-clack' of a pair of high heels.

Your husband stormed in, his tie slightly loosened, looking weary from another long day, along with his fucking secretary, who looks equally fatigued.

He tries to talk, “_____."

Instantly, you shoot him down, "Don't even." You stood up with false-fervour. Not wanting to hear from either of the traitors, you turn to rush to one of the guestrooms.

Before you turned, you caught Joohyun rolling her eyes, her lips pursed in annoyance.

The woman looked more irritated at being dragged into this mess than remorseful. That was the last straw.

You don't quite remember what happened next. You were suddenly so fired up. Your brows furrowed, and your tears had clouded your vision.

Without thinking, you grabbed the nearest thing--- your fluffy house slipper, and hurled it straight at the secretary’s head pulling a stupefying gasp out of your husband.

"What the fuck?!"

note: this hurt to write kinda until i made her throw a slipper at joohyuns head :( ofc this is also kinda raw and unedited bec (you know it) lazy.

do you guys want a follow-up?? perhaps a confrontation? you'll have to be vocal abt it if you do... so talk to me u clowns 😡

BTW i love bae joohyun, i just think she'd be a perfect villain for this story. smart, sexy, bitchy, and intimidating.

[fanaticsnail]

Do you have any drabbles or HC of Crocodile or Smoker being an “ass” kind of guy or loves grabbing ass?

I have a problem. I say "Drabbles" and "HCs", then suddenly it ends up as a full fic. Smoker is an ass man. I don't make the rules, he just is.

It's A Need

Masterlist here

Word Count: 1,400+

Synopsis: you were caught out of wearing your government official uniform, and your superior noticed. He pulls you into his office to give you a formal reprimand.

Themes: Smoker x reader (written with afab! in mind, but no gendered terms), MDNI, 18+, ass grabbing, ass kissing, ass worship, lingerie mentioned (thong), pet names: doll, established relationship. superior x underling, no smut, just suggestive.

Notes: He's just been on my mind lately, and nothing can stop me writing about him at this stage. Do what makes you happy - Smoker certainly is.

Tag list: @sordidmusings @feral-artistry @since-im-already-here @writingmysanity @indydonuts @gingernut1314 @i-am-vita @carrotsunshine @mfreedomstuff @daydreamer-in-training

The initial invitation into his office with a gruff, barked order had you immediately standing to attention. Following behind him with your head affixed to his back with every step, you remained truly unprepared for what was to come. 

“Strip,” he grunted, sitting on his desk chair in a heavy thud. His knees were parted, his boots laying perpendicular to his desk chair legs. He reclined with a soft cough, looking up at you through his eyelashes with his gaze feeling both menacing, punishing and possessive.

“Excuse me, sir?” you responded, your eyes widening in shock. He reached for his cigars, placing two between his teeth and igniting them with his flintlock lighter. 

“You always question your orders from your superiors?” his growl flew from the reserves in his chest, the crackled exhale of smoke clouding the room with wispy vapors. 

“No, sir,” you retorted, immediately reaching for your jacket and uncinching them from their holes. You place your jacket on the chair by the door, noticing he had locked it behind you both once you entered. 

Your boots were next to follow, placing one after the other beside your uniform jacket with your socks hanging limply over the ankle holes of your shoes. Remaining in your undershirt and pants, you lace your hands behind your back and look up at him. 

“Did I tell you to quit strippin’?” he inhaled a mouthful of cigar smoke, holding it for a moment before exhaling, “I said ‘strip’, not ‘stop’.”

Wincing a little at his words, you unbutton your pants and remove your belt before hoisting the cotton shirt over your head and to the side over your jacket. Just as you hooked your shaking hands in the waistline of your pants, he stopped you. 

“Turn and face the wall,” he commanded, leaning back in his chair, “And then keep going.” You swallowed, nodding your head before turning around and meeting your gaze with the plaster wall in front of you. 

Slowly inching your pants over your ass, you heard an audible click in your superior’s tongue and the shuffle of his seat rolling back behind him. Your pants pooled at your ankles, urging you to step out of them and stand to attention with your hands behind your back. 

Standing with legs parted and shoulders arched back, your undergarments left very little to the imagination and barely shrouded your ass as the material collected itself in the center and hoisted sinfully over your hip bones. 

“Just as I suspected,” his voice called from the other side of the room, the sizzle of his cigars slowly being pressed into his copper ashtray had the room begin to smell of stagnant smoke. “You're not fully dressed in your uniform today. None of that is World Government issued.”

“I can explain, sir,” you manage to stutter out, halting as you hear his boots begin to approach you. 

“Explain why you're wearing a thong in lieu of your uniform?” he snickered, finally approaching you and hovering his form behind your back, “Now, this I gotta hear.”

You inhaled a shaky breath, feeling flustered about standing in practically nothing while your superior examines you. His powerful aura intimidated you, especially knowing he was so close to your body and likely to give you a more formal dressing down the moment you attempt to speak. 

“It was laundry day, sir,” you began, prompting a small ‘mmhm,’ from behind you, baiting you into attempting to explain yourself further, “I lumped mine in a shared basket with some of my barracks’ men, and they got lost in the sorting piles.” 

“They got lost, hm?” his rumbled voice growled at you. You felt his hand gently grasp at your hips, hooking the small piece of material within his index finger and flicking it back at you, “And you thought wearing this, instead of wandering into the uniform office on the first floor and gettin' yourself another couple backups, was a viable solution.”

“I didn't want to disappoint you, sir,” you admit with a small squeak at the flickered material, “I know how you despise tardiness more than you conduct uniform checks. I-...” his hand traveled over your ass and gently grasped it within his splayed fingers, “...I wasn't expecting you'd be looking close enough to notice, sir.”

He hummed behind you, gently drawing up his other hand and caressing your flesh within both of his hands. 

“You think I wouldn't notice how fucking good your ass looks in your uniform, that it?” he gave your ass a light slap, soothing over the sting immediately thereafter with a coarse rub, “Think I wouldn't see how it bounces with every step? How it looks grinding against the fabric?” 

Another heavy slap clapped against your skin, prompting you to suck your lips into your mouth and bite down to stifle the whimper from tumbling over your tongue. 

“Nothing to say for yourself?” he whispered, his lips grinding against your shoulder and threatening to kiss it, “After all these months of seeing each other, you thought I'd let it slide? No fuckin’ way.” 

You keep your eyes firmly fixed on the wall in front of you, gently focussing your breathing while your partner, and superior officer, manhandles you in his office. 

“What do you want me to do about it, sir?” you kept your tone steady, unwavering and attempting to remain as unemotional as you could while he rakes and scrunches his broad hands over your ass. You stifle a moan as he slaps the flesh hard, hearing the rumbled groan falling from his lips at the sight of your exposed flesh jiggling in front of him. 

“I haven’t thought that far ahead, doll,” he whispered beneath his breath, “Legs a little wider for me.” You obeyed, inching your heel and toes to the side and bending a little at the knees, and arching your back. The huffed whisper of, "Fuck, just like that," fell from his lips as he tapped and wiggled your flesh in his hands, prompting you to draw a soft smile up your cheeks. 

“I'm not going to get any work done dressed down like this, sir,” you warn him, still ensuring you use his appropriate title in his office.

“You're not gonna get work done, period,” he growled, the scrape of a chair moving behind you had your smile draw up further as you fought the urge to shake your head. 

He sat on the seat behind you, gently kneading and tugging at the flesh of your ass, his voice growling with soft huffed moans each time he witnessed the flesh jiggle. 

“It’d be easier on the both of us if you just move in with me already,” he growled, reaching down with his face and pressing it to the middle of your lower back. He circled his arm around your thigh, reaching to cup and cradle your body against his face while his other hand groped and cupped your ass cheek.

“While it would make our little trysts more convenient, it would make it harder to accept away missions from headquarters, sir,” you affirmed sternly, prompting him to growl against your skin before pressing a trail of firm kisses down your coccyx and pulling you closer. He took the material of your thong in his teeth, tugging it outwards and watching it snap back against your flesh.

“It would ensure your uniform remains undisturbed and unscattered,” he hummed against your skin, moving his other hand to join the other snaked around your thigh, “And it would also mean I’d get to see your ass as soon as I need to.” 

“As soon as you need to, sir?” you hum back your tease, feeling the way his teeth and lips began to enjoy your ass.

“It’s not a want anymore, doll,” he whispered against your skin, a soft groan in his chest, “It’s a need. Move in with me and let me worship you. I’ll treat you right, just-...” he kissed just above the material of your thong before tugging you down to sit on his lap, “Just move in with me already, or I’ll have no choice but to take you into my office and spank you whenever my craving for you gets too damn much.” 

He pressed his lips against your neck while he dug his hands into your thighs, motioning you to grind your ass against his already swelling cock beneath his uniform pants. 

“Alright, fine,” you whine, already feeling worked up by the way he manhandled you earlier, “I’ll move in with you.” 

“Knew you’d see it my way,” he muffled into your skin, pressing open-mouthed kisses against your neck while grinding his clothed cock between your ass cheeks, “Now let me have you once before you get back to work, alright?” You lulled your head back into his chest, managing to whisper through your desires.

“Aye, sir.”

[mandalhoerian]

⸺ carlos oliveira x reader, 14K

⸺ urban legend horror, alcohol consumption/implied alcoholism, violence, tragic romance, slight body horror

⸺ summary: Drawn to a remote town by tales of a deadly spirit, you expect just another case to investigate. But as you find yourself circling back to the bar every day without fail where the charming bartender Carlos Oliveira keeps watch, unsettling details emerge, and the legend you came to document seems closer than you ever imagined.

⸺ back to bloody endings.

⸺ read on ao3

taglist: @uhlunaro @wxwieeee @ann1-the-s1mp @withonly-sweetheart @esterphobic

@justb3333 @ada-wong-lover @nyctophiliagnes @kiyokoume @lightning-hawke

@cherriesnfangs @byexbyez @misonesaturou @saturnzei

Dust clings to the rims of your worn boots, layering itself over the faded leather with every step closer to the gas station—the town’s only sad excuse for a welcome. Gravel crunches beneath your feet, each sound sharp in the quiet that sprawls around you, thick and unmoving under the weight of the fading sun. A line of crooked oaks stretches over the road, branches twisted and drooping as if they’ve grown heavy from watching the years roll by.

You reach the station, where a cracked neon sign stutters to life in flashes of hazy red. “KNOX’S,” it spells out in stubborn, flickering bursts, casting everything nearby in an off-kilter, rust-colored glow. You push open the door, and the hinges let out a long, rattling groan, far too loud for your hangover to handle.

Inside, a cashier who looks older than the dust itself leans against the counter, eyes narrowing as they size you up. You barely hold his gaze before glancing away, sweeping over the cramped rows of shelves with their uneven stacks of canned goods, ancient packets of chips, and oil-stained rags that hang limp and useless along the far wall.

He shifts, crossing his arms over his chest, the motion slow and deliberate. You feel his stare sticking to you as you move down one of the aisles, the cold, stale scent of the place settling somewhere deep in your throat. Reaching for a drink from the cooler, you let the hum of the machinery buzz against your fingertips, grounding you in a way that feels almost necessary here.

“Passing through?” he asks, his voice a low drawl that doesn’t quite invite an answer.

You don’t look back. Instead, you close your fingers around the glass bottle, feeling the chill seep through your skin as you pull it free and study the label. It’s something generic, cheap, and yet the price tag hanging beneath it makes you blink. You set it on the counter, noting the cracked linoleum underneath, and finally meet his gaze head-on, matching the judgment in his eyes with a look of indifference.

“Work,” you say, leaving it at that.

He huffs, reaching for the bottle, his calloused fingers brushing the glass with a gentleness at odds with the way his eyes narrow. “Ain’t much work around here,” he mutters, sliding the bottle across the counter to you, his gaze lingering like he’s waiting for you to offer more. When you don’t, he shifts back, handing you your change in silence. You let the coins clink against your palm, feeling their edges cold and rough.

As you turn to leave, his words catch at your heels. “Don't depend too much on the bottle, stranger. It ain't safe in this town.”

The warning hangs in the stagnant, stale-scented atmosphere, but you shrug, forcing the door open with a grunt. The hinges squeal again, and a dry breeze greets you, stirring up the dirt in tiny, twisting eddies. You take a swig from the bottle, the alcohol burning your tongue, but the discomfort is familiar, a constant companion since the first time you found solace in its embrace, drowning the whispers of doubt in the back of your mind. You’ve been doing that a lot lately, chasing stories that grow less and less plausible the deeper you dig. Still, you can’t shake the need to prove yourself, to reclaim the spark of curiosity and determination that drew you to this path in the first place—to recapture the sense that there was more to the world than what the textbooks said, that there were answers to be found beyond the confines of academia or conventional journalism. Now, though, the only answers you seem to find lie at the bottom of bottles like this one.

Your steps lead you toward the motel, its neon sign flickering in the fading light. There’s a stillness that lingers on the outskirts of this town, an eerie quiet that settles into the hollow spaces and makes them echo. Your own breaths sound too loud, even as they mingle with the soft crunch of gravel and the distant, muffled sounds of a radio playing some country song. The night is a blanket laid over the landscape, suffocated by the heat of the sun that has baked the ground to a hard, unyielding crust. As you step inside the motel, the fluorescent lights hum overhead, a faint buzz that matches the thrumming in your veins. The clerk behind the front desk barely acknowledges your presence, a nod and a muttered comment about rates, all of which you ignore, already lost in the thoughts that haunt you.

You slide your card across the counter, not making eye contact, not offering anything more than the bare necessities. With a key in hand and a room number etched into your memory, you retreat to the solitude of the musty, dimly lit hallway that leads to your room. The carpet is worn thin in places, the pattern faded, and the walls are a sickly beige that doesn’t do justice to the images of nature printed on them. In the distance, a dog barks, a solitary, lonely sound, reverberating off the peeling paint and the stained wallpaper. Everything seems to be on the verge of collapse, held together by the sheer force of the past that refuses to let go.

The door to your room opens with a creak, the hinges protesting, and you’re greeted by the same staleness that clung to the gas station, the same sense that the world has moved on without this place. The sheets are crisp, though, and the mattress sinks beneath your backpack and then your body as you fall onto the bed, staring at the ceiling, where cracks spread like rivers on a map. Outside, the crickets begin to sing, a chorus of repetitive, mechanical chirps that grate against your nerves, reminding you of the endless loop of your own thoughts.

You can't sleep, so you decide, why wait until morning to go out and explore?

Instead, you venture outside, the warm, humid wind pushing against you, caressing the tips of the trees and rustling the grass that grows wild on the edge of the road. You've always had a restless soul, never content to stay in one place for long, and right now, the idea of staying cooped up in that motel room is unbearable. You walk, following the main street, the asphalt reflecting the moonlight, turning it into a ghostly silver trail. A scattering of houses, all crouched low and sunken, line the main road, their shutters closed up tight. A cat slinks out from one of the alleys, its coat a mottled mix of shadows that melds into the dirt.

Further down the road, a single light glows faintly through the evening haze, casting a soft amber glow across the dirt and weeds. The light flickers and pulses, a heartbeat in the darkness that hints at something still awake.

The bar is tucked at the end of the main road, its faded sign swinging crookedly above the door, caught in a breeze that barely stirs. A soft, golden light spills out onto the ground, casting the steps in a gentle glow that draws you in, promising a retreat from the unsettling quiet that clings to this town. The wooden boards of the porch are warped and splintered, groaning under your boots, and the screen door, patched in places with duct tape, squeaks loudly, announcing your entry. Inside, the air is warm, filled with the familiar scent of aged wood, spilled liquor, and the faint tang of cigarette smoke lingering on the walls. A fan ticks lazily in a corner, stirring the hot, sticky, Southern heat, and the dull murmur of conversation fills the space, a backdrop of muted laughter and hushed gossip.

The barstools are lined up in a neat row, each one more worn than the last, their leather cracked and faded from years of use. A few patrons sit scattered at tables in the back, huddled over their drinks, heads bent low in murmured conversation. A few of them glance up, their eyes quick and assessing, sizing you up before dismissing you as a passing curiosity. They're the kind of people who've seen enough of the world to know when someone doesn't belong, and they don't care to make any exceptions. Their faces, lined and weathered from lives lived in the harsh glare of the sun, fade back into the shadows as you ignore them and focus on the figure behind the bar.

The man stands with his back turned, cleaning glasses with a practiced rhythm, shoulders broad and solid under the dim light that hovers just above him. His hair curls slightly at the ends, dark against the pale collar of his shirt, and when he turns, there’s a confidence in his stance that belongs to someone who knows his place in the world, or at least in this small corner of it. He's all ragged curls, warm dark eyes and short facial hair, a stubble that covers his cheeks in a shadow of ruggedness, and his lips curl in a smile that's equal parts mischief and ease the moment he spots you sliding onto a stool at the bar, setting your bag on the seat beside you, the cracked leather creaking slightly under your weight.

"Well, hello there, new face," the bartender greets, his hands busy wiping the rim of a glass that has seen better days. "What can I get for you?"

"Something strong," you reply, leaning forward on the scuffed surface, your fingers tapping restlessly. You're not in the mood for pleasantries, not after the day you've had, the drive, and the feeling of being watched that's clung to you like a second skin since you entered the town's borders. You want a drink, and maybe a distraction, and that's all.

"Sure thing," he says, and his smile doesn't waver. "Name's Carlos." He extends a hand, his grip firm and warm, his calloused palm brushing against yours in a handshake that's surprisingly gentle.

"Nice to meet you," you say, giving your name and pulling away. No matter how tired you are, however, maintaining connections on a new place is always helpful when it comes to the flow of information, so you can't exactly snub a person like him who can probably hear and see everything happening in the community.

"Just passing through?" Carlos asks, his tone casual, but there's a glimmer of curiosity in his eyes, a subtle hint that suggests there's more to him than just a friendly bartender, a detail that sticks in your brain, a stray thought, that he seems to have an interest in the comings and goings of the town, a keen eye that catches every shift in the landscape, like a hawk scanning the fields. Maybe it's the isolation that breeds that kind of observation. "If so, you’re a little far off the main road for that."

It draws an amused, involuntary huff from you, an acknowledgment that the question is a fair one. It's a tiny town, the kind of place that most people speed through on their way to somewhere else. The swamps and woods that surround the area seem to keep the locals in and outsiders out, the gnarled branches of ancient trees and the tangled vines of the bayou acting as a barrier that's nearly impenetrable. Spanish moss dangles from the trees and hangs in the open, its spidery tendrils swaying in the slightest breeze, making the whole region feel like a living, breathing organism, ready to swallow anyone that gets too close. And the people, they're as rooted to the land as the old oaks that stretch toward the sky, their lives woven into the fabric of the place, a part of it in a way that outsiders can never truly comprehend. To pass through without purpose here is an oddity, a deviation from the norm.

"Nah, I'm here for work," you offer, the word clipped, not wanting to delve too deeply into the reason that's brought you to this forgotten corner of the South.

You're a journalist, or at least you used to be, a profession that once felt like a calling, a chance to uncover truths and shine a light on the hidden corners of the world. But that was before you found yourself in a downward spiral of chasing ghosts and rumors in the hopes of a paycheck, a situation that's led you to the brink of despair, and now to this run-down bar. You've come to investigate the legend of El Silbón—the Whistler—and the eerie tales that swirl around the figure, a specter that's said to haunt the backwoods and bayous, his presence signaled by the chilling whistle that cuts through the night. All this research for a job that doesn't pay much and that might not even lead to a stable position, and you've grown to hate it. Still, in the dim light of the bar, the flickering neon illuminating the cracks and crevices of the place, you can almost pretend that the stories and the legends are worth your time. Almost.

"Work, huh? Not many opportunities in these parts." Carlos's eyebrow arches in a way that makes him look simultaneously curious and suspicious. His gaze sweeps over the other patrons, lingering on the regulars who have already turned their attention back to their drinks, the ice clinking softly against the sides of the glasses. He leans forward, resting his elbows on the well-worn countertop, his dark eyes searching yours, a glint of something—amusement, perhaps, or understanding—in his smile. "I suppose a cold beer will do to drink that disappointment down."

With that, he grabs a bottle from the cooler, the glass sweating condensation, and sets it in front of you, the thunk of the bottle hitting the wood a punctuation to his words.

"I mean, I already do have a job," you chuckle tiredly, the words coming out half-heartedly, a feeble attempt at humor in the face of your own doubts about the choices that led you here. Your fingers tap a rhythm against the side of the bottle, the dampness of the condensation cool and slick against your skin. The truth is, the idea of a steady paycheck is an illusion at best, a desperate hope that keeps you going from one dead-end assignment to another. "Or, at least, a research gig. It's...complicated."

You take a long, deep pull from the bottle, the bitter taste of the beer washing away the dust and the exhaustion of the day's journey, the alcohol a welcome companion in the solitude of the evening. The liquid slides down your throat, cold and sharp, a momentary reprieve from the heat that lingers in the stagnant, humid, sticky atmosphere of the bar.

"In here?" Carlos's laugh is a low rumble, his head shaking in amusement, the sound resonating in the space between the two of you, a bridge across the gap of the counter. His dark curls fall in disarray around his face, and there's a gleam in his eyes that hints at a depth of experience, a familiarity with the strange and the unexpected. "I mean, we have a cheating mayor, a town council that can't agree on anything, and a couple of hunters that claim to have seen Bigfoot in the swamp." He grins, his hands spreading wide in a gesture that encompasses the entirety of the small town and its quirks. "Not exactly a hotbed of intrigue."

Your thumb peels at the label of the bottle, bits of paper fluttering to the countertop. "What about El Silbón?" The question slips out, a test, a probe to see if the locals are aware of the stories that linger like a fog in the twilight. "The Whistler."

Carlos's smile falters, his eyebrows drawing together in a fleeting shadow of concern, his body language shifting subtly, a tightening of his jaw, a stillness that settles over his frame. He hesitates, his gaze sweeping the room, a caution that speaks volumes. His hand reaches out to grab a glass, his actions slow, measured, a stalling tactic. When he finally speaks, his words are carefully chosen, each syllable weighed and considered. "You're on the wrong continent for that one."

He's right. El Silbón is a legend that haunts the plains of Venezuela, a vengeful spirit that hunts the drunkards and the foolish, his eerie whistle a harbinger of death, and also exists in other countries such as Colombia and Mexico. But the version that's drawn you to this remote corner of the American South is a twisted variant, a tale told in whispers and muttered conversations, a rumor of a ghost that has somehow made its way from the jungles of South America to the swamps and bayous of Louisiana. The internet is a mess of conflicting reports and hearsay from those who have passed through this town and had an encounter of their own to share. Where they got the name El Silbón, you're unsure, but you're eager to find out, hoping to spin the story to a decent article that could help you move a step up from the pitiful conditions of a freelance investigator. You just need to stay sober for a few weeks.

"That's not what my boss believes." You lift a shoulder in a shrug, the motion dismissive, but your eyes are sharp, watching him, the way his fingers tighten around the glass he's cleaning. "He saw a couple of TikToks and clickbait Youtube shorts and was pretty convinced. Guess that's why I'm here." You lean closer, lowering your tone, a conspiratorial edge to your words. "Between us, I think he's an idiot, but a paying job's a paying job, even if it's entertaining some boomer's delusions and tall tales."

Carlos's laughter fills the space between you, a warm, rich sound that momentarily lifts the veil of gloom that hangs over the bar, a light in the darkness that surrounds the both of you. His eyes crinkle at the corners, and the shadows that had danced in his irises dissipate, replaced by a genuine amusement that softens his features. "And here I thought I had a monopoly on entertainment in this town."

"Maybe I should charge admission."

"Speaking of charges," Carlos's grin turns mischievous, and he nods at the beer in your hand, the bottle already half-empty, a silent request for payment that's delivered with a playful wink. "This one's on the house. But if you're looking to stick around, I have a spare bedroom upstairs, cheap. Assuming," and here his gaze sweeps over the other patrons, their hunched forms and mumbled conversations, the haze of cigarette smoke that clings to their clothing, a cloud of suspicion that follows them like a second skin, "you can resist the temptation to join the local crowd and their, ah, recreational pursuits."

"Thanks." You offer a quick, tight-lipped smile, acknowledging the generosity, the first sign of friendliness you've encountered since arriving in the town. Fishing a couple of bills from your wallet, you set them on the counter, a mute refusal of his offer of a free drink, a stubborn insistence on maintaining your independence, on not owing anyone anything. "I'm good. Had a motel room booked. Wouldn't want to impose."

His eyebrow arches, but he accepts the money without argument, his fingertips grazing yours in the exchange, the brief touch sending a jolt through you that you quickly suppress.

A chime rings throughout the diner, a discordant, ringing note that cuts through the midday murmur of conversation and the clatter of cutlery. You glance up from the notes scattered in front of you on the worn, Formica tabletop, a sea of scribbled observations and theories that have been keeping you company at the back booth. In the daylight, the place is a study in faded comfort, the yellow walls tinged with age, the vinyl seats patched and cracked, the aroma of coffee and grease a constant, familiar backdrop. A fly buzzes lazily near the window, its wings a blur of motion, a rhythmic drone that blends into the ambient noise. It's the kind of establishment that's seen generations of townsfolk pass through its doors, a cornerstone of a community where everyone knows everyone else's business—or thinks they do.

Your attention is immediately drawn to the man entering, the sun casting him in a silhouette of mystery, his figure outlined in a halo of golden light. As he steps inside, his identity is revealed—none other than the bartender from the night before, a sight that surprises you. He enters like it's his mother's house, shoulders relaxed, an ease in his stride that suggests he's a regular, a part of the fabric of the diner. His dark curls are tousled, his facial hair trimmed, a hint of a dimple flashing in his cheek as his lips quirk into a friendly smile. He's in a faded green, plaid shirt, the sleeves rolled up to expose forearms corded with muscle, and jeans that fit him in a way that's impossible to ignore. There's a rugged, earthy appeal to him, a contrast to the polished city types you've left behind. There's immediate reaction to his presence from the staff, a welcoming warmth that radiates from the older woman working the counter, her lined face breaking into a broad grin at the sight of him.

"Carlitos," the waitress greets, the name spoken with an affection that speaks of a shared history, a connection that runs deeper than a mere customer-employee relationship. Her gray hair is pulled back in a bun, wisps of it escaping to frame her face, her eyes a soft, faded blue. She wipes her hands on the apron tied around her waist, her fingers calloused and wrinkled, a map of a life lived in hard work. "Coffee, hon?"

"Just a bite to eat, today, Abuela," he responds, leaning casually against the counter, his stance inviting, comfortable in his surroundings, the wrinkles on his shirt a mirror to the creases in the waitress's brow, a reflection of a life lived outdoors, under the relentless Southern sun. "Been up all night prepping the new menu. Need a plate of food to get me through the rest of the day, something to soak up the whiskey from last night's shift."

She tuts, a sound of fond exasperation, her eyes rolling skyward in a mock scold. "Working too hard, child," she admonishes gently, her accent a warm, drawling melody that wraps around her words like a well-worn blanket, frayed and familiar. "Need to rest. Can't pour drinks all night and cook all day. Take care of yourself."

"You worry too much," he replies, his tone lighthearted, a deflection that doesn't quite ring true. "I'll take the usual, please."

And then, his gaze sweeps the diner, a casual perusal of the space, and suddenly, inexplicably, locks onto you, a meeting of eyes that feels like an inevitable collision, a magnetic pull that draws him inexorably toward your booth in the corner. His footsteps are unhurried, a steady approach that allows him to take in the scene before him: the scatter of papers, the empty sugar packets, and the forgotten cup of coffee, now cold and neglected.

"The journalist, right?" His statement is a confirmation more than a question, his accent a lazy, languid drawl, the words rolling off his tongue in a cadence that is both foreign and oddly comforting in this small-town diner. He gestures at the seat across from you, the vinyl creaking slightly from his touch. "Mind if I sit?"

"Suit yourself," you respond, a shrug lifting one shoulder, a nonchalant gesture that's an attempt to hide the twinge of sadness and joy intertwined at being called a journalist for the very first time for so long.

Your pen taps a rhythm on the edge of a notebook, a nervous tic, a release of the pent-up energy that always seems to be coursing beneath your skin. The pages of the notebook are filled with hurriedly scribbled notes, a shorthand of thoughts and ideas that only you can decipher, a personal code of observations and theories, of leads and dead ends.

"Damn," he murmurs, his eyes tracing the labyrinth of ink on the page. "You really are taking this whole research thing seriously, aren't you? All this for a local urban legend?"

His head tilts to the side, an inquisitive gesture, his brows knitting together, as if the idea of someone devoting their time and effort to a seemingly insignificant piece of folklore is a puzzle to him.

You lift the cup of coffee to your lips, the liquid having gone lukewarm, a bitter, tepid swallow that slides down your throat in a wake-up call of sorts. Your eyes flicker to the window, the view of the main street outside offering a glimpse of the town in its daily routines, people going about their business, the sun-dappled sidewalks and the dusty storefronts a muted backdrop to the buzz of the diner.

"It's my job," you say finally, setting the cup back on its chipped saucer, the clink of ceramic on ceramic echoing the finality of your statement.

In fact, you're a bit embarrassed at being caught taking this seriously, a sting of self-consciousness that makes you close the notebook, shutting off the flow of thoughts and ideas from his scrutiny. You haven't gotten rid of your habit to give your all to everything and anything, even if it's something as ridiculous as chasing ghosts in the backwoods of the deep south. And that's exactly why you've ended up in the middle of nowhere, trying to make sense of the nonsensical, a threadbare hope of finding some redemption and recognition in the pursuit of a story that might not even exist. This El Silbón assignment is a chance, albeit a slim one, to reclaim the spark of curiosity that drew you to the field in the first place. So, you're here, in a diner that's seen better days, with a stranger who's watching you intently, his questions poking at the fragile façade of professionalism you're desperately trying to maintain.

"Hey, no offense," he says, holding his hands up in a placating gesture, an easy charm in his demeanor. "It's diligent. Gotta admire the dedication to the craft. Especially when the subject matter is, well, let's just say 'unusual'."

The waitress returns, carrying a plate laden with a sandwich that looks more like a culinary masterpiece than a simple meal. The bread is perfectly toasted, a golden brown that glistens with melted butter, the scent of which permeates the space around your booth, a tantalizing aroma that makes your mouth water. Layers of cheese, thick and gooey, peek out from between the slices, and the meat, presumably a homemade concoction, is generously stacked, its juices dripping down the sides. A pickle spear rests on the side of the dish, a crisp, tart contrast to the rich, hearty entrée, a perfect accompaniment to the indulgent feast before him. Carlos's eyes light up, his focus temporarily shifting from the conversation to the allure of the food.

"Thanks Abuela, you're an angel," he beams, his grin wide and genuine, the wrinkles in his eyes reflecting the depth of his appreciation.

The waitress, her own smile a mirror of his, gives his shoulder a quick pat in response, a wordless acknowledgement of a bond forged over years of shared experiences and meals, and turns to you, her eyes twinkling, her accent is a soothing lilt, the words flowing like molasses, slow and sweet, a reflection of the unhurried pace of the small town, the picture of a caring grandmother, her face weathered yet still radiant,. "Anything else for you, hun? Another cup of joe, perhaps?"

"Yeah, please. This one's gone cold," you reply, a sheepish admission, a nod toward the forgotten mug that's been pushed aside in your flurry of note-taking. She takes the mug, her wrinkled, aged hands surprisingly gentle in their grip, the porcelain rattling faintly against the saucer, a sound that's almost lost in the ambient hum of the diner's background noise. As she walks away, her footsteps a comforting shuffle on the worn linoleum, a sign of a life lived in the service of others, her apron strings swaying behind her, a rhythmic sway that matches the beat of her work.

"That's Abuela Rosa," he says, pointing after her, a fondness in his tone that borders on reverence, his eyes tracking her until she disappears into the kitchen. "Best cook in the county, and a sweetheart to boot. Raised me on her cooking." He takes a big bite of his meal, and his eyes practically roll back in his head as he savors the flavors. After a few moments, he manages to regain his composure, though it's a struggle, the pure ecstasy on his face a battle to suppress. "If you're sticking around, you gotta try the pecan pie. Life changing."

"I'll, uh, keep that in mind," you reply, a non-committal answer, a placeholder for the unease that settles in the pit of your stomach. The idea of getting cozy with the locals, of immersing yourself in their rhythms and rituals, is a far cry from the detached, objective reporting you'd envisioned.

"Any luck in finding any clues, by the way?" He gestures at the closed notebook and the mess of papers strewn across the table, the remnants of a half-finished article that's more holes than substance at the moment. He picks at the crust of his sandwich, popping a morsel into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully, his eyes never leaving yours. "Or is that top-secret information?"

"Ha-ha," you respond, a dry, humorless laugh, a deflection of the discomfort that curls in your chest. Your hand reaches out, gathering the loose sheets into a semblance of order, a subconscious need to control the chaos that threatens to spill over. "No luck. Everyone's tight-lipped. Guess they're not used to outsiders poking around."

"Yeah, that sounds about right."

Rosa swings by the booth, setting down a fresh cup of coffee in front of you, the steam curling upward in a lazy, twisting dance. She fills Carlos's glass with iced tea, the cubes clinking against the sides in a musical chime. "Here you go, kids," she says, a warm, motherly smile on her lips. Before either of you can muster a thank-you, she's off again, weaving her way through the maze of tables and customers, a graceful, practiced routine.

"Can't blame them, really," Carlos continues, picking up the thread of conversation as if there hadn't been an interruption. "You have a better chance interviewing folks on the internet. Didn't need to come all the way over here at all."

He lifts the glass to his lips, taking a long sip of the tea, the ice swirling and clinking in the amber liquid. He sets the glass back on the table, the condensation forming droplets that slide slowly down the sides, pooling on the Formica surface in a tiny, glistening puddle, a microcosm of the humidity.

"I guess. I just like to travel, though. It's nice to see the sights, the landscapes, learn a little more about the culture and the history of the place. Gives a bit more of a...complete perspective. You know, the whole nine yards."

"Have a deadline?"

"Not really," you shrug. "I'll leave when the well runs dry. That or when I find something concrete."

"What are you expecting to find, really?"

"A good story, at the very least." The corners of your mouth twitch upwards in a wry, resigned smirk, a gesture that's become a familiar companion in your conversations. "A paycheck, for sure. Something that'll keep the lights on for another month."

"Well, I'd love to become your tour guide. A friendly face is always helpful in a new place. Plus, who knows? Might be useful to get the scoop from a local. Someone who's in the thick of it, so to speak. The Carlos Oliveira special: discounted price, free of charge!"

"Are you always this forward?" you quirk an eyebrow at him, an attempt to mask the spark of interest that ignites in your chest at the prospect of a potential lead, and maybe a distraction, in the form of a handsome man. "Don't have much to offer in return, besides an ear to listen to stories and a knack for buying rounds."

"Sounds like a fair trade to me. Besides," he says, leaning in, a conspiratorial glint in his eyes, a dimple flashing in his cheek that's entirely too distracting, "there's a certain charm to being the guy that helped crack open the case. And, not to brag, but I'm pretty handy in a pinch. Been known to get out of a sticky situation or two in my time. Who knows, maybe the next time you're on the hunt, you'll have a trusty sidekick to back you up."

"Sidekicks usually end up dead or traumatized in the movies, you know."

"How dare you? I'm final girl material."

You find yourself returning to the bar more often than you’d planned, the quiet of your rented room and the exhaustion of judgmental, tight-lipped locals no match for the draw of Carlos’s company.

It's not just the allure of a cold beer on a hot night or the promise of a sympathetic ear—it's the way Carlos seems to know the pulse of the town, his easy conversation and the warmth of his smile a balm against the stifling, closed-off atmosphere that permeates the place.

Every evening, after a long day of fruitless searches and interviews that lead nowhere, the neon glow of the bar's sign beckons you, and the worn wooden steps creak in a familiar, welcoming cadence as you enter the dimly lit interior once more. Each visit, the tap of your boots on the hardwood floor becomes a little louder, a bit more confident, until they echo in the empty spaces, announcing your presence, claiming a spot at the bar that feels almost like it belongs to you.

At first, you're content to sit in the corner, nursing a drink, watching the patrons come and go, a silent observer in their midst. But as the nights pass and the conversations with Carlos flow, you begin to migrate closer to the center of the action by Carlos's side, where the laughter is a little brighter and the stories a little wilder. Soon, you're perched on a stool at the counter, chatting easily with the bartender, his presence a comforting constant in the ever-shifting sea of faces that drift in and out of the bar's hazy, smoke-filled atmosphere. The regulars are a motley crew, their lives a patchwork of hard work and harder luck, each one a character in the drama of the town, their stories whispered and grumbled into their beers, their secrets held close to their chests, even in their most inebriated confessions.

There's old Coco, the retired mechanic with grease-stained hands and a twinkle in his eye, and Sally, the waitress with a heart of gold and a wit sharp enough to cut, and Bob, the trucker whose laugh reverberates through the walls and whose tales of the open road are the stuff of legend. You can't forget about Salty, a veteran of the Korean War, who nurses his whiskey and shares stories of his time in the trenches. Then there's Pepper, a former musician turned farmer, who still carries a guitar pick in his pocket and can be coaxed into a tune or two if the mood strikes him. All of them, and countless others, have carved out a space in this little corner of the world, and their quirks and foibles have become a kind of currency, exchanged in the flickering glow of the neon signs and the hum of the jukebox.

And in the center of it all, there's Carlos, the steady anchor, the listener, pulling them all together in a strange, dysfunctional harmony, played out in the minor keys of heartache and humor. He's quick with a joke and a refill, a sympathetic ear and a stern glare to keep the peace, and you find yourself way more invested in ages-old gossip and stories these people have to offer than what you came here for.

And man, does Carlos flirt with you at every chance he gets.

Subtly at first, a wink here, a lingering touch there, a compliment that's a little too personal to be casual. You're not sure how to react; on one hand, the attention is flattering, a warm, tingling sensation that spreads through your chest and settles in the pit of your stomach, a pleasant distraction from the frustrations of your search. On the other hand, you're here to work, to chase a ghost and a paycheck, not to fall into a cliché romance with the charming local. You try to brush off his advances, deflecting his compliments with a roll of your eyes, keeping a safe distance between the two of you, but he's persistent, and his smiles and jokes are infectious.

Tonight, he’s resting his forearms on the bar, leaning in close, his dark curls falling in disarray across his forehead, and his brown eyes are alight with their usual spark. "I’m starting to think you’ve got a thing for this place."

"You wish," you retort, but the words lack bite, and a smile tugs at the corners of your lips despite your best efforts to maintain a cool facade. "It's the only bar in town, and the motel is depressing as hell. What else am I supposed to do to wind down?"

"Hey, I'm not complaining," he says, lifting his shoulders in a casual shrug, the motion causing the muscles in his arms to flex subtly under the rolled-up sleeves of his plaid shirt. His grin is wide and genuine, his teeth a flash of white in the dim light of the bar, a stark contrast to the rugged, earthy features of his face. "Keeps the tips flowing, and the company's not bad either."

"Not bad! What kind of scale am I working with here? Because I have some choice words for 'not bad'."

"I have a feeling I'll regret asking, but shoot."

"'Not bad', is, like, a 6 out of 10. Barely passing. Mediocre. The kind of score a teacher puts to gently encourage the student to do better."

"Oh, is that right?" A sly smile stretches his mouth, his lips curving upward in a way that's undeniably playful. He props his chin on his hand, his elbow firmly planted on the countertop. "I've been encouraging the whole time, so I think the problem is with you if you managed to get stuck at not bad for this long."

"What's a six got to do to become a ten in your eyes, huh?"

"Well, you barely make any conversation! Give me something to work with here, sweetheart. How am I supposed to know anything about you without a little cooperation on your part, hm?"

"Ugh," you scoff, rolling your eyes and taking a sip of your drink, the alcohol burning its way down your throat, a temporary relief from the heat of his gaze and the fluttering in your chest. "Fine, fine. I'll give, just to prove my point that there's nothing to talk about. What do you wanna know?"

He leans back, a smugness settling on his features, his eyes narrowing slightly, a predator that's caught sight of prey, and the look sends a shiver down your spine, the hairs on the back of your neck standing on end. Carlos crosses his arms, the fabric of his shirt pulling taut over the muscles of his biceps, and his smirk widens. "How come a big-city journalist is here chasing ghosts in a small, Southern town?"

"How do you know I'm a big-city journalist? Small towns have their own papers, y'know."

"C'mon, it's obvious. You have something to drink so much about and there's no way someone as earnest as you can possibly write those tabloid clickbait things. You used to be big. And now you're in the dumps looking for El Silbón of all things."

You swallow hard, averting your gaze to the bottles lined up on the shelves behind him, the labels blurring together, a kaleidoscope of colors and shapes that offer no solace from his interrogation. Your fingers tap nervously against the glass, a rhythmic, staccato beat that echoes the pounding of your heart in your ears, and the ice clinks in the liquid, a hollow, mocking refrain.

"Alright, you're right," you admit, the confession dragged from your lips reluctantly. "I'm from the city. Used to work at a paper. Got downsized, and now I'm trying to pay the bills. Not exactly a novel tale, but it's mine, and that's the story, or the sad excuse of a story, rather, of how I ended up in the middle of nowhere, chasing a ghost on a fool's errand." You lift the glass to your lips, the cold rim kissing the heated skin of your mouth, the amber liquid within sloshing, threatening to spill over the edge, a mirror to the precarious hold you have on your emotions.

Carlos's eyebrows knit together in a fleeting frown, "Sorry I pried."

"'s fine," you say, the words coming out a bit mumbled from how quiet they are. "It's not exactly a secret. Embarrassing, is all."

"There's nothing embarrassing about doing your best with what's given to you," he replies, his tone gentle, a soothing balm to the raw edges of your nerves. "Trust me, we've all been there, in our own ways. This job," he gestures around the bar, the dimly lit interior, the worn and weathered wood, the faded posters on the walls, a silent acknowledgement of the impermanence of it all, the transience of a life lived on the fringes, in the spaces between the bright lights and big dreams, a far cry from the fast-paced, glittering metropolis that's etched into your memory. "It's not where I thought I'd end up, but hey, life's a ride, isn't it? Just gotta hang on and see where it takes you. Sometimes, the detours are the most interesting parts of the journey."

Your lips twitch in a wry half-smile.

"I say you're exactly where you need to be," he adds. "You met me, after all."

You laugh at that, the sound ringing out in the bar. He's just joking enough for the teasing to not be cringey, and the wink that follows only drives the nail home, making the snicker bubble out from inside your chest. That's what he's good at. It doesn't take a genius to realize that. Carlos has a knack of diffusing a situation, whether to lessen or raise the stakes, you found out. He knows when and where to strike, and that's a talent that's rare in its own rights, the subtleness of his charm and charisma a rarity that's hard to come by these days. Whether or not his intentions are truly pure, or simply a means to an ends, you're unsure, and perhaps, it's best that you remain ignorant.

Carlos’s fingers graze the edge of an abandoned cigarette lighter, a worn thing with its silver plating chipping off and a faint dent along one side. He picks it up carefully, turning it over in his hand, his thumb tracing the imperfections. For a moment, he studies it, almost lost in the weight of its story, before slipping it quietly into his pocket.

It’s not the first time you’ve noticed him doing this. Just last night, he found a brass button half-buried in the corner of the bar, an ugly thing with scratches marring its dull surface. He’d knelt down, retrieving it with an oddly reverent touch, his face calm as he tucked it into his jacket, not saying a word, to put it away in a trinket box you've seen the counter that you've only discovered when you thought it was a tip box and tried to place a bill in. It's a hidden trove by now, full of objects nobody remembers leaving behind—rusted bottle caps, stray coins, a faded playing card folded into a neat square, an old key chain, a broken rosary, and single earring...

After the lighter, it’s the end of a chicken’s wishbone, left on a table in a small puddle of beer. He reaches for it without hesitation, gripping it carefully between his thumb and forefinger, his head tilted as he studies it, almost like he’s making a judgment call on its worth. The bone is brittle, darkened at the edges, something most people would throw away without a second thought. But Carlos cradles it in his hand as if it’s earned a place with the rest of his findings, as if it carries something of its own worth. You watch him, intrigued by the care he shows, wondering what draws him to such ordinary items, what makes him collect them. Perhaps he is a hoarder. Perhaps, a sentimental fool.

After a while, curiosity gets the best of you. “Why keep all that?” you ask, nodding at the trinket box. "What's the appeal in...well, junk?"

He looks down, his mouth curving into a slow, almost bashful smile. “Guess I like to remember things,” he says, his gaze shifting as if caught between wanting to share and holding something back. “Every one of these was left here by someone. Feels wrong to just throw ’em out. They came here for a reason, didn’t they?”

“Sounds like superstition.”

He lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Maybe. Or maybe, hear me out, it’s just… a habit.” He pulls out a small, tarnished ring, one of the items you’ve seen him collect before. Holding it up to the light, he squints, his brow furrowing slightly as he studies it. “This one? Belonged to some guy who came in every Friday, same drink, same seat, till he stopped showing up. Left this on the counter one night, and that was it.” His fingers trace the ring’s edge, the metal a faint glint in the dim bar light. “People leave pieces of themselves, even if they don’t mean to.”

He slips the ring back, his gaze drifting to the collection behind the bar as if considering each bottle a memento of its own. You sense he’s somewhere else for a moment, his hand settling over the box in a gentle, absentminded gesture, like he’s grounding himself in the presence of these small, forgotten pieces.

"But even with all these, I think you might be the lucky charm," Carlos grins at you.

"O-kay," you drawl.

"No, seriously. I've got this tinnitus that's been bugging me forever, and the longer you're here, the less and less insistent the ringing in my ear is becoming. Maybe it's the company, or maybe, it's that you have to be the luckiest person I've ever met, and that's rubbing off on me."

"You're really reaching here, aren't ya," you quirk a brow at him. "Or, perhaps, your ears are clearing from all the smoking and loud music and shit because I ask you to turn it down all the time."

"My personal monkey paw."

"Man, c'mon."

"It's his family," someone calls out behind you one day, as the sun dips low in the sky, casting long shadows across the dirt road that leads from the bar to your motel.

You stop in your tracks, the dust swirling around your feet, and look over your shoulder. An older man is leaning against the wall of the hardware store, a pack of cigarettes in his weathered hands, his eyes sharp and knowing under the brim of his hat, drawing out a cigarette and lighting it, the flame from his Zippo flickering in the fading light.

"I'm sorry, who are you?" You ask, cautious, yet curious. The town has kept you at arm's length since your arrival, and this stranger's willingness to speak is unusual, a break in the pattern of silence and guarded stares that have defined your interactions thus far.

He's the cashier from the gas station when you first arrived here, you realize.

"Doesn't matter," the old-timer's reply is curt, his words punctuated by a puff of smoke from his cigarette. "That vile demon boy hangin' 'round the likes of you ain't safe. I told you not to depend too much on the bottle, yer starin' death right in the eye."

"What... What is this about? Are you talking about Carlos?" Your mind reels, trying to connect the dots, to understand the cryptic warning that's being thrown at you like a grenade, its meaning obscured in a fog of Southern enigma. The nickname "vile demon" echoes in your head, an ominous refrain, a stark contrast to the friendly bartender's easygoing nature and the genuine warmth that radiates from him. You can't reconcile the image of the man who pours drinks and tells stories in the neon glow of the bar's sign with the name that the old timer is giving him. "Are you telling me to quit drinking or to avoid him? Because there's no way in hell any liquor's gonna kill me before a gunshot does."

"No, you city slickers never do listen," he shakes his head, the lines on his face deepening, his brow furrowed in a blend of weariness and frustration, a map of a life lived in the grip of the bayou's mysteries, of its secrets and its dangers. "What yer looking for is in his family. The blood. The demon. That's why no one's talkin', they love that bastard. He's their golden child, fooled 'em all. But I know. I know, and I'm warnin' you. Stay away, girl. Don't dig no deeper. Yer on a path to Hell's gates, and that devil's the ferryman. Leave. While you can."

With those parting words, the old timer turns and walks back into the convenience store, the door swinging shut behind him, the bell chiming a soft, final note in the quiet of the evening, the echo of his warning lingering in the stillness.

The next day in Rosa's diner, you find yourself sitting in a booth, sipping coffee that's so strong it could strip paint, and the waitress is chatting in her usual, amiable way, a constant stream of small-town gossip and local lore that fills the space between bites of food and gulps of the scalding, bitter brew.

She's in the middle of recounting the latest escapades of the mayor's son when you call the old woman over, impatient. She calls Carlos, 'Carlitos'; and he calls her 'Abuela', she's got to know something, right?

"What can I get you, honey?" Rosa asks, a pencil poised to take your order, her apron stained with the marks of a busy morning, the fabric a canvas of spilled syrup and grease, a history of the meals she's served and the stories she's heard.

"Hey, Rosa, um..." you trail off, not quite sure how to broach the subject, the question hovering on the tip of your tongue, a mystery that's been nagging at you since the strange encounter the day before. "You're on the clock, I know, but can I talk to you after hours? It's important, and it's not exactly, uh, a diner kind of chat," you say, glancing around the bustling restaurant, the clatter of silverware and the hum of conversation almost drowning out your quietly hesitant request.

"Oh, dear, of course, no worries," she replies, her tone shifting from the brisk efficiency of a server to the warm concern of an elder, her eyes crinkling at the corners in a reassuring smile. "Stick around for lunch break, okay?"

"Sounds great. Thanks, Rosa, you're a gem," you say, insides swelling up with gratitude at her relenting so graciously that she's decided to dedicate her precious time to help a complete stranger, and give the biggest of smiles, at that.

The time can't fly fast enough, the hands of the clock on the wall of the diner seeming to drag through the afternoon, the minutes stretching into eternities as you nurse cup after cup of coffee, watching the regulars come and go, the familiar faces of the town passing through the doors, their lives intersecting briefly with yours in the cozy, Formica-topped world of the diner. When at last the lunch rush subsides and Rosa slips into the seat opposite you, her gray hair escaping from its bun, lined face a map of a life lived in hard work and kindness and eyes bright and inquisitive, you find the words pouring out of you in a flood of questions and concerns.

"Do you know the old guy that works at the gas station store by any chance?"

"The old crank," her wrinkled mouth curls in distaste, the edges of her lips turned downward in a frown of recognition. "Why, is he bothering you?"

"Not necessarily," you admit, a shrug lifting your shoulders, a casual dismissal of the previous night's confrontation, an attempt to downplay the unease that's been growing in the pit of your stomach, a gnarled root. "He just said weird stuff about Carlos."

"Hah!" Her laugh is a burst of sound, a sharp exclamation that cuts through the background hum of the diner, startling a nearby patron who looks up from his newspaper with a raised eyebrow. Her hand comes up to brush a strand of iron-gray hair away from her face, the motion quick and dismissive, as if waving away the very idea of the man's warnings. "Don't pay him no mind, child," she says, her accent a thick drawl, the words rolling off her tongue in a cadence that's both comforting and firm, a grandmother's wisdom dispensed in a roadside diner. "That old fart's got a chip on his shoulder, always has. Ain't nothing true in the ramblings of a man like that. Just the bitterness talking, that's all."

"But he thinks Carlos is like a demon? What is that about, if you don't mind me asking? Not digging into Carlos's personal business, I just want to know why that man thinks so."

"Ah, well," Rosa sighs, a long, weary sound that seems to carry the history of the town. "Back in the day, that man, he was the chief of police, a big shot. And he had a bone to pick with the men of Carlitos's family. It's just a hereditary mental illness passed down from father to son, a misfortune. But that asshole's convinced that there's somethin' evil lurkin' in them boys because they ain't from here. Every generation, the same accusation. His own sons are no saints, believe you me. They're the ones stirrin' up trouble, not our Carlitos. That boy is an angel, a gift from Heaven. Takes care of his mama, has a good heart. Nothin' like the monsters that old bastard claims. You hear me? Don't let him poison yer mind against the sweetest young'un this town has ever seen."

So that's where the El Silbón rumors are coming from... Because they're immigrants.

You don't want to ask what kind of hereditary mental illness she's talking about, because old people tend not to have details like that, but the fact that she knows him better than anyone and defends him makes you feel at ease a little bit, and you can't help but nod in agreement. The thought of someone as warm and welcoming as Carlos being the target of such hostility and suspicion sits uncomfortably in your stomach, a sour knot that refuses to be untangled. It's a relief to have his character defended by someone like Rosa, a pillar of the community, her affection for the bartender a balm to the suspicions that have been slowly building in your mind.

As she returns to her duties, the conversation fading into the routine bustle of the diner, you finally have an article to write, and even if it's not a story of supernatural horrors and haunting whistles in the night, it's a human tale, a portrait of a town gripped in the claws of its past, of prejudice and fear that have become as much a part of the landscape as the ancient cypress trees and the winding, dark waters of the bayou, and it is a story worth telling.

Carlos Oliveira is in love.

It's the little things, at first. A song that reminds him of your laughter on the jukebox, the sight of your favorite drink on the shelf, a stray eyelash on the rim of the glass, the way the neon lights cast a glow on your face, the faint scent of perfume lingering in the bar after closing time. You come early, before the rush, with your notebook and pen tucked neatly away in your bag and an easy smile on your lips, and Carlos feels as if he has stepped into a dream when you slip onto your usual stool with a "Howdy handsome."

Sometimes, there's an undeniable flicker of attraction between you two when he leans across the counter to refill your drink or hands you another paper napkin. Little sparks of electricity that shoot up his arm and set fire to his veins whenever your fingers graze his. Each touch lingers, setting his pulse racing, a warmth spreading through his chest as if you've reached beneath his skin and laid bare the tender truth within his beating heart. He finds himself seeking out those moments, brushing against you ever so slightly, a fleeting contact that leaves him aching for more.

In the space between drinks and dishes and cleaning glasses, Carlos talks.

He tells you about his childhood here, growing up in the shadow of the bayou, exploring its twists and turns on lazy summer days, catching crawfish with friends. In return, you regale him with tales of life in the city, the hustle and bustle of the streets, the skyscrapers looming above and the thrumming energy of the metropolis pulsing around every corner. At first, he hangs on your every word, enraptured by the life that seems worlds away from the sleepy little town where time moves at a slower pace, but as the conversations continue, he begins to see glimpses of himself reflected in you, kindred spirits finding common ground amid the unfamiliar terrain of each other's experiences.

The shift isn't immediately obvious, but it happens gradually, as you weave your way deeper and deeper into Carlos's heart, leaving traces of yourself wherever you go. Every inch of the bar is imbued with memories of you—the stool where you always sit, the glass you use, the cocktail napkins printed with a logo that belongs to you. Even the jukebox becomes yours in a way, an extension of you, playing songs that seem tailor-made just for this moment, lyrics that encapsulate his feelings perfectly in a few brief lines. It's almost as if the universe itself is conspiring to bring you together, drawing you closer with every breath, until he's certain that fate has brought him to you, an invisible thread connecting the two of you inseparably.

Soon, it's impossible to imagine the bar without you. As customers drift in and out throughout the week, you remain steady as a compass needle pointing north, a constant presence, a shining light in the midst of the crowd. On slow nights when the only sounds are distant music and distant traffic and far-off murmurs from neighboring establishments, Carlos finds himself wandering over to you more often than usual, drawn like a moth to your flame. Your conversation flows effortlessly, natural as breathing, and it's as if you've always been together, as if you've known each other for years instead of weeks.

So yes, Carlos is very much in love.

The dark urge, however, is a presence that has him making sure that love stays unreciprocated. You being alone with him after the closing isn't helping his case.

You’re smiling, that easy, soft look that says you trust him more than you probably should, and he can barely meet your eyes. His gaze lands on the whiskey in front of you instead, the golden-brown liquid sloshing gently against the glass as you raise it to your lips, letting the edges of laughter linger on your mouth. He doesn’t know if you realize what that does to him—how every time you drink, he feels that thing growing inside, a bitter heat that coils and presses, almost possessive. His hand tightens around the rag, knuckles paling, his chest heavy as he watches, transfixed by the careless abandon with which you tip the glass back.

You’re close enough now that he can smell the faint hint of whiskey and old wood that clings to your skin, and he stiffens, gripping the bar with one hand as if to anchor himself. Your fingers tap rhythmically against the glass, and each soft patter rings loud, a drumbeat in his chest, taunting him. He tries to swallow down the impulse that has been creeping in like fog, the thing that twists in him, luring him to lean closer, to—

But he can’t. Instead, he clears his throat, and the sound comes out rough, raw. He reaches for the glass in front of you, offering a quick, forced smile as he pulls it away, watching your brow furrow in question. For a moment, he steadies, but then the scent of whiskey catches him again, stronger now that he’s lifted the glass, and something shifts beneath his skin, stirring in the silence between you.

You chuckle, the sound rich, warm, with a hint of mischief, and tease him about hogging your drink. There’s a glint in your eyes that dares him closer, dares him to push past whatever line he’s clinging to. He can’t shake the pull, the ache that seems to dig deeper, refusing to be ignored. His hand stills mid-motion, fingers tight against the glass, and the silence stretches, the weight of unsaid things pressing down until it feels as if the entire room is holding its breath.

“Maybe you’ve had enough for tonight,” he says, just a touch strained. He avoids looking at you directly, eyes drifting instead to the way your hand reaches for the glass again, fingers brushing his. A pulse races under his skin where you touch him, but it’s no longer the warmth he’s grown used to—it’s something sharper, almost painful, a need that bites as it grows.

You shrug, playfully defiant, and there’s something in that nonchalance that sends a jolt through him, like an alarm blaring deep in his mind. He pulls his hand back sharply, and the rag falls from his grip, the cloth landing on the bar with a muted thud. His breathing falters for a moment, barely a hitch, as he forces himself to meet your gaze.

The urge has gnawed at him for days now, hidden under every gentle touch, every easy laugh, until he can hardly stand the way it rises each time you come near. It’s a pull he can’t explain, an aching push and pull that twists in his stomach, darker than anything he’s ever known. The way you look at him, eyes sparkling with challenge and trust, only makes it harder, and he’s sure you don’t realize what you’re inviting, what you’re unknowingly feeding.

Carlos feels the pull again, that dark, curling need, and he’s not sure if it’s desire or something far uglier. All he knows is that it has a voice of its own now, tugging him toward you, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from your skin. His hand drifts up, almost without his permission, fingertips hovering just a whisper away from your jaw. His breath catches in his throat, his fingers trembling as he stops himself just before touching you.

You’re waiting, eyes wide and patient, your mouth curving with that teasing edge. It’s too much—your laughter, your warmth, your very nearness, all winding tighter around the thing he’s tried to keep buried. He finds himself leaning even closer, the sharp scent of whiskey mingling with something that’s just you, and it’s intoxicating, maddening, tearing at his resolve.

“Carlos?” you murmur, a hint of curiosity in your gaze, your head tilting ever so slightly, baring just a touch more of your neck.

He shouldn’t—he knows he shouldn’t. He can feel it, the lurking darkness that’s been crawling inside him, the thing that’s been growing louder and harder to ignore. The weight of it compresses in his chest, that need clawing to the surface. He takes in a slow, steadying breath, but it doesn’t help. His hand is still hovering by your face, fingertips so close he can feel the warmth radiating from your skin.

You reach up and cover his hand with yours, your touch gentle but insistent, grounding him for just a moment. His eyes flicker down to where your fingers press against his, that small point of contact sparking something that’s both deeply familiar and painfully foreign. He feels your touch like a lifeline, pulling him back from that murky edge, and yet…something in him wants to pull you down with him.

You’re too close now, too willing, and he can’t tear his eyes from you. The silence between you grows thicker, almost electric, the tension twisting tighter and tighter. His hand finally touches your face, the pads of his fingers brushing against your jaw, and he hears a soft, involuntary gasp escape your lips. His thumb traces along your cheekbone, and he’s entranced by the way your lashes flutter, your breath catching just slightly as he leans in.

“Maybe we shouldn’t…” he says, the words almost to himself, a feeble attempt to hold onto something sane, something real. But his gaze falls to your lips, and his hand slips further, cradling the back of your neck, fingers tangled in your hair, pulling you in.

You don’t pull away, don’t push him back, and that quiet, unspoken permission unravels the last thread of his restraint. He closes the space between you, his lips grazing yours, gentle at first—a brush, a question. But the heat between you intensifies, and his control fractures, his kiss deepening with an urgency that he can’t hold back. It’s fierce, almost desperate, his hands tightening around you, pulling you flush against him as if he could lose himself in you, drown this dark, gnawing need.

But then something shifts inside him, sharp and cold, a reminder of that darker hunger. He feels it stirring, pricking at his mind, and a sudden sense of dread rises, seizing him. He pulls back, breath coming in shallow gasps, hands still tangled in your hair, his grip almost too tight as he tries to steady himself.

Carlos’s gaze drops, settling on the hollow between your collarbones, unable to face the worry in your eyes. His hands are still tangled in your hair, and he feels the slight tremor in his grip as he holds onto you—not in a gesture of intimacy but of barely controlled restraint. Something unrecognizable is clawing at the edges of his mind, and it’s harder now, almost impossible, to silence it.

“Is everything okay?” you say again, your voice softer, questioning. You reach up, fingertips grazing his jaw, urging him to look at you. That touch alone, so gentle, so unguarded, nearly undoes him. He closes his eyes, his forehead pressing against yours, a faint shiver in his breath as he fights against the relentless pull.

Your hand slips down to his chest, resting over his heartbeat, and he jolts, almost pulling back, but you hold steady, fingers splayed over his heart as if you’re trying to calm it. His heartbeat pounds beneath your hand, a rapid, frantic rhythm that betrays the chaos inside him.

“I…” He struggles, the words sticking in his throat. The confession—the truth he’s been burying under too many years of guilt and denial—feels trapped, too raw to voice. He could almost feel the words twisting inside him, like a poison, something that wants to be expelled but can’t.

But you’re patient, waiting, your thumb tracing soft circles over his chest, grounding him. There’s something in your gaze that makes him want to break down every wall, to spill every guarded, haunted piece of himself and lay it at your feet. Yet he knows, deep down, that some things—some hungers—can’t be given so freely, that they come with a cost.

He reaches up, wrapping his hand over yours on his chest, and the press of your warmth against him feels like an anchor, something to hold him steady. But it only makes the urge stronger, sharper, pressing harder against his control. His fingers squeeze yours, a little too tightly, and he opens his eyes, forcing himself to meet your gaze.

"This is a mistake," he says, the words laced with an edge that makes your brow crease, your mouth parting as if you’re about to ask him to explain. But he doesn’t give you the chance.

His hand drops from yours, and he steps back, every fiber of his being screaming at him to close the space between you again, to hold you, but he can’t. He sees the flash of hurt in your eyes, a look that cuts deeper than he expected, and he hates himself for it, hates the curse that’s twisted itself around him like barbed wire, cutting deeper each time he lets you in.

You reach for him, closing the distance, and he catches your wrist mid-reach, holding it tight as he shakes his head. “I shouldn’t…I can’t,” he breathes, and his grip on you is gentle but unyielding, his thumb brushing against the delicate skin of your wrist as if trying to memorize it.

But your other hand lifts, fingertips pressing softly against his cheek, guiding his gaze back to you. He feels the tenderness in your touch, and it’s like a soothing balm over raw wounds, a moment of calm in a storm he can’t control. Your eyes search his, full of an understanding that feels almost painful, and he can’t resist the way his gaze softens, a flicker of his humanity clinging, desperate, against the darkness.

“This can be whatever we want it to be,” you whisper, and the words hit him harder than anything he’s felt in years. His hand loosens on your wrist, and for a heartbeat, he lets himself believe it, lets himself fall into the warmth of your acceptance, as if it might be enough to stave off the thing clawing within him.

But just as he thinks he might be able to pull himself back, that whistling—the dark, insistent voice inside him—surges up, drowning out everything. His vision sharpens, and his grip tightens once more, the gentleness fading as something colder, hungrier, takes over.

The rain hammers against the cracked glass panes, a drumbeat that fills the room, drowning out every other sound. The light is dim, flickering, casting long shadows that stretch across the walls and disappear into the corners, filling them with darkness thick enough to touch. Carlos stands there, just a few feet away from you, his chest heaving in time with the relentless rhythm of the rain.

But then, the whistle. Faint, distant, barely there—but unmistakable.

It’s that same sound, the one that’s haunted him his entire life, lingering on the edge of his senses, a presence he could never quite shake. And yet, as he stands here, with you so close, it begins to slip further and further away, fading into the deep, unyielding silence that fills the room. His heart lurches, and a sickening clarity dawns on him.

The whistle wasn’t a warning. It was a countdown.

Each time it faded, each time it slipped further from his awareness, it wasn’t retreating; it was sinking deeper, threading itself through his veins, embedding itself in his very bones. He feels it now, that dark presence, not as something outside himself but as something within, something that has been waiting, patient and quiet, for this very moment.

His hands move of their own accord, lifting to grip your shoulders, his fingers digging in just a little too hard, and he can feel your body tense under his touch. He tries to pull back, to release you, but his grip only tightens, his hands betraying him, clinging to you with a hunger that terrifies him. The darkness, that ever-present shadow, uncoils within him, stretching out like a beast waking from a long slumber, and he can feel it sinking its claws into his mind, taking hold of every rational thought and twisting it into something primal, something dangerous.

You’re staring up at him, your eyes wide, a flicker of fear breaking through the warmth he’s come to know, and that fear—it cuts through him like a knife, sharp and relentless, but it only makes him hold on tighter. He wants to tell you to run, to shove him away, to leave before it’s too late, but the words die in his throat, swallowed up by the darkness that now pulses in time with his heartbeat, a rhythm that drowns out everything else.

“Talk to me…” you call to him through the haze, filled with confusion and worry, and he can see the way your gaze searches his face, looking for the man you know, the man you trust.

But he’s not there. Not anymore.

He feels it then, the final crack, the last piece of his humanity slipping away as that darkness consumes him whole. His hands slide up from your shoulders to your throat, his fingers curling around the delicate skin, and he feels the frantic pulse beneath his fingertips, quickening as he tightens his grip. You struggle, hands pushing against his chest, your breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps, but he can’t stop, can’t pull away. The urge, the need, the insatiable hunger—it’s all he knows now, all he’s ever been. He gives himself over to it completely, surrendering to the darkest depths of his own mind, the reality warping around him, dissolving into fragments of images and sounds and emotions that mean nothing to him. Everything blurs together, swirling around him in a haze of confusion, as he squeezes harder.

Your hand finally finds his wrist, fingers wrapping tightly, digging into his flesh, trying to pry his grip away from your throat, but it's useless. He's too strong, too determined, and there's nothing you can do to stop him as he chokes the life from you with ruthless efficiency, pinning you against the countertop behind you, your heels scraping futilely against the floorboards. Tears sting at the corners of your eyes as you look up at him, searching for some trace of the man you knew, some spark of compassion, but all you see is emptiness. The kindness, the warmth, the connection that drew you to him—they're gone, replaced by cold indifference as he stares down at you, his eyes empty and blank as if watching from another place or time.

There's no remorse in those eyes, no trace of human emotion, only an endless, hollow void that seems to stare straight through you as if you aren't really there. With each passing second, the pressure on your throat becomes more intense, your vision swimming, black spots dancing across your field of view as you struggle to draw a breath. You cling to his wrists, hoping he might somehow come to his senses, but there's nothing left in him to reason with. Every ragged gasp is agony, burning through your lungs like fire, sending shivers of pain shooting through your nerves.

His fingers dig deeper into your flesh, constricting tighter, crushing the life from you like a vice. Your grip slackens, falling limply to your sides as the last of your strength drains away. A dull ringing fills your ears, the world fading into a blurred haze of color and sound, the edges of your vision closing in with each labored beat of your heart.

A shudder rolls through you, violent and involuntary, and a low moan escapes your lips as your consciousness frays, collapsing inward, your mind drifting, tethered to reality by mere threads. You fight to hold on, grasping at fragments of memory, flashes of faces, sounds of laughter, the smell of home...but they slip through your fingers like sand, each moment fleeting, disintegrating into nothingness as you sink into the dark abyss of oblivion.

And when it's over, when Carlos has his control back and wrenches himself away from you like you've burned him, he collapses onto his knees on the hard wooden floor, gripping fistfuls of his hair and yanking until his scalp burns. Your lifeless body slides down the counter with a sickening thud, landing next to him with a disturbing finality. His eyes fixate on your bruised neck, on his finger marks embedded in the tender skin, and bile rises in his throat, bitter and acrid, burning as it spills across his tongue and stains the floorboards beneath him.

A strangled noise escapes him, half a sob, half a gasp, as he forces himself to look at you. The shape of you, the familiar curve of your face, the way your hair falls over your cheek—it’s all so familiar, and yet now, so unbearably wrong. There’s no movement, no gentle rise and fall of your chest, no spark in your eyes, nothing to tell him that you’re still there, that there’s still something left to save.

He reaches out, his fingers grazing the curve of your cheek, the soft warmth gone, replaced by a chilling stillness that seeps into his bones. A low, keening sound builds in his throat, raw and broken, the kind of sound that has no place in the world, born only from the shattering of something once whole. He rocks back, his hands pressing against his chest as if he could tear the ache from his heart, the crushing weight of guilt, of horror, pressing down on him, stealing the very breath from his lungs.

“No… no, no, no…” The words fall from his lips, barely more than a whisper, a futile denial of the truth lying in front of him. He can feel it clawing at him, the realization sinking its teeth into his mind, tearing away the last remnants of sanity, of hope. You’re gone, and he… he’s the reason why.

He presses his hands to his face, digging his fingers into his temples, as if he could claw the memories from his mind, erase the image of you, the feel of you, the sound of your voice, the way you looked at him—trusting, open, full of a love he didn’t deserve. He can’t bear it, the weight of it, the knowledge that he had destroyed something precious, something irreplaceable.

Carlos buries his face in his hands, rocking gently back and forth, muttering incoherently under his breath. The tears come then, hot and salty, streaming down his face in a steady flood of grief. They gather in pools at his palms, dampening the skin there, mixing with the blood caked in the cracks and grooves of his hands. His body is soon wracked by sobs, violent and unrestrained, ripping through him, consuming every shred of self-control he had, a full-blown panic attack coming as quickly as a bullet wound.

His hands drop from his face, reaching out blindly, as if searching for some reassurance, some anchor in the chaos that swirls inside him, but finding none. Instead, they curl around your fallen form, pulling you toward him, cradling you against his chest. Your head rests limply against his shoulder, your eyes closed, your lips parted slightly, and in that moment, he would give anything, anything at all to see you look at him again, to hear you laugh again, to touch you without fear.

There's the whistle again.

Faint, distant, barely there—but unmistakably real. And it sends a shiver through Carlos unlike any he had ever felt.

An agonized howl rips free from his throat, echoing off the walls of the empty bar, reverberating through his core, vibrating through every muscle, bone, sinew, blood vessel. His limbs seize up, stiffening, his jaw clenched tightly shut. There's no relief from the terror coursing through him. Nothing but that deafening silence, broken only by his ragged, labored breathing and the frantic beating of his own heart.He can feel something slipping away, something vital, something that was once his. It’s as if a part of him is unraveling, fraying at the edges, and he's being pulled under.

Down.

Down.

Down.

And under.

Buried and suffocated and erased and undone, fragmented.

Down.

Down.

Down.

And under.

And when he resurfaces, he’s left looking around and suddenly not recognizing where he is.

He doesn't recognize the dead body. He doesn't know the name of this person. He doesn't even know his name, now that he thinks about it.

His body stills as that whistle fills the hollow spaces, the void where his soul once resided. His mind goes blank, gaze dulling as he stares at you, unblinking, unfeeling, the warmth in his eyes fading to a chilling emptiness, a cold, unyielding stare that holds no trace of the man he once was.

He wants the bones.

Slowly, almost mechanically, he reaches out, his fingers brushing against the bones that lie beneath your skin, the delicate structure of your wrist, your collarbone, the framework that once held you together, that gave shape to the person he had loved. His touch is cold, unfeeling, a ghost of what it once was, as his fingers bypasses the skin and slides in the wet cavity of your chest, your skin is entirely like the surface of water, rippling as his hand moves around to feel at the bones.

He moves with a purpose, a ritualistic precision, his hands working methodically as he collects each bone, each piece of you, as if driven by a compulsion he cannot ignore, a need that transcends reason, that consumes him whole. There’s no hesitation, no faltering in his movements, as if he’s done this a thousand times before, as if it’s as natural as breathing, as essential as the very blood that flows through his veins.

As he gathers the last of your bones and stashes them in a bag that probably belongs to this dead person, leaving only an undisturbed skin suit behind, a single tear slips down his cheek. "Huh. Why am I crying?"

But he doesn’t linger to find out. He stands up, turns around, gaze fixed on the night beyond outside of the bar, his steps steady, unfeeling, as he walks away, disappearing into the night, a shadow among shadows, a spirit bound to the bones he carries, to the life he’s taken, to the love he’s destroyed.

And as he fades away into the night like smoke dissipating, the faintest echo of a whistle fills the air.

Alright, here’s one you probably haven’t heard before. Most folks know the story of El Silbón as the ghost of a young man who killed his own father, doomed to carry his bones forever as punishment. But in some places—quiet little towns that don’t like talking about these things too loud—the story goes a little differently.

This version? El Silbón wasn’t some furious son. He was a man in love. Head-over-heels, heart-on-his-sleeve, can’t-breathe-without-her kind of love. They call her La Amada now—The Beloved—though whatever her real name was, it’s been long forgotten. She was beautiful, they say, with a voice like rain after a dry spell and a laugh that could warm a cold night. And fond of her liquor too, that part is important, remember it. 

But there’s a thin line between love and jealousy, and El Silbón crossed it. One night, in a jealous rage, he thought she’d betrayed him. No proof, just that dark little whisper in the back of his mind, eating away at him. He confronted her, couldn’t listen to reason, and before either of them knew it, his hands were around her throat. 

Since that night, he’s been cursed. Instead of moving on, he’s stuck here, lugging her bones around in a sack, doomed to carry the memory of what he did. He’s restless, they say, wandering the fields and the empty roads at night, his whistle carrying on the wind, low and hollow. They say he’s searching, though for what, no one’s sure. Maybe forgiveness. Maybe revenge. Maybe he doesn’t know himself. Mainly targeting drunkards and sucking the alcohol in their blood stems from him seeking La Amada out in any way possible in this interpretation, I'm guessing. 

Now here’s where it gets tricky: if you’re out at night and you hear that whistle, pay attention. If it sounds close by, you’re safe. But if it’s far off, echoing out there in the distance? That means he’s close. Too close.

There are folks who swear they’ve seen him, a shadow with a sack over his shoulder, wandering in search of something he’ll never find, collecting bones along the way obsessively and stopping to count them whenever he can. So if you ever catch that low whistle on the wind, don’t stop. Don’t look back. Just keep moving, and hope that sack of bones he’s carrying doesn’t end up yours.

Written by Isabel Martín

Isabel is a researcher and folklore enthusiast based in Caracas, Venezuela. She spends her free time exploring myths, local ghost stories, and forgotten legends of Latin America. When she’s not knee-deep in folklore, she’s probably hiking, photographing old towns, or reading by candlelight. If you’ve got your own eerie encounter or local ghost story, drop a comment below or reach out on social media—she’d love to hear it!

[n0tamused]

jumping straight to the gun-- lately ive been thinking bout stsg, in a poly relationship w/ reader, and giving them the most sloppiest tops mankind could ever experience... while humping one of their legs (is that even possible idk) also l imagine them being surprised because they thought reader is not the type to be this desperate

thanks for coming to my ted talk, i'll get out of here *zooms*

MDNI!

Content: smut drabble, threesome, bjs, throat-fucking if you squint, not proof-read lol, fingering, gn reader, you/your, let me know if I missed anything

Pairings: Gojo x reader x Geto

Words: 730

The room is dimly lit by the TV which played a movie that you three have long ago began to ignore, more captivated by ministrations of your fingers along their thighs or the way you’d lean onto one of them and spread your legs across the other’s lap. 

That was about half an hour ago. Now you had your ass up in Geto’s lap, his hands exploring your behind and fondling your bare ass while your mouth worked on Gojo’s length. Fingers wrapped around his base, pumping the remaining of his shaft that your mouth couldn’t take. Your body stifled a cry as you felt Geto slide his fingers inside, stretching out your neglected hole, his other hand roaming up and down the line of your back and prompting you to arch it some more, begging for more of his touch, attention, anything he was willing to give. You have felt too starved of affection, seemingly out of the blue, and this low quality movie was not helping your focus. It granted no distraction or reprieve from the fervent thoughts about the two handsome men that sat beside you, one on each side. You tell them they were quite caught off guard by you taking such a hasty initiative, but the shit eating grin on Gojo’s face and Geto’s low and guttural hum told you they missed your touch as well. 

The pretty pale skin of the white haired man was dusted with pink, a color that popped much more on his skin than he’d ever like to admit, his lips parted for breathy moans and stifled groans, his hand reaching out to sit on the back of your head. Muffled words fell from his mouth that were half teasing and other half praising you, and he gave an amused chuckle when he pushed your head a little further down his cock, hearing your moan vibrate and spread deliciously across his nerve endings.  You groaned in dismay as Geto moved behind you, his fingers stagnant on your insides as he reached towards the table, grabbing a can of soda from it and handing it to Gojo, chuckling at your noises. “I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart. Now that you have us like this, we aren’t breaking it apart until all of us are left satisfied..” The low purr in his voice sent goosebumps to crawl across your skin, his tone feeling like honey in your ears that you couldn’t get enough of. Gojo, having accepted the drink, coolly took a few languid sips to quench his parched throat, each swallow filled with a groan. He sat the drink aside, his half lidded eyes falling back to you and the way you watched him from under your lashes.

“You’re doing so good, look at you go~” Gojo teased, mouth falling open in a low whine as he felt his belly coil with the familiar feeling. “Yeah, j-just like that..mmm” 

Geto’s fingers fastened their pace, sliding into you deftly until you squirmed and tried to buck back into his palm. He only stroked your hips, holding you there, pushing you closer to your own high. The white haired man groaned as you flattened your tongue against his veiny underside. His head was thrown back and his fingers tangled in your hair. Gojo’s hand guided you to sink faster down his cock and before long he bucked his hips desperately upwards into your warm awaiting mouth, spilling his seed down your throat, feeling you swallow it.  You are breathless already, but Geto doesn’t let you breathe until he pushes you over that edge, now feeling you moan freely as you let Gojo’s cock free from your pretty lips. He has you in his clutches, ruthless on your insides and the most sensitive spot he knows, and without any other outlet for your pending doom, you sink your teeth on the inside of Gojo’s thigh, moans muffled against his skin as you came undone on Geto’s fingers. Gojo hisses at the small sting, drinking you in as your hazy eyes get lost in pleasure. 

“There you go..” Geto coos, slowing down the movement of his fingers as he leans forward to leave a sweet kiss on the plump of your ass, tapping the other side with his hand before he begins to shuffle from underneath your legs. “Are you ready for me now, sweetheart?” 

____________________________________________

Ⓒ n0tamused. Do not repost, translate, edit, and/or copy any of my works. Likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated.

[miracleoftheeast]

A NIGHT OUT

2007!Leo x Reader

Word Count: 852

—————————

Nights on patrol offered little excitement; not that Leonardo was one to chase after it.

Within the confines of a city so alive he could almost hear its labored breathing echo through the streets, Leonardo somehow found himself restricted to a routine of simple, stagnant motions.

Wake up—then train. Hang out with his brothers—train. Go on a mission—train. Talk to Master Splinter over tea—train one last time before bed. The days drifted past him like autumn leaves on a windy afternoon.

He had felt too drained for the life he was living for quite some time now, as if the heart beating inside his chest had ripened past its prime. The feeling that had coated his senses was a cloying melancholy, the nectar of rotten fruit.

And there was something else, too.

Guilt was a wild beast that ravaged within him—its bite forever a fresh wound the color of green and blue. Leonardo had to be so many things: all at once and then each one on its own.

He was the eldest son, the leader, the mediator.

He had to be serious when Mikey refused to be. Sensible when Donnie got caught up in his daydreams. Calm when Raphael let his emotions get the best of him. And, most importantly, forgiving of his brothers when Master Splinter failed to empathize with the whirlwinds of youth. All these things were so typically him; they made up the leader in blue, like glass pieces in a mosaic.

They also left little cuts all over.

But what else could he do, really?

The only alternative was the jungle; the memory of a small village tucked away in the rich forests of the Amazon, where he could be granted the lifestyle of a legend, a myth, called out to him in a siren-like song.

The thought of going back was exciting. Colorful. And yet suddenly unattractive after all these years.

He never realized just how young fifteen was until saying the number out loud was akin to recounting a memory. The joy of being a ninja was, in fact, mere marvel at a way of being still novel to him.

Not so much anymore.

——

Leonardo and his brothers had fallen into a rhythm of independence since their early twenties, each turtle assigned a specific part of New York to safeguard daily.

He was conducting a routine survey of his section of the city that night—nothing special. He slipped from roof to roof systematically, having perfected his groove over the years. Until suddenly, he halted.

The grasp of the late November wind, the crisp air ten stories up, and the ambiance of city life buried somewhere down below would normally wrap themselves around him to usher Leonardo into mindlessly doing his job; yet, there he was, distracted—distracted enough to trip.

It was brief, the fall—the kind of moment one rewinds time and time again in their head to figure out if it ever really happened. Mere minutes later, Leonardo found himself swearing as he walked the empty streets of New York with a limp.

He remembered something that had been lounging at the back of his mind for years; it was a mere drop of warmth, a glimmer of light that flickered amidst the dark, biting frost of self-restraint.

He recalled that your apartment was not too far from here.

It had been a couple of years, and you two were barely acquaintances to begin with, yet it seemed like the only place he could go right now. The only place he could think of.

—-

“Blue?”

You asked in disbelief.

You were not one to be surprised by the sight of a mutant turtle. In fact, that was probably the least exciting thing you would have witnessed all week. You were, after all, an investigative journalist entangled in the supernatural affairs of this part of the city.

But it was seeing this mutant turtle in particular that had you at a loss for words.

Your last meeting was just as brief as all your other rendezvous; you gave him a piece of paper with the address of a storage space used by a local gang for contraband.

All he gave in return was a raspy thank you.

You figured you would see him again, priding yourself on being an asset to the city’s faceless vigilantes; hope—a poisonous thorn that could so easily pierce your skin if only you dared to reach out, if you dared to get close enough.

But with time, all your expectations faded, as did the image of him, until all you could recall of the affair was a particular shade of blue.

It was on your balcony that you last saw him; it was from there that the ninja was now looking at you with an ominous glint in his eyes.

Leo gave you a silent nod as his eyes darted to the handle of the glass door that separated the two of you. The look he gave you was expectant, impatient—it infected you with a dangerous kind of anticipation.

You chose to oblige and unlock the door, curiosity once again your master and you its slave.

That always seemed to be the case with him around.

——-

Author’s note: just something very short i wrote for fun!! Hopefully i will have it in me to write a part two i am really enjoying writing for 2007!leo

[newtkelly]

Hey! China Syndrome for the title asks please!! I do love a 70’s disaster movie - which is just as well at the moment 😆

so this is my current big writing project that i just kicked off, it’s an homage to a wonderful 70s disaster movie that i highly recommend, the china syndrome.

in essence, this is a tommy kinard & taylor kelly side quest in three acts, with a bucktommy relationship study mixed in (of course). i’m really excited about it! i’ve been developing it for a while and really just started to get it down on paper, and it’s been cool to fall back into something this consuming. also have to mention that i am the slowest writer ever so… it’ll get here when it gets here lol.

anyway here is a snippet!

Tommy hates being still.

There was a lot of that at the 118, back in the day. Entire shifts spent spit-shining the same shit over and over, hearing and telling the same inane jokes from and with the same douchebags, the same old orders barked by the same old dog day in, day out, nights with nothing to do but stare at the ceiling in the bunk room, time dragging like wet slugs, Tommy waiting for something, anything to knock him up onto his feet. Eventually, as it always did, the klaxon would sound, and suddenly Tommy would have a reason to come back for his next shift.


There was a lot of waiting around in the army, too. Stale, static, stagnant until it wasn’t. He liked it loud—helped to pass the time. Kept the wrong kinds of thoughts away, too.

He’s learned to like quiet, but only when it’s on his terms. Absolutely nothing wrong with a simple, stripped-down, quiet night in, a game on the television, low and nostalgic, the homey smell of garlic and onions caramelizing affectionately in the kitchen, the uncomplicated presence of red wine and companionship. Personal quiet is great—especially lately.

But not at work. Not on the job. It’s been one of the most appealing things about working as a pilot for these past seven years. Tommy’s always moving—whether he’s flying upstate to suppress brush fire or whizzing across town for an emergency transport, like the rotors of his aircraft, he is in constant motion. An LAFD albatross. By the time stillness usually even has the opportunity to settle over him like a fog, it’s cherished.

Now, Tommy’s days are never dull and they never look quite the same, and today is a particularly pertinent example of that truth. A special assignment from high up is on the docket. In the Captain’s office at Harbor, where clean air and sunlight spill through the floor to ceiling windows in a seemingly constant reminder of the 217’s greater thematic purpose, Tommy shakes the hand of the LAFD’s Deputy Chief Commander of Emergency Operations.

“Chief Douglas, it’s an honor.”

[netherfeildren]

Someone's Wife in the Boat of Someone's Husband .Epilogue

Series Masterlist

(Joel Miller x F!Reader)

Rating: Explicit 18+

A/N: Here we find ourselves again at the end of another story, and I just need to say a quick thing to you all who have been so incredibly kind and supportive and lovely to me throughout this. It has always been difficult for me to talk about myself and the things I feel, and a large part of why I began this writing thing was that I’ve felt for a while now that my life was stagnant and myself without growth or change, and I didn’t really know how to fix it, but I knew that I wanted to do something or say something, and writing fan fiction may seem like a frivolous sort of avenue to achieve those things, but what you all have given me, and the warmth and support you all have welcomed me with, cannot be compared to anything else I’ve experienced thus. Quite simply, you all have been so fucking nice to me, and you can’t know what it means to me or how grateful I am for it. So really that’s all I want to say which is a million times thank you, and I appreciate you all so much, and I hope I can continue to write for you for a long time to come. 

Artwork is Cloud Nine by Amy Beager (2021)

Word Count: 1.3K

Read on AO3

.Epilogue

A place belongs forever to whoever claims it hardest, remembers it most obsessively, wrenches it from itself, shapes it, renders it, loves it so radically that he remakes it in his own image.

Joan Didion, The White Album

I had a dream recently: we’re in my grandmother’s house, and I don’t know what it means, but we’re together. You’ll never be able to know my parents, and even though my grandmother passed years ago, you get to meet her here – she was always kind to me, here in this place where only I make the rules. She cooks us a meal, we say grace, and she tells you how happy she is that we've found each other. At night, tucked away into her guest bedroom together, you don’t fit in her little shower, head knocking against the spout because you’re too tall. Too big for this world. We huddle into the little double bed together in the dark afterwards, lace edged pillows scratchy and smelling faintly of moths and roses, and we laugh and press together tightly and whisper into each other’s ears. 

I don't know what it means, but I know we’re together. My mother never told me to be what I wanted, but I did so anyway. I chose to live. Now I am here with you. 

-

“I have something for you,” he says one late summer evening. The two of you are sitting on the back porch, watching Sarah run around with the new puppy he’d brought home for her earlier in the week. The air, warm and muggy, the sound of cicadas sounding like the symphony of summertime. It is a small, velvet lined black box, and when you open it, a spool of thread lies within. 

Faithlessness is escaped like this: “The first time I got married, it was out of necessity, obligation, a wish for something good or right. It seemed like the right step, the right thing to do, but I think you and I– we know what we are to each other. We have always known – even when we could not yet say it. This is a conscious act, us loving one another, an act of will – out of desire or necessity, even, or perhaps – a necessity for each other – but still, we are an act of will together.”

He takes the spool then, and makes a loop of the thread around your ring finger – then ties a little knot around you. Now you are caught. 

“I thought I always had to stick by my decisions until the end, but change is only natural, it’s the intent behind your decisions, I think, that’s what really counts. We’ve learned much about intent together, haven’t we? And you and I, we have always been us –  from the very first moment. There was a thread that connected us.” And you cannot speak, for there are tears streaming down your face and flooding your throat, battling with your very heart that’s lodged there too, but you nod anyway.

He pulls his hand back and lets the spool unravel, when he uncurls his fingers a diamond ring slides down the thread and onto your waiting hand.

“You and I – we’re connected,” he says. “Every day we become more entwined. And I want us to stay like this for the rest of our lives. Every day more and more. Will you marry me?” And it is not so much a question, but a promise. 

“Yes,” you tell him. Of course you will be his wife. “Of course, I will.” He kisses you. 

-

You wake one lazy Sunday morning, months and months of happiness later, your head anchored over his heart. Warm and soft and surrounded by him, you open your eyes to take in the sight of your hand laying over his heart, the gleam of your engagement ring sparkling in the sun. You stretch your legs and listen to the creak in your knee, and when you shift to turn your face up to him, he’s already looking down at you. 

“My love, it’s almost noon,” he murmurs, presses a kiss to your eyelid.

Your eyes are so heavy, your head drowsy, “‘M so sleepy, dunno why…” You burrow further back into his chest, yawning. 

“No?” he nuzzles the crown of your head, hand creeping around to cup your breast and gently drag his thumb back and forth across your nipple 

“I had a dream we had a baby,” you mumble, voice full of sleep.

“Did you?”

“Yeah,” you say through another yawn.

“Hmm…” He shifts up on his elbow over you, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder, another over the curve of your ear. You roll into him, hiding your face under his jaw and breathing in his smell, sleep and musk and Joel. “What was it like?” he asks softly, dragging his hand down the length of your spine. “Tell me.”

“It was perfect. She was perfect.”

“She?”

You hum, “Little baby girl…”

He’s quiet for a moment, and then the tolling of the bell: “Your period’s three weeks late, sweet girl,” he whispers into your ear, shares the secret with you, nuzzles into the crook of your neck. His palm sweeps over your belly, and you freeze at his words, thinking back, trying to count days, finally snapping truly awake. 

“What? Why– why didn’t you say anything?”

A deep sound hums in his chest as his hand sneaks over your hip to clutch a handful of your ass, and then to cup between your legs, pressing his growing erection into the apex of your thighs.“Thought you’d want to come to it on your own.” He kisses the tip of your breast over your soft, lace camisole. 

You don’t cry anymore, or, well, at least not as often as you once did. A constant well of tears ready to spill over at any moment. No longer a weeper, in a long line of weepers. There’s just too much happiness for that now. 

But you cry now, at this, you can’t help yourself. The feeling of this, the idea of the two of you coming together to make your own little person, a sibling for Sarah, it’s a call for happiness of the highest order, like nothing else that’s ever come before it. He holds you in his arms, kisses you deep and wet, and as he licks into your mouth, you feel his own tears slide along your cheeks, intertwine with your own.

-

He finds the two of you singing and dancing to Shania Twain in the family room, Sarah’s own special, revised version, one afternoon. Bumping hips, and then clutching hands to spin Sarah away from your body, and then twirl her back in, squeezing her tight in your arms, picking her up to spin around with her yourself as the two of you sing at each other. 

His daughter catches him spying over your shoulder, “Daddy, come dance with us!” and you turn, gracing him with the sight of your gorgeous smile, as he comes over to wrap his arms around the two of you, relieving you of her weight. He anchors a hand to the small of your back to steady you, feeling the small swell of your belly press into his pelvis. Let me let you in on a secret, Shania sings.

“You wanna hear it?” you tease. How to treat a woman right.

“Don’t I know already?”

You sway in his arms and he brings his hand up to cup the back of your head, Sarah’s little palm is on his cheek, tugging at his beard, spin us, Daddy, spin us!

“Yeah, baby, you do. Like no one else.” He kisses you, and the three of you spin together, around and around. You’ll see love is gonna play its part.

Netherfeildren's Masterlist

[britany1997]

Poly!Lost Boys! x Depressed!Fem!Reader? The reader is in a funky funky, and the boys work their charms to give her all the love and encouragement she needs to thrive and overcome the bullshit?

The Sun Rises

Of course I can write this for you! Sorry it took so long I did quite a bit of research for this, I wanted to do this prompt justice❤️

Warnings: Major Depressive Disorder

Poly! Lost Boys x Fem! Reader

NOTE: My research for this was on female depression and how it manifests itself, but I realized on my second read through that I had only used one gendered term, so I took it out. So this can be read GN.

🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇

You sat staring at the unfinished painting on your desk. Willing yourself to just bring your brush down to it, to feel inspired, to feel anything other than numb. But instead of adding to your creation, you sighed and brought your brush to the sink. You watched as the colors stained the water red and ran down the sink, until nothing was left on the brush but the taupe of the pokey bristles.

Lately you’d been feeling like the brush, like all the color had been drained out of you. This feeling wasn’t foreign. Sometimes you felt stagnant, like a non playable character in the game that was your life, letting moments pass you by. Being there but not being a part of them, at least not how you wanted to be.

It had been four days since you’d managed to make it down to the boardwalk. It made you feel guilty, but you just couldn’t make yourself go. You felt trapped. Your prison not a physical place but a cage inside your mind, one where your means of escape was not visible. When you got like this, it was hard to believe there was an escape.

You crossed your arms and ran your hands up and down them, trying to comfort yourself. Fatigue washed over you as your body moved towards your bed. You should change out of your jeans into pajamas, you should shower before bed, you should brush your teeth, but almost against your will, your eyes closed instead.

Before you could drift off, you heard a soft tapping at your window. You cringed. There were only four (almost) people that could be tapping on the window of your fifth floor apartment. You contemplated just staying in bed, pretending you weren’t there, but you figured you owed them an explanation as to why you’d missed out on so many date nights. (Also you were pretty sure they could smell you, damn heightened vampire senses).

You sighed as you opened the window and Paul fell through. “Hey sugar!” He greeted you smiling. If he was frustrated by your behavior these past few days, he certainly wasn’t showing it.

“Hi,” you said dryly.

His smile faltered.

Marko stumbled through the window after him, “damn babe,” he grumbled, “we need to get you a bigger window, I don’t know how Dwayne thinks he’s gettin’ through here.”

“You’re all here?” You asked the two blonds.

“No,” David said shimming through the window, “we just sent these two idiots to check on the love of our life after you’ve been gone all week.”

“I seem to remember a certain idiot fixing your bike yesterday,” Paul shot with his eyebrows raised.

David rolled his eyes and opened his mouth to retort.

“Don’t,” Dwayne said, sliding through the window, “you’re all getting distracted. We didn’t come here to put on a shit show.”

Paul and David both breathed out and turned to you. As you looked around your room, it seemed all eyes were on you. Their gaze made you feel smaller than you had already. “What?” You asked timidly, hugging yourself.

“Where’ve you been?” David asked pointedly

Paul turned to him and glared, “we’re not here to accuse you,” Paul told you while accosting David, “we just want to know what’s wrong. Did we do something? Tell us babe so we can make it better.” He reached for you but you recoiled a bit, unsure of how to verbalize how you felt.

Paul’s face fell, “please,” he begged, “I’ll do anything for you, tell me and I’ll fix it.”

The other boys watched you as you fidgeted from foot to foot, your gaze trained on the floor, “We just wanna help baby,” Dwayne spoke.

You sighed, “it’s nothing you did,” you said looking up from the ground and at them, “it’s me, it’s how I feel, that’s the problem.” You desperately tried to stop your tears but they fell anyway. You wiped them away as quickly as they appeared, “I didn’t want you to see me like this, I didn’t want to be a burden, I’m sorry.”

Dwayne’s brow furrowed and he stepped forward to cradle you in his arms, you grabbed at his jacket and buried your face into his chest as you cried. “Never, ever apologize for that.” He spoke after you had calmed down a bit, “You are not a burden. You could never be a burden, not to us, not to anyone.”

You gasped and looked up into his eyes, they stared at you soulfully. “Do you think we only wanted the shallow parts of you? Do you think we’re only with you for the fun times? For the sex?” He asked, disbelief in his tone. “We love you for all of you. Every part of you, even the parts you don’t like, we love those too.” Tears pricked at your eyes once more.

He cupped your face with his hands, speaking slowly and intentionally, “you never need to hide any part of yourself from us, even the hard parts, we want you to share them with us.” Your eyes searched his face for any sign he was joking or putting you on, but you found none.

“If you find yourself under a dark cloud, we’ll gladly stand with you in the rain, even if it means getting drenched.” You smiled up at him with watery eyes.

You were pulled from his embrace into Marko’s, “I know what it’s like to feel like your emotions are ‘too much’ for people,” he told you, “sometimes I get so angry I feel like I can’t control it, like it just comes bubbling out of me.” Your brow furrowed as you stared into his eyes.

“But do you love me any less because of how I feel? Because of who I am sometimes?” He asked.“No.” you replied immediately, “I don’t love you any less.”

He smiled, “that’s right.” He said, “and we wouldn’t love you any less for the way that you feel, for the way that you are.” He assured you. “Dwayne was right, we want every part of you, we love all of you.”

You sighed, “you can’t fix it you know?” You asked them, “it’s not something you fix. Sometimes I feel this way, and it’s never gonna go away, not fully. I take medication sometimes and that helps, but I am going to feel like this sometimes.”

David pushed through the other boys and pulled you against his chest, “you don’t need to be fixed,” he told you, “but you do need to be loved, and that’s what we’re here for. It’s what we’ve always been here for.” He whispered in your ear.

“Thank you,” you said to all of them, shooting them a half smile.

“No need to thank us baby,” Paul said, shifting you from David’s arms into his own, rocking you back and forth gently as you nuzzled into his shoulder, “thanks for letting us in.”

“To your heart AND to your apartment,” Marko said. You laughed at his stupid joke, as David smacked him on the back of the head.

“Can you all…stay here tonight?” You asked them.

“Of course sugar,” Paul answered for all the boys, “we’ll stay as long as you need.”

He sat down on the bed and pulled you onto his lap. Dwayne headed to the kitchen to make you a cup of your favorite tea. David got to work putting up your black out curtains over each window, so they could stay as long as you needed them to. Marko riffled through your drawers, looking for a comfy pair of pajamas you could wear.

As you watched them shuffle through your things from Paul’s arms, you felt warmth spread through you. You felt less like the brush at the bottom of your sink, and more like yourself. You looked up at Paul as he cuddled you, he smiled and pressed a kiss to your forehead. They made it easy to believe that they truly did love every part of you.

You smiled a bit as you stroked Paul’s arm, resting in the truth that there was nothing you could do to turn them away. Not now, not ever.

🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇

Taglist❤️:

@misslavenderlady @6lostgirl6 @ghoulgeousimmaculate @pixielostboy @solobagginses @anna1306 @whataminute-whowantstoknow

[luvxiem]

ngl this is my first time asking in this app

can i request luca with 25 ‘ *this* is the guy? ‘ im starving for some overprotective luca 🥹

knight in cotton armor

[ INFO ]

✧ word count: 1.2k

✧ pairing: luca kaneshiro x gn!reader

✧ genre: fluff

✧ summary: a simple craving for ice cream turned into an eventful night when you're stuck with people with malicious intentions.

how you found yourself in a situation like this, you weren't quite sure.

it wasn't too late into the night—only barely past ten—yet the dim streetlights did nothing to help quell your nerves and give you the courage to finally leave your car. you've been sitting low in the driver's seat for almost fifteen minutes now, eyeing the group of drunkards loitering in front of the 7/11 you parked outside. feeling a subtle vibration coming from your hand, you checked your phone to see a message from luca.

'are you still in the car???' [10:07]

'yes ToT' [10:07] 'these dudes wont leave.. wtf do i do. i just wanted ice cream 🗿🗿' [10:08]

with a sigh, you dropped your hand back into your lap and let your head fall back with a small thud against the seat. 'whatever,' you thought. 'it's not like i'll get murdered.' with that you grabbed your keys and pushed open the door, already noting the turn of heads out of the corner of your peripheral. a low whistle filled the stagnant night air as four sets of eyes followed you into the store, a small chime signaling your arrival.

you made a beeline to the back of the store where they kept their ice cream, determined not to stay here any longer than you have to. unfortunately, the universe decided that tonight you were the one it wanted to pick on.

"hey cutie." sighing, you schooled your expression into one that didn't clearly show your discomfort and looked over your shoulder, giving the stranger a small smile and a 'hello.' a quick glance around showed that this one was all alone, most likely egged on by his equally drunk friends outside to follow you inside and harass you.

and you would think that turning your back on the stranger to look for your ice cream was a clear signal that you weren't interested in any further conversation yet it seems this dude couldn't get the hint. a tap on your shoulder prompted you to turn around again, this time a bit more visibly annoyed.

"can i help you?" the man gave you a rather (in your humble opinion) sleazy smile, tucking his hands into this stained hoodie pocket and licking his lips briefly before subjecting you to his inane thoughts.

"yeah, actually," he grinned, reaching up to wipe his nose before holding his phone out expectantly. you raised your eyebrow in contempt. "could i get'cho number?"

"i have a boyfriend, sorry," you replied, turning back to continue searching for your ice cream when a rough grip on your shoulder spun you around forcefully, shoving you into the clear doors lining the shelves. where was the clerk?!

the feeling of hot, moist breath that smelt distinctly of cheap vodka hit your nose and made your face scrunch up reflexively in disgust, your hands coming up to try and push your assailant away.

"he doesn't have to kno-WOAH!" suddenly you were freed from behind held against the cold coolers, shivering from both the chill and the lingering grossness of being touched by a stranger like that.

"hey, the fuck is your problem?!" he scowled, rubbing his neck where he was forcefully pulled away.

"seriously? this is the guy?" looking up, you're met with blonde hair and broad shoulders, the tiniest sliver of a tattoo peeking out from underneath the grey henley your boyfriend wore. his arms crossed rather menacingly over his chest, toned biceps in clear view with the way his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. across from him, the drunkard is now visibly agitated, however when he tried to approach, luca grabbed the front of his hoodie and lifted him clear off the ground. agitation quickly turned into nervousness as the guy lifted his hands in surrender.

"woah—chill dude; i-i wasn't gonna try anything, i swear," he stutters, scrambling to his feet when luca drops him rather unceremoniously to the floor, cursing under his breath as he fled the store. luca immediately spins on his heel, turning to face you with clear worry on his face. frantic hands turn you this way and that before settling on your cheeks as he rubs his nose against yours.

"are you okay?! no, of course you're not—jesus christ, what the hell! why didn't you just come over to my place if you wanted ice cream?" he moaned, pulling you into his chest in a tight hug. you could hear his racing heartbeat under your ear and you can't help but laugh at the situation. luca was so angry and intimidating not even a minute ago and now he's returned to the cute, cuddly golden retriever you fell in love with.

"baby, i'm fine," you grinned, pulling his arms off of you so you could give him a quick kiss. luca is still frowning when you pull away, however, and you could tell he was still upset with the situation. honestly, you were still shaken up about it too, so you decided to kill two birds with one stone and link your arms with his, staying as close as possible to ease both your nerves.

"c'mon, i still haven't gotten my ice cream," you say, opening one of the glass doors to grab a pint of salted caramel from the freezer. luca unlinks your arms to throw his over your shoulder instead, rubbing the bare skin of your arm with his thumb in an attempt to comfort both you and him (skin to skin contact always seemed to help).

"i still think you should've just come over to my place," he whined, watching the door as you paid with a tap of your phone against the reader. you pat his chest and hum in response, shooting a quick thank you to the cashier before you both exited the store.

"babe, all you have is cookies and cream."

"what—what's wrong with cookies and cream?!"

"i don't like it!"

you laugh as luca fumbles for an answer, mock offense on his face at your distaste for his favorite flavor. the night air felt a bit warmer than before, the comforting breeze easing your nerves. you look around for luca's motorcycle but the parking lot is empty except for your car and one that presumably belongs to the poor college kid inside working the night shift.

"hey—how'd you get here?" you ask confusedly. luca shrugs.

"i ran." you pause, turning to face him fully with disbelief clearly written on your face.

"luca."

"yeah?"

"you live like, five miles away from here."

"and?" you throw your hands up in defeat. of course your boyfriend ran five miles to come save you—he probably left the house the minute you first texted him about being too scared to leave your car. no wonder he asked which 7/11 you were at.

"you wanna come over to mine?" you sigh, watching luca immediately beam at the prospect of being able to sleep over despite having already hung out with you earlier that day.

you unlock your car and slide into the driver's seat as luca slips into the passenger side, placing your ice cream in between his feet.

"can we get back to the important thing here?" he asks as you pull out of the parking lot.

"which is?"

"why you don't like cookies and cream which is clearly the superior flavor-"

"LUCA!"

[ WRITTEN 230601 ]

500 follower event prompt list

[schnuffel-danny]

I'll finish up all the comms I owe to people on this site and then I'll either abandon or delete this blog I can't keep lying to myself hoping I'll get any of the joy I had when I started this blog back I've been feeling worse and worse with each passing month and every old piece of art on here reminds me of the happiness I carelessly tossed away I'm half a person now its my own fault i accept that

jack/vlad as a ship used to be my biggest joy but honestly lately i feel like im just desperate to hold onto them bc i wanna pretend my biggest comfort hasnt lost all color for me

ive mentally checked out like half a year ago ive just been trying to draw so i dont forget how and can finish all my comms

i dont think im gonna quit drawing but im really hoping i can give it up and find something else to do

ive been stagnant and unchanging since i was 15 and i hoped the world and the people around me would stay the same too but life doesnt work that way and it was selfish of me to act like i would be the exception welp what can you do.. what can you do

[thepenultimateword]

Keep the King

For my song-story writing challenge! This story is based on the song "King" by "The Amazing Devil", which was submitted by @lqmie! I'll be honest, I secretly really wanted this one, so when the randomizer gave it to me I was ecstatic.

Sorry it’s a day late, I’m mad at myself for not meeting the deadline in time when I’m the one who made it, I also meant this to be MUCH longer, but realized I was getting over ambitious , but I hope everyone still enjoys.

***

Chimera ignored the water’s wailing. Phantom hands dragged on the oars while luminescent waves rocking the rowboat to and fro, threatening to leave the vessel stranded and stagnant enough to flip, but she kept her eyes fixed on the shore, lit in a blue, spectral glow that made the shadows of the trees stretch long. 

“Not long now, your highness.”

“You’ll hang for this!” King Idris shouted in return. He looked a bit like trussed bird on the boat’s floor, hair mussed, cheek to the boards, fine bell sleeves crumpled in scarlet tatters behind his back. He’d been a bit scrappier than she’d imagined such a slender, pampered thing to be. She’d barely managed to drag him past the forestline and into the glammer before his guards caught up. Pinning him long enough to tie and blindfold him had been a whole other mess. The scratches on the backs of her hands prickled like stinging nettle.

 “My soldiers are some of the best trackers in the kingdom; they will hunt you down! You’ll be on the noose faster than you can plead mercy, that is if they don’t tear you apart first!”

“Last I saw, your soldiers were having quite the problem with glammer, sooo…” Chimera heaved against an especially violent pull from the lake’s occupants. An oar almost slipped from her paw side, but she managed to sink her claws into the grooves. “Besides, you’re going back soon anyway. Just wait.”

“Take me back now!”

“No can do.” 

King Idris cranked, his cloth-swathed face in her direction. “I’m giving you an order!”

Chimera clicked their tongue in feigned disappointed. “Sorry, not human.”

“What do you want then? Gold? Food? Do you have a grudge on my father?”

“Nope. I only came for you.”

The boat knocked hard against the head of the dock, and Chimera shook off any lingering fingers from the oars. The king yelped as a couple glowing droplets speckled his cheek though they quickly dulled against his skin. 

“The water won’t hurt you, silly.” She scooped up the rope from the floor and leaped over his head to the dock, tethering the boat fast to the post. “It’s what’s in the water that wants to hurt you.”

Idris only had the chance to make a small strangled sound before Chimera grabbed him under the arms and hoisted him up after her.

“Don’t touch me! Monster!”

Chimera dropped him. She probably shouldn’t have. Adler would ask if he had a giant bruise on his face. Besides, this was a king, not only a human king, her king. Or he would be.Of a sort. Anyway, she’d been charged with keeping him safe here, not with dropping him face first on s hard, splintery dock. But…that word. Monster. It made her insides burn, and her hands moved on impulse. 

“Suit yourself.” A quick flick of her knife and both the blindfold and the bonds around his ankles fluttered to the ground. She kept the hands tied for good measure. “I dont care if you walk.”

Idris rolled onto his side and blinked rapdily at his new surroundings. His eyes widened like silver pieces at the Dead Lake, then like saucers at the sight of dark looming trees and the pitch black spaces in between the trunks. She wondered if he caught the dark’s barely perceptible writhing? Like something alive. But the biggest reaction came when he looked at Chimera. His pale eyes became like twin moons. He’d called her monster based off a glimpse, she must seem truly inhuman now. She was a sight, alright, even among other fae. A lion paw on the top, a goat leg on the bottom, a tufted tail in between. Plus one devilish horn.

“We’re going up there.” Chimera pointed up the cliff face to the rickety house at the top; blessedly, the king’s gaze followed. “I really wouldn’t recommend running off. Especially not at night. The lake will drown you and the wood will eat you.”

Idris leaned his forehead against the planks and slowly shoved himself up onto his knees. He glared up at her. “My soldiers are coming.”

Chimera shrugged. “Then let’s wait for them inside.” She hooked her claws into the knot of his bonds and yanked him upright. “Come on.”

Maybe Idris realized the stupidity of staying out on this rock because he walked forward without argument. Every once in a while his muscles went rigid like he wanted to bolt or jump or turn on her, and Chimera prodded him in the back with the hilt of her knife, but halfway up he was wheezing to much for defiance. By the time they reached the top of the cliff’s stone steps, he seemed to be choking on his own breath.

"Hey." Chimera slapped him a couple times on the back, but it only sent him into a fit of coughing. "Hey, hey, hey."

She pulled him to the dining table and rushed to fill one of their wooden cups with cold tea from the kettle. She only remembered his bound hands as she held out the cup.

"Right." She moved the cup up to his mouth. He drew his lips together into a tight line, though a few spluttering coughs broke threw, sending ripples across the drink's surface. "It's just honey and blackberry. The normal kind. Not fae food. On my honor."

Idris slowly loosened his mouth and took a tentative drag. HIs face unwrinkled a fraction.

After a couple sips, Chimera placed the cup on the table and crouched behind the king to cut ropes on his wrists. He slowly drew his arms in front of himself, flexing his hands and wrists a couple times before folding them in his lap, the shredded ends of his sleeves swathing his knuckles less elegantly than this morning.

"Did they ever make you do anything in that castle?" Chimera said before she could think better of it.

"I tire out easily," Idris snapped with the defensiveness of one already hyperaware of his own limitations and others' thoughts on the matter. "I always have. There are more important things than traipsing up mountains and hitting people with swords."

Maybe so. As far as she knew King Hyacinthe didn't do much of either. News from the deep wood only brought word of sweet torture and cruel revelries, the fae court's specialties.

"Do you want something to eat?" Chimera said.

Idris went even stiffer than he already was. "Why?"

"Becaaaause we've been traveling since this morning?"

"When you kidnapped me?"

"I wouldn't exactly call it kidnapping." Chimera plopped into the seat next to him.

"Oh? Pray tell then. What would you call it?"

"A temporary retrieval. It's not like I just snatched you to snatch you; we've been expecting you, see?" She motioned to the thick pile of skins in the corner. "That's your bed there in the corner. And there is food for 3 stockpiled in the cellar. We even scrounged you up some clothes for the stay."

"Oh, how magnanimous, that fixes absolutely everything because what I've really been concerned about is what I'm going to wear."

"Well, obviously I couldn't come to you, so I was sent to bring you here."

Idris stared at her incredulously. "Sent? By who?"

"King Hyacinthe." Idris continued to stare. No recognition. "The king. The other king. Fae king. My brother and I were specifically assigned. It's a very important job, you know, and not easily acquired."

Idris held up his hands, trembling a little with the rising register of his voice. "Job? Assigned? Is this a political abduction? Are the fae planning a siege on my kingdom? Are there going to be peace negotiations?"

So he didn't know. Chimera had wondered. When a changeling was planted as an infant it often wouldn't know its true identity. But usually, they figured it out. There were only so many unexplainable things that could happen--accidental glammering, elemental phenomenons, new appendages--before someone took notice. But Idris...the way he spoke. It was like a human.

"No, nothing like that," Chimera said.

The human kingdom was already covered 25 years ago. Time for him to know.

"This is an individual issue. You're late."

Idris furrowed his brow.

"You should have manifested years ago, maybe it's best that you didn't, but now you're king. And obviously, you've been doing an awful job on your own, so if you're ever going to change, you're going to need a mentor."

Idris folded his hands tightly together and rolled back his shoulders, staring Chimera down with a cold regality that couldn’t counterfeited. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Chimera’s stomach dropped a little. She’d known their situations weren’t the same, but she’d still stupidly thought… Nevermind. None of this was about her. Alder would be depending on her to get their plans in motion.

"Haven’t you felt anything? It's like an itch. An itch so bad you want to claw out of your own skin.”

“I don’t have dealings with magic or magic folk. I have nothing to do with your witchcraft.”

Chimera snorted. “You might want to bend that person ideal.”

“I do not and will not. I demand an immediate explanation of the fae monarchy’s intentions for my kingdom and myself. I will not be cooperating until you do so.”

How did such a pale, and fragile thing pull off such commanding airs? Like he shrugged away his very body and exposed the core of his being. Well, she had to say it straight out sooner or later.

She took a deep breath and then locked eyes with the changeling king. “King Idris, the entire fae court, has been waiting for your ascension. Because only you, a changling raised as human royalty and crowned their king, can make the human kingdom ours.”

[silica]

Tarot • pick a pile • general reading

Energy check in *.🩵

Pile 1 — Pile 2 — Pile 3

ᓚ₍ ^. .^₎

Please pick the image or pile that you feel drawn to the most!

Pile 1

“Trust the timing”

Pile I think your energy has been quite frantic lately, perhaps feeling impatient for some kind of change to come into effect. Remember the bigger picture forming for you, getting caught up on the smaller details has been more of a distraction than anything. Attempting to soothe your nerves and making yourself more stressed in the process. If things have already been set into place there’s no need to worry too much; watching everything in your vicinity like a hawk may make you feel secure for a time, but it will inevitably burn you out. You’re allowed to relax pile 1. It will come. Don’t neglect the other things in your life over this. Be brave and take the long path to stability.

Pile 2

“It’s time to step up”

Pile 2, there’s something you haven’t quite put into effect yet. A goal you’ve been putting on the back burner for a long time. You’ll know which one I’m talking about right now. It’s something you’ve entertained and imagined intensely in your mind. But this is something that’s just been an idea, a fantasy. Your energy, your inner want, is itching to enact this. Hesitation or perfectionism may have been blocking you. This is something you’ll have to work past. It’s time to step up. Grounding this goal into your reality is important, taking the first step. It’s just the beginning. Place the seeds and tend to your garden.

Pile 3

“Big picture thinking”

Pile 3, you have some very big ideas / concepts rolling around your head at the moment. Something you really want to happen just hasn’t panned out yet. Feeling stagnant, overburdened. Racing thoughts and prayers. Inspiration that hasn’t materialised yet. Pile 3 I think your frustration here is justified. Though some recognition of your own part to play in this is important. Placing blame on external influences will only help so far. To get what you want some more effort on your part is needed. Your vision is inspired, but inspiration alone won’t get you there if you sit in the same spot you were in before; doing the same thing as before and expect different results won’t work. You must change your angle to achieve your vision.

[randomtacoscry]

WIP Wednesday

Honestly, I wrote this a month ago (and totally forgot about it), but since I'm probably not going to finish it.... I thought I'd finally post one of these again in celebration of the 911 finale airing tomorrow. So... (sorry people who followed me for top gun but) here is a short buddie fic! (It's set right after like 7x06 but is canon compliant to 7x05) There's more after the break >>

A slow work day was all Buck needed after everything that's been happening lately—Chim getting attacked, Maddie freaking out over their entire wedding, the whole Tommy-break-up-thing. Honestly, all he wanted to do was have an easy shift, and it had been just that so far. 

That is until the last call of the shift. God, one more hour and he would’ve been home free…

—

“...multiple lacerations so they could be bleeding out.” Bobby turns back to the road and Buck picks up speed to the mall.

“Ambulance won’t start,” Hen’s voice comes crackling through the radio as he peels out onto the main road. “We’ll meet you there in the ladder truck.” They didn’t have time to turn around so hopefully Hen and Chim could get there quickly. It’s early so there shouldn’t be much traffic.

“You and Eddie will go in and I’ll wait for Chim and Hen. We got a light crew today but that shouldn’t be a problem, right boys?” Bobby turns back to Eddie and Buck can feel him smiling behind him.

“Nope. Hen trained me well!” Eddie’s alone in the back and Buck almost wished Ravi was with them just to give them some more backup. He had a bad feeling about this call for some reason…

“Third floor?” 

“Yep.” Buck says as they make their way into the pitch black mall, only the full moon above lighting the tiled floors.

“Ever been in a mall after closing?” Eddie makes his way to the stairwell before looking up at the levels of stairs above them.

“Nope.” Meeting him there, Buck can’t help but dread the flights ahead. “But I can’t say I’m the biggest fan.” It was a bit eerie if Buck said so himself; the dark shadows and only the sound of him and Eddie’s boots making their way across the floor. 

“Elevator?” And Buck could kiss him right there. 

Clicking the third level, Buck leans against the wall and waits to hear the gears start turning. He lets out a huff of air and can feel Eddie’s eyes staring into him. “What?”  He turns his head before looking over at the shorter firefighter, whose hands are placed on the railing behind him, giving Buck a clear look at his physique, even with the uniform. 

“You okay?” Of course he could tell. Buck hadn’t exactly been vocal about him and Tommy ending things (he actually hasn’t told anyone yet) but of course Eddie knew every one of Buck’s tells to figure out something was going on. 

“Yeah-” Buck would elaborate with some excuse about being tired if it was for the jerk of the elevator and clicking sound. They didn’t quite reach floor three though.

They were stuck.

“Shit.” As soon as Eddie notices the stagnant ‘2’ on the display, he reaches for his radio, “Cap, elevator’s stuck.” 

“Do you have the patient?” 

“We were going up to get her,” Eddie lets out a huff before continuing, “didn’t quite make it.” 

“Hen and Chim here yet?” Buck clicks into his radio to ask and Bobby doesn’t reply immediately. “Cap?” Buck tries again before Eddie locks eyes with him, also confused. 

“Guys, we got a problem.” Chim’s voice comes through the radio and Buck already knows it’s going to be a long night.

—

Apparently, there was a fucking robbery going on upstairs. Or, at least, now there is. Bobby informing Eddie and Buck that there’s a few hostages in the jewelry section of the mall and that one of them got away to make a phone call is now the highlight of Buck’s day. Great. They’re dealing with being stuck in an overheating elevator, with no backup, at three in the morning, while there’s a robbery going on thirty feet away. 

“Sit down, Buck.” Eddie breaks Buck out of his mind from his seat against the wall and Buck obliges, sinking down across from him. They’ve been here for a good fifteen minutes now and at this point, Buck just wanted to get away from Eddie. Not that Eddie was bad in any way, it was just…. 

Awkward. 

For Buck, at least.

Why? Oh no reason, just Tommy may have alluded to Buck having more-than-platonic feelings for his best friend of six years and he wasn’t exactly keen on humoring that take. That wild, ridiculous, unrealistic take. And wrong. The take was wrong. 

He had said it so naturally too:

“Evan, it’s okay.” Tommy’s eyes softened and Buck couldn’t quite fathom the words coming out of his mouth. 

“I don’t–” Buck shook his head before looking back at Tommy’s knowing face. “I’m not-”

“Evan.” Buck let out a breath of air before letting the pilot continue whatever horrors that were to be said next. “I saw it the first time you mentioned him.” And Buck can’t quite think of when that was. Maybe right before their first kiss; before his world flipped on its head and his eyes were fully open for maybe the first time in his life? Or maybe when he took the tour with Tommy? Or maybe the phone call when asking for the tour?

“How–?” Buck didn’t think he believed it, but that was the only word that came out. 

“I knew what I was getting into, Evan. This wasn’t going to be forever.” And maybe that stung. Maybe those words hurt like when Tommy had said he ‘wasn’t ready’ for them. Maybe those words would’ve affected Buck if he wasn’t still reeling from his supposed feelings for his best friend. “I think you knew that too.” Did he?

Since that night, Buck’s pushed those feelings back. Far. To the depths of his mind where they shall never see the light of day. Or so he thought. But those thoughts are slowly working their way to the front of Buck’s mind as he takes in the tanned, exhausted firefighter in front of him. The small beads of sweat beginning to make their way down the sides of Eddie’s face before he wiped them away with the back of his hand. His jaw locking as his muscles in his arm tense while he raises his hand. Buck could’ve drooled, but decides to take the more responsible path of ignoring the warm feelings blossoming in his chest (and probably face). 

“Tommy and I broke up.” He doesn’t know why he says it. Maybe to break the silence or take his mind off the man in front of him and place it on another. Eddie turns to look at him and Buck can’t quite place the emotions painting his face. It seems like a mix between pity and confusion and Buck doesn't exactly feel like answering any questions right now.

“Sorry to hear that.” It’s reserved, and Buck gets the sense that there’s a part of Eddie that doesn’t quite mean the sentiment. They both let out a deep breath and Buck tries to ignore the movement of Eddie’s throat as he swallows. Ugh. Why’d he have to be trapped here, now, with Eddie of all people. 

Buck almost wants to elaborate. To continue talking for the sole sake of removing the uncomfortable silence between the two of them but he’s not exactly keen on where that elaboration may lead. “How’s Marisol?” Nope. That’s worse. So much worse.

Eddie looks up to Buck, his face now free of the apparent conflicted emotions he was having a minute ago. Buck can see the way his eyes dart around, not quite making eye contact with Buck until he opens his mouth. “Fine.” 

That’s it? Fine? 

Personally, Buck thought it was going decently well between the two, which is now starting to sound more like an amicable, boring acquaintance rather than a romantic relationship. But Buck wasn’t exactly upset with the answer. He almost lets himself take a sigh of relief until he’s realizing why the hell he’d be relieved in the first place.

Good.

Fine means good. So Eddie and Marisol are doing good. Which means they’re not going to break up or end things anytime soon so there’s no reason for Buck to get any hopes up (not like he should in the first place) but—

“Buck?” Eddie snaps him out of his mind again and Buck wants to curse himself for spiraling. So what if Marisol and Eddie are great; good for them.

“Yeah?” Eddie looks down at his hands, pondering, before his eyes lock onto Buck’s. They don’t look away from each other, even as Buck can feel his throat tightening. A wave of heat travels through Buck’s stomach and he has to consciously take a breath to keep himself breathing. Buck can feel his face burning up and he can’t quite figure out if it’s because of the prolonged eye contact, gradually warming box they’re trapped in, or maybe just his suit trapping his body heat too well. Buck notices the way Eddie bites his bottom lip, which means he’s thinking of how to continue what he’s going to say, before he finally breaks their eye contact. It’s hard not to stare at the other man as he wets his lips and huffs out a breath of air before finally opening his mouth to speak, and honestly, Buck would rather just press his lips against his to keep him from saying another word. To finally taste his lips instead of remembering the thick, red liquid that he imagines when he pictures himself running his tongue over the man’s body. 

“Chris told me, the other day,” Eddie starts after a long breath and Buck can feel his shoulders tensing for some reason, “he wants me to be happy.” While he can’t quite see where this is going, Buck nods along, hoping the conversation can move his mind from the thoughts that have been on a loop since Tommy left. “What if…” Eddie looks back to Buck and he feels himself raise his eyebrows with a nod, a reaction of his that Eddie knows means ‘it’s okay, keep going’. “I don’t think Marisol makes me…happy.” The last word sounds foreign on Eddie’s tongue; like he’s never humored the possibility of someone making him happier than he thinks he should be.

[starsinkpop]

ATEEZ Jung Wooyoung Tarot Reading - Future Spouse

Disclaimer: I do tarot readings for fun, so please read them with a grain of salt. Don’t take my words too seriously and just keep an open mind. Tarot is a divination tool that can’t predict the future, as every single individual has their own will and makes their own decisions. Tarot should be seen as a guidance and a good friend that just has your best interest and gives you advice when needed. I’m not putting anyone in my readings on a pedestal nor am I trying to harm anyone. One last side note, I’m not a native speaker, so please excuse any wrong spellings or poor grammar.

Date of Reading: October 22th 2023

Decks: Ethereal Visions Tarot, Dreamscape Oracle, Romance Angel Oracle, Love Oracle, island time wellness love Oracle, Angel Answers Oracle Cards

VI The Lovers, XVIII The Star (R), XII The Hanged Man, Ace of Wands, XXII The Well (R), Two of Cups (R)

I’m getting the energy of a very sweet but kinda broken soul here

they’re very pleasant to be around, others make wonderful memories with them

people like them a lot I think

Wooyoung and his fs don’t have a past together, as in like spending their childhoods together or something like that, this is a new and unexpected connection

this is someone who has a hard time letting go of the past

they could be a pisces or have pisces placements in their chart

I’m getting a very dreamy and soft energy

Wooyoung and them are complementing each other

they balance each other out

this person is kinda hard to trigger, they have a very strong self control and it’ll take a long time for them to actually lose patience and explode, but people shouldn’t test their patience

they could be a late bloomer, Wooyoung could be their first real romantic relationship

that doesn’t mean they’re inexperienced

I see this more like they know their values and worth and just don’t settle for anyone less and kinda “sort” people out before they could cause damage

they just never seemed to have been a serious relationship

so they’re basically just dreaming about the perfect relationship for them

but when they meet Wooyoung it’s like he’s hitting every box

and they would feel actually safe to allow that romance coming it

they love to flirt tho and people actually easily catch feelings for them

but they just flirt for funsies and don’t even realize they’re making so many hearts race

in general they seem to be very playful and funny

they’re very lucky, like the worst situations seem to always turn into something positive for them

success is always on their side as well

they could be rich and financially independent or just have a good income that allows them to enjoy life on a regular base - no financial struggles

could also work towards financial independence

I think in this relationship everything happens fast, they gonna meet for the first time and shortly after that will be officially together, move in together quite early, get engaged after just a few months

it’s like Wooyoung and his fs can’t wait to spend their lives together

they have a very strong connection from the very first time they meet

there’s some indications that in this connection one will unexpectedly reveal their feelings and kinda sweep the other one of their feet

it honestly feels more like Wooyoung’s energy, he’s probably the one who would tell them right away he likes them and tell them about his intentions

I normally don’t channel songs but I’m hearing Post Malone’s “I like you” (and have to think about the iconic Woo fancam lol), maybe that song is significant

the person is very protective of their private life and loved ones, I don’t think they’re in the public light

they could be in constant transformation, always changing something about their life or looks as they could get bored easily

they really hate monotony and routines

if their life is stagnant they destruct and end things without hesitation

sometimes they kinda doubt themself, even see themself as a failure as they don’t seem to go for their dreams. Something is holding them back

I’m having a bit of a hard time to exactly get what’s happening here, but it’s like they have a lot of dreams but always seem to give up on them as soon as there’s one draw back

but because of that they’re also getting new insights and create new opportunities for themself, kinda constantly challenging themself

they need that in some type a way, as they seem to have a very fast working mind and don’t want to waste time on situations, dreams, and ideas that maybe won’t work out

they would sacrifice themself and their own needs for the ones they love the most

they rather live in pain to see their loved ones in happiness than seeing them suffer

big empath, they want to take the pain away from the ones they cherish the most

they’re also always kinda suspicious of others and could take a bit longer to open up to them, if they ever open up

Wooyoung’s fs is also very creative and always have new ideas running through their mind

they could be into photography

this is someone who is very passionate and has a pretty high libido

for some looks, I think they could have blonde hair or just a quite light hair color

red could be their favorite color or just generally be very significant in their life, like they have a red car or something like that

Love,

~Nicky 🫧

Masterlist

[gralunaisland]

Honestly, Juvia is one of the most boring characters I've ever seen. She is an extremely shallow character and her development is nonexistent. There is nothing to her besides her lust for Gray.

juvia is Nothing Without her Lust for Gray

I agree with you very much, Anon. You really put it perfectly. she just brings nothing to the table but toxicity and a stagnant character.

Like you said, she's shallow. she judges everyone at face value (especially women, whom she always assumes the worst of). she also doesn't ever try to understand other people and always misinterprets Gray's intentions and thoughts even though it would be so, so easy to understand him because she actually doesn't care about him; she only cares about what juvia wants.

As for your comment about how her development doesn't exist, I just made a post about that here where I parse some instances where Pros might say that juvia has had character growth and debunk them. she never grows as a person and also basically forces everyone around her to change to accommodate her antics and toxicity, like Erza and Gray, both of whom had their characters decidedly retconned to, for the former, encourage juvia's disgusting pursuit of Gray, and for the latter, return juvia's affection in a similarly manic manner, neither of which makes any sense for their true characters.

I've said it a dozen times, but juvia is a satellite character, and does not exist without Gray. You are very right when you say there is nothing to her except her lust for Gray, because if you take that away, she's an empty husk that stops functioning, as seen in the Avatar arc.

Plus, if you think about it, it's her lust for Gray that drives every action she takes. It was the only reason she decided to "become good", as she never actually tries to make amends or even just apologize to the FT guild for what she'd done after the Phantom Lord arc. That means all of her supposed "character growth" literally hinges only on Gray. You bet if he turned evil she'd be right at his side (like in the Daphne arc).

And if it ever seems like she's doing something for the good of the Fairy Tail guild, think again! she's only helping out the guild that her snookums attends; if he left, she wouldn't spare them another thought. This is made apparent by her taking his side in the, again, Daphne Arc, as well as her ditching everyone and not caring about them because she got to follow and harass Gray just the two of them after the disbandment of FT. You also see that in how she treats the other guild members and how she didn't try at all during the GMG.

All in all, I really don't have to add more here. juvia's suckiness speaks for itself, and I've been talking about this subject quite often lately. Anyway, Anon, thank you for your patience (so sorry for taking so long to get to answering you) and for sending an awesome ask!