#i’ll leave that to those who are better at it

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

One and Only

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, stalking, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You meet your biggest fan.

Based on response: She’s famous & he’s a stalker fan? 1940s au?

Characters: Bucky Barnes

This is #1 of the Valentines Roulette stories

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

“I’m sending the script this afternoon, honey,” Gerald promises through the speaker. You hold the receive to your ear and suppress a sigh. It’s a blessing that he can’t see your expression. ‘Honey.’  

“Sure thing, Ger,” you reply as you try to peer through the foggy glass pane. What a miserable February. 

“Screen tests start Monday,” he intones, as if you’ve not done this before. What number is this? You signed a contract for ten pictures, this is number seven of the lot. You cannot wait to shop around for a new studio. 

“Yes, Ger,” you answer dully. “See ya then.” 

“Three o’clock. There about,” he girds. 

“I’ll be around. Monday, then, Ger.” 

“Monday, honey.” 

You hang up. You arch your brow as your lips move with the retort you’re under terms and conditions not to say. ‘If you want honey, Gerald, go find a hive.’ You sigh to your content and adjust your rob beneath the satin belt cinched around your waist. 

There’s a knock at the door. You look at the clock in its ivory frame. It must be the mailman. You answer and accept his bundle. Some from those who watch your pictures and a letter from your sister. You shuffle through them and leave them scattered over the kitchen table. 

You pace. You’d hoped to have that script early. You might not be very happy with the films they’ve put you on but learning lines at least keeps your mind busy.  

As you sweep through the entryway, your satin robe catches the air and sends a breeze around the space. There’s a scuff along the hardwood that snags on the tassled corner of the rug. You must’ve dropped it when you took the handful from the mailman. 

You bend to pluck up the scrap of paper, folded in a tight square. When you untuck the corner, it forms a sort of accordion. You carefully unfold it, careful not to tear it. You reveal its sparse contents. 

The crosshatch of an inky nib has formed an image. One you vaguely recognise as yourself. The war feels like ages ago though it only just ended. It’s back to business as usual. No more tours through Europe, no more riding in cargo bays with the prettied up dances. Everything is all so dull these days. 

In the hastily scratched portrait, your hair is painfully twisted into victory rolls and the military cap pinned at just the right angle. You remember the soldiers, the worn gray palour and dark circles, the tatters in their uniforms as the complained for drawing lines up their legs to mimic the nylon these men needed to jump out of planes. 

You examine the torn edge and a few blots of ink and some other dark hue. There’s a scrawl in the corner. Loopy writing; ‘Happy Valentines. Only you on my mind. JBB’. Those messages are not unexpected. You are thankful for your admirers if not at time, perturbed by their assumptions of familiarity. Yet, you’ve chose the studio lights and camera lenses. It comes with the territory. 

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

It’s three o’clock. Bucky’s watch is set, tightly strapped to his right wrist. Out of habit, he looks to the left and finds nothing. His shoulder is itchy where his muscles should tug but there’s nothing there. Just a pinned sleeve and frustration. 

He clears his throat and keeps the thick bound folder under his arm. The boy gave him no trouble, asked no questions. I’m the porter, kid, I’ll see it to her. No need to go bothering the lady. 

He marches down the winding stone walk. His car is near the sprawl of pine. He misses his motorcycle but he can’t figure how to steer it with one hand. Even the steering wheel gives him a bit of trouble. 

He presses his arm tighter to the script as he approaches the stoop. There’s a round stone platform before the door that forms steps up to the entrance. Moulds of ancient Greek statues stand in small alcoves beneath the lights on either side of the door frame.  

He stops before the door and bends his head as he tries to fix his hair. He shaved for this. It’s been a while. He spent long with the scissors, clipping through the shanks than he did with the razor. That’s another thing that’s harder. He struggled to get just the right angle around the left side of his jaw. There’s a nick there. 

He straightens up and stares at the arched door. He needs to knock. He has to step close and batters his knuckles on the wood. He backs up and looks down. He hasn’t worn a suit since he came home. They made him do it as they shouted ‘victory’ in the streets. 

He waits. No answer. He looks around. She has a bell. He shifts around then uses his nose to press it. Damn arm. 

He fixes his posture and smiles, then quickly wipes it away. You don’t want to look strange. No, not like some of the men they took off the lines. They got that glassy look. Some of them couldn’t do anything but laugh or cry. 

Her shadow darkens under the door before she opens it. She’s surprised by him. She bats her long lashes. They are naked, like the rest of her face. He’s just as stunned to see her in her natural form. No cosmetics, all her. She’s even more gorgeous. 

“Oh, I was expecting Stuart,” she greets him. “Pardon,” she tries to fix her hair. She wears a satin robe and slippers with feathers. “You have it?” 

She gestures to the script. He looks down at it and slides it down to his hands. He examines the cover. 

“Uh, yes, ma’am, miss,” he forgets everything he meant to say. All those lines he rehearsed in the dark theatre. The script he wrote when he lay restless in his bed. 

“Thank you, sir,” she reaches for it. He hesitates to hand it over. 

“I saw you. In the Hague,” he says as she latches onto the spine. He doesn’t let go. 

She looks at him. She has a serene look on her face, even as her eyes wander down to his pinned sleeve. She almost seems to brighten. 

“With the company?” She asks. “You saw me on stage?” 

“You’re real funny, miss,” he bounces on his heels. “Charming.” 

“Well, it’s the least I could do for your men. You gave so much,” she keeps a hold of the script. 

He looks at his left shoulder then at her. 

“Some things were taken,” he grumbles. 

She blanches, “pardon me, sir, I didn’t mean--” 

“I just wanted to say,” he overrides her apology. She doesn’t need to be sorry. “When I was in the medic’s tent, all those weeks, it was you. You got me through. I saw ya in the magazines. They were old, you know? Don’t get them hot off the press in the field.” 

“Sure,” she utters, he feels the tension in the folder as she tries to wiggle it away. “What’s your name, sir?” 

“James,” he answers. “James Buchanan Barnes.” 

She smiles, “that’s a lovely name. I do appreciate you coming to give me this. And for everything else.” 

He lets go of the folder. He expected more. She might invite him in for a drink. He did lose a fucking arm so the ladies could keep their precious slippers and robes. And he came all the way down her to give her that lump of papers. 

“You have a good day, sir,” she slowly inches the door forward. 

Where are her goddamn manners? 

He slaps his hand against the door and she squeaks in fright. He keeps her from closing it in his face. He cleaned himself up nice for her, he sent her a letter. He’s sent her at least a hundred. He signed them all JBB. She knows him. 

So why is she trying to shut him out? 

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You stumble back as the man shoves the door out of your grasp. You gasp and the grip the script with both hands, like a shield. He steps inside calmly. 

“James,” you say his name, “what are you doing?” 

“The least you can do is ask me in, doll,” he snarls. The sudden shift in his demeanour fills you with dread. 

“No, James, I did not. You need to leave--” 

He swings the door shut and marches toward you. You raise the script and bring it forward, aiming it at him in a desperate attempt to fend him off. He knocks it away easily. He's strong. Still a soldier even in street clothes. 

“James,” you hold your palms up helplessly, “please, forgive me if I’ve--” 

“Shhhh,” he reaches between your hands and grabs you by the jaw. “I just... I want to... did you get my letters?” 

“Letters?” You gulp, writhing in his hold as you gently touch his forearm. “Well, James, I get many letters--” 

“I write to you every day,” he hisses. “It’s me. JBB.” 

“James,” you murmur. 

“Stop saying my name,” he sneers. 

You shut your mouth, your lip poking out as it trembles. You stare at him, petting his sleeve, hoping you can calm him. The war changed a lot of men. It stole a lot of them too. 

“I just... I love you, doll. You got me through. You kept me breathing,” he growls as he walks her backward. “I’m not gonna hurt ya.” 

You whimper, “why don’t you let me go and I’ll pour you a drink?” 

He stops and his brows pinch together. He looks to his left, where your liquor cabinet stands in the dining room. Where your phone is... 

“No,” his eyes flick back to you. “No, I don’t drink.” 

He pushes you until your heels meet the bottom stair. Your right slipper falls off and he tips you over the incline. You fall beneath him as he follows you down. You push on his chest and wriggle. 

He straddles you beneath him as he looks you up and down. His knees are on the step by your hips, his heels two down. You brace the sharp edge and whine. 

“James...” 

He hushes you as his thumb rubs beneath your cheekbone. He stares at your body, his chest rising and falling heavily. You push yourself down into the stairs. 

“Open your robe,” he demands. 

Your lip quivers violently as you bat back tears. You do as he says. You unknot the belt and slowly draw it open. You tug the satin apart and reveal your silky nightgown. The fabric cling to you like water. 

He shudders as his jaw squares. He bites his lip and shifts over you. He leans in slowly and your eyes meet as he gets closer. They are blue and deep like the ocean. You shiver as his nose touches yours. 

He exhales and brushes his lips against yours. 

“Show me the bedroom,” he growls.  

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

He lets her up cautiously. She steadies her feet and turns up the staircase. She limps up, click, clap, click, clap. He bends to pick up her slipper and follows. 

As she reaches the top, he stops her with her name. She pauses. He gets down and she doesn’t react until he shows her slipper. She puts her foot through. He stands and points her onward. 

He couldn’t climb to see through the bedroom window. He only ever saw the first floor. She hugs herself as her robe flutters around her figure. She opens the door at the end of the hall. She steps back to let him through and he tuts. 

He makes her go in first. She enters and sweeps around, far from him. He elbows the door shut. She cowers by the wall as he strides around.  

There’s a phone beside the bed. He grabs it and yanks it free of the cord. Her slippers suddenly click in a flurry. He drops the phone and catches her at the door. He crushes her against it so it snaps back into the frame. 

“Doll, don’t be doin’ all that,” he warns as he pinches her neck and urges her away from the door. She whimpers and he turns her to face the bed, “robe off.” 

He lets her go. She pulls away and drags his hands down her neck. She shyly pushes the robe from her shoulders and peels it off her body. The silk nightgown swathes her perfectly. Her shape is so full and soft. 

She drapes the robe over the bedpost and shies away. He clucks and snaps his fingers. 

“Doll,” he looks down at himself. He has the whole getup. Jacket, vest, tie, shirt. All for her. “Need your help.” 

She faces him. Her eyes glimmer like gems. She watches his hand smooth down his jacket and he unbuttons it. 

She nears him. She smells like vanilla. She brings her hands up. They shake. She must be excited. How could she not be? Finally, they’re together. 

He grabs his lapels and guides the jacket back. She’s tender with the folded sleeve and tickles his hemmed shirt beneath. She carries the jacket to the seat by her vanity and returns to him. He can see her pulse in her throat, it’s going just as fast as his. 

She unbuttons his vest and slips it off him. Her touch is soothing. Then she undoes his tie, her fingers brushing his throat. She unveils him, piece by piece, as his stomach clenches and unclenches. 

She stalls as she gets to his trousers. Her fingers twiddle just before the button. 

“It’s your first time,” he drawls. “Dont’ gotta be shy, doll.” 

She looks at him and swallows. She nods stiffly then puts her eyes down. The unplucks the front of his pants. He can make it nice for her. 

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

First time... 

Nope. You won’t say you haven’t made mistakes. Still, you won’t chance angering this man. Not more than you already have. You can keep up the act if it pays off. Not in money this time, no, your life. 

You stand back as he’s naked before you. Your wipe your damp palms on your nightie. He hangs his head. You can’t help but stare at his scars. The tortured flesh around his shoulder that extends onto his chest. Looks like a burn. 

His eyes startle you. You meet them. He steps closer. 

“Your turn,” he growls. 

You look down and reach for the thin lace straps of the night gown. You slide them down and shimmy the silken sheath down your figure. Your chest peeks over and he inhales audibly. As you push the fabric past your hips, he groans. 

Your eyes wander up for an instant. He's hard, bobbing shamelessly as he nears. All at once, he herding you back against the bed. You fall over the foot and bounce on the mattress. 

He crushes you. He kisses your lips then your cheek, smearing saliva across your face with his frantic hunger. You close your eyes and go rigid as you let him do what he pleases. 

His voice escapes him like silt. He nuzzles and nips along your throat. He shifts onto his side and feels up and down your torso. He fondles your tits and his mouth trails his touch. He seals his lips around your nipple, swirling his tongue around and around. 

He hooks his leg around yours. He pulls your thighs apart and his hand traces down your stomach and pelvis. He slips his middle finger between your lips and strums at your clit. You tense and twitch as your nerves stir. 

Your breath hitches as he rubs firmly. You turn your head and bite your knuckle as a moan escapes you. You arch your back as the sparks turn to a flame. You shake through your orgasm as he drags you through it. 

He pushes another finger between your folds. He rubs up and down, smearing your juices around as he hum. He lifts his head and nuzzles your cheek. 

“Kiss me, doll.” 

You pull your hand away and press your lips to his. His tongue delves into your mouth as his fingers slide into your cunt. He growls and smothers you as he rocks your pelvis. The heel of his hand rests against your clit and your toes curl as you writhe. You bend your legs as he lights another fire in you. 

He tilts his hips, rubbing his cock on your leg as he humps you in time with his fingers. Your walls squeeze and tremour and your climax again. You whine into his mouth and he drinks it in. 

He drags his fingers free and wipes your pleasure on your thighs. He parts from your mouth and heaves himself onto his knees. He kneels between your legs and traces the curves of your body with his hand. 

“Doll, please, you put me in,” he orders. “Be careful, don’t wanna hurt you.” 

You reach down without hesitation. You want this over with. You just hope he leaves after. 

You grab his cock and angle it down against your cunt. You flinch as his tip brushes your clit and you push him further back. You line him up with your entrance and he shakes. He grunts as he tenses and inches into you. 

He grits his teeth and exhales through his nose as he impales you. You constrict around him. He’s big enough to make your walls ache. He leans over you, planting his hand next to your head, and thrusts until he’s buried to his limit. 

You slap your palm against his chest and puff out through your locked jaw. You quake around him as he pulls back. His eyes fall to the crux of your bodies as he watches himself push into you again. You dig your nails into his skin. 

He snarls and bends his arm, holding himself on his elbow. He covers your mouth with his once more and rolls his hips. You whine and nearly gag around his tongue. He pumps again and again. You press against his sides as you squeeze him between your thighs. 

The bed shakes as his rhythm picks up. You push on his stomach and thigh, begging him silently to be nicer. He doesn’t heed your pleas. You give in to the ravaging of your body as he ruts wildly. You hook your hand around his bicep and clamp down to keep from biting his tongue. 

Just a bit more and it will end. Almost there. Almost free... right? 

[angstywaifu]

Black Dahlia - 35. Just Sex?

Summary: Fucking War Games.

Garrick Tavis x OC (Dahlia Aetos)

Black Dahlia Masterlist | Masterlist | Links

I can’t help but glare up at the dais. Fucking War Games. Leadership had strolled down the halls at an ungodly hour this morning, ringing bells, banging on doors, and calling for us all to dress and head to formation. Which for those who got sleep was fine. Myself on the other hand… the multiple rounds Garrick and I had gone for had left both of us with very little sleep. And by very little. I got none.

I wanted to burn the memory of me trying to scurry off Garrick, hastily dressing in my dress uniform before I’d rushed out the door only to run into Xaden who was about to knock on the door, as well as Bodhi who had been following him like a lost puppy. Bodhi who was now staring a head with a shit eating grin on his face.

”What’s up with you two? You look like you want to murder someone and Bodhi looks like you’ve given him the best gift he’s ever gotten.” Austin comments as she looks between the two of us.

”Oh because she did.” He joyfully adds as he smiles down at me. I roll my eyes, ignoring his comment.

“It’s nothing. I just didn’t sleep well.” I say dismissively, Austin looking at me like she doesn’t believe me but slowly nods.

”I hardly think Garrick is nothing.” Bodhi teases from besides me, Austin’s eyes snapping to him. I on the other hand turn and narrow my eyes at him, catching a pair of familiar hazel eyes as I do so. “Remind me where I found you this morning?”

Austin grasps my shoulder excitedly. “Holy shit, did it happen?”

”Oh it definitely did.” Liz says happily as she pokes her head around Austin.

”For fucks sake, yes. Now keep your voices down.” I hiss at them as I turn my attention back to the front where leadership and wing leaders are talking.

”So are you two like together?” Bodhi whispers to me as he leans closer.

I shove him away jokingly. “It was just sex.”

Bodhi looks shocked at my words, looking between me and where I know Garrick stands. I don’t dare meet Garrick’s eyes though. I know if I do I’ll want to drag him away at figure out what the fuck we were now. And maybe go another round or two. Two weeks ago he’d essentially broken my heart even though I’d never given it to him. Then he’d come and defended me against my father like I meant something to him. And then I’d thrown caution to the wind and kissed him. Let him consume me, and give into the tension that had been there for the better part of the year. Though the few words we had spoken indicated this was more than just sex. But how much more I wasn’t sure. ”

I don’t think it was just sex, for either of you.” Bodhi states as he turns his attention back to me. “I might have only known you a year Dahlia, but I’ve never seen you like this. Go tell him.”

I look over and see Garrick looking directly at me. His hazel eyes piercing into mine, as if trying to read my thoughts, see what’s going on inside my head. I should hate him. Should want nothing to do with him after everything that had happened in the last year. But I didn’t. I wanted that handsome asshole more than anything. I wanted to leap into the unknown and see where the hell it took me. See what this could be, even if it meant getting hurt again.

”We have War Games to win first.” I tell Bodhi as I turn my head to look at him. “Let’s see if we survive that first before diving into my questionable love life.” A/N: And don't worry, I'm not that cruel to leave you hanging for a week. Post War Games coming tomorrow.

@imtoanonymousforyou @simplyme-fornow @omalmal @lalaluch @wolfbc97 @leptitlu @fullmoon-94 @the-fandom-ness @fan-of-many-bands @awkardnerd @heeseungthel0ml @acourtofsmutandstarlight @fairchild06 @freyagallileaevans @pit-and-the-pen @hannraumari @elliot-rain @thestarseternaal @stupid-and-contagious01 @hyperfixation-train-station @lxnvmvrzx @thebreadisthetruevillian @red0202 @fangirling-galore @craftytrashprincess @taliyahvermillion @xadenswhore @fenixyrie @lagrandeourse @hellodarling1357 @iambored24601  @thegiftofacreativemind @fanfictionjunkie1112 @mysticalfuncollectorus

[lieslab]

Soon you'll get better

꘎♡━━━━━♡꘎ ꘎♡━━━━━♡꘎

Pairing: Minho X gn reader

Summary: Your boyfriend tries to help you with your headaches, but when a doctor diagnoses you with something far worse than you ever expected, your world shatters.

Genre: Angst with a happy ending

Word Count: 2.6K

Trigger warning: Mentions of blood, nausea, a seizure, doctors, surgery, and hospitals.

_ _ _

How do you tell the love of your life that you’re sick? What do you say when it all falls apart? When someone rips out the happy ending and throws the pages, leaving them scattered, and thrown across the floor? Minho is your entire life. He’s supposed to be and yet, you’re not sure how to break the news. 

It started with headaches. The dull ache annoyed you endlessly, but they were manageable. Life took a stumble when they morphed into mind-bending migraines. The sharp pain behind your eyes, the nausea, and the sensitivity to every bright light and loud sound. 

Dull aches turned into piercing needles. It felt like being jabbed over and over again, the needles pressed against the back of your eyes. No matter what you tried, they grew impossible to manage. The painkillers stopped working. 

It grew normal to come home from work, bury yourself in the darkness of your bedroom, and sleep for hours. When you could catch sleep, it became the only thing to relieve the pain in your head. Exhaustion clung to you, but you thought it would be temporary. 

Perhaps it was too much caffeine or maybe you were pulling away from it with your caffeine withdrawals. If not that, you were certainly struggling with not drinking enough water. Maybe that was the reason why your brain screamed against you and tormented you in the worst way possible. 

Minho called your name when he came home from the doctor. He searched the house and froze in the doorway of your shared bedroom. Curled into a ball on your side, you didn’t respond. Even talking caused the pain in your head to drill harder against your skull. 

The nausea and dizziness wiped you out entirely. Soft footsteps padded over to you. He clicked on the lamp behind you, trying not to make your head feel worse. He called your name in a whisper, wondering if you were awake or not. 

The bags under your eyes grew from brown to purple. You blinked rapidly as his eyes met yours. He frowned at your paleness. All he wanted to do was make you feel better, but he didn’t know how. 

The warm baths didn’t help. He tried to massage the side of your head, but it led to you pushing him away. He picked up one of those compression bands that vowed to help, but the packaging lied. The immediate relief never came. 

“How is it today?” He whispered. 

“Worse. It’s so much worse.” 

He reached over, pushed a piece of hair from your face, and gently cupped your cheek. “I know you don’t want to, but you should consider going to the doctor. You can’t keep dealing with this. I know how exhausting it is, I feel like you’re withering away from me.” 

“I have an appointment tomorrow. Until then, I’ll be here suffering.” You tried to give him a reassuring smile, but it didn’t meet your eyes. 

He leaned forward and pressed a quick kiss to the middle of your forehead. No matter what happened, he just wanted you to be back to normal. This destroyed your normal personality. You didn’t have the energy to talk back to him anymore. Your usual go-getter attitude disappeared entirely. You were becoming the ghost of who you once were.

He just wanted to see you smile again. 

_ _ _ 

When you came back from the doctor the next day, you left your bag and keys on the small table, beside the door. You didn’t have the energy to put everything where it needed to go. You barely had the energy to kick off your shoes and drag yourself to the living room. 

Test after test after test. 

A bruise bloomed where a nurse drew blood with gentle hands. You described the experiences you’d been having. Everything from the headaches, the migraines, to the lack of energy. You assumed you fell victim to chronic migraines, but your reality was so much worse. 

When the doctor diagnosed you with a brain tumor, you didn’t understand. How could you? Nobody in your genetic mapping had anything like this. Sure, you’ve heard of cancer before, but you? No way. 

You did what you could to avoid it. You drank your water, ate a balanced diet, and you were active. Still young, you lived with the silent assumption that something like this wouldn’t happen to you. If you had cancer, it wouldn’t grip onto you until you were older. Maybe your sixties or seventies, but this young? 

Silence engulfed you on the couch. The scent of hospital disinfectant made you feel sick. You were no longer there, but you still felt sick to your stomach. Your doctor pulled out the scan they took of your head. 

The small white anomaly stuck out in the usual contours of your brain folds. Alone on the hospital bed, you tried to swallow the heavy reality alone. Staring at the image, you felt disconnected from your body. How could this be your brain? Wasn’t your body supposed to protect you? 

You laid with your head pressed against the floral arm of the couch. This couch that you begged Minho to get, despite him not being a fan of the pattern. Because two years ago, you thought the two of you would be a forever thing. Now you were navigating the heart shattering realization that your version of forever might not be as long as you wanted it to be. 

“Babe?” Minho’s voice called out from the hallway. He headed towards you with outstretched arms. How long had he been here? “Are you crying? What’d you find out?” 

You wouldn’t do that to him. Minho with his slightly messy hair and the personality you joked that he adopted from his cats. Minho that screwed around and made you smile, no matter how hard of a day he had. The Minho that surprised you with seaweed soup in bed on your birthday. 

“They’re not sure,” you finally uttered after a few conflicting moments. “They think it might be chronic migraines, but they still want to run some tests.” 

“Really?” He frowned. “I thought they were going to do a ton of tests and-” 

“They did some, but I wasn’t feeling too great. I’ll go back when I feel better. The last thing they want to do is have to admit me, you know?” 

“Their job is to help you get better.” 

“And they will, when I’m better, I promise.” 

You should never make a promise that you can’t keep. 

_ _ _ 

Two weeks later, Minho screamed your name with tears in his eyes. You appeared at the JYP building to have lunch. The two of you just entered the canteen area to find food. 

Circular tables scattered around the area. Other idols took breaks here and there. Laughter filled the air. You tried to keep it together, but you didn't feel great. Your head ached and your stomach was queasy. You tried to act like you were normal, but things continued to spiral out of control. 

The doctor left you voicemails, but you ignored them. Ignoring them was easier. You tried to find the courage to tell Minho the truth, but every time you stared at those bright brown eyes, you couldn’t do it. You couldn’t find the courage to destroy his life, so you kept quiet. 

“What are you thinking? They have really good fresh sushi. On a day like today, nothing sounds better.” 

“Sushi?” 

“Mhm.” 

“Sounds great.” You dropped your head and blinked rapidly. Over the past few days, you had episodes where your vision acted up. Black spots took over and you could usually blink it away. Today’s episode felt different. 

When they finally stopped, you hurried after him. A black tray sat in his hands. Unaware that anything was wrong, he headed in the direction of the cold sushi. You grabbed your own tray and rushed to catch up. 

He grabbed a small white plate, the tongs, and began to pile up the sushi. “This morning, I spent so long dancing with the guys. I think I could eat an entire horse if they offered it.” 

You hummed, set your tray down on the metal railing, and rubbed your eyes again. You blinked harder. The spots resisted your futile attempts and you sighed. He glanced over your shoulder. “Are you okay?” 

“Just tired.” 

“When are you going back to the doctor?” 

“Probably sometime this week.” 

He pulled away from the sushi and moved his tray further down the line. A variety of sides sat everywhere. He began to load up his tray with another small plate. You grabbed your own porcelain plate to grab sushi and that’s when your vision cut out and your body went tense. 

He whipped around at the sound of a plate shattering. Worried for you, he dropped beside your limp form on the floor. He didn’t expect your limbs to curl inward. Your legs pushed your torso up and your back contorted. Your wrists curled inward and that’s when the seizing began. 

He called your name in a panic, trying to get you to respond, but you couldn’t. Your muscles tensed, your body bucked, and you shifted in such a way, you nearly hit the sharp shards of porcelain. 

“Help! Someone help!” 

A few idols and trainees rushed over. He grabbed your arms desperately, but your body didn’t stop moving. Someone pulled him away and a younger trainee stepped in. He pushed your body away from the glass and held you on your side, so you didn’t choke on your tongue. 

No sign of fear in his eyes, he glanced up at the nearest person. “Call for an ambulance, send them to the JYP building, and tell them someone is seizing.” 

Things turned to chaos. Someone pulled out a phone. You didn’t stop bucking beneath the man’s hands. Minho’s eyes watered. The familiar hue of your eyes disappeared. In its place, the milky white of your eyes stared back at him.

He never cried in public, but when it came to your pain, he was a fountain that couldn’t stop leaking.  _ _ _ 

“There’s fluid building up around the brain.” 

“The tumor is pressing against-” 

“There’s no time to waste. It’s either surgery or they die! Clear an operating room! Give me a surgical team and tell them to scrub in now!” 

Time turned to jelly in the waiting room. Minho waited with his arms crossed over his chest. His leg bounced and he chewed on his lower lip. News of the incident reached the rest of his idol group. 

Beside him, Han and Chan sat nearly just as worried. They showed up after figuring out where the ambulance took you. When Minho came rushing into the emergency room beside the gurney, your doctor from two weeks ago had been passing through the emergency room. 

He couldn’t believe it. You never told him about your brain tumor. He never knew and this entire time, you’d been acting like everything was fine on the outside. Upset with himself, he grew frustrated at not knowing the mental torment you were internally dealing with. He wished he would have picked up on it sooner. 

And now he sat in the crowded waiting room with two of his brothers. He couldn’t speak to them, even if he wanted to. If he spoke, he was sure he’d fall apart and burst into sobs that’d never stop. 

Chan texted updates to the rest of the guys. Han held Minho’s hand, but it wasn’t enough this time. Rapping was easy when he held Han’s hand. Holding his hand and realizing the love of his life sat on the verge of death, it became much harder to accept. 

When the doctor showed up in scrubs hours later, Minho was the first one on his feet. The doctor sucked in a deep breath and he assumed the worst. His stomach twisted in knots. He couldn’t breathe. 

“The tumor is entirely out. We won’t know if it’s cancerous until we do a biopsy on it. Recovery is going to be hard no matter what, but they’re recovering and out of surgery.” 

“If it’s cancer?” Minho whispered, trying to keep himself held together. 

“Then we’ll do whatever we can to prevent it from coming back. The fluid build-up caused migraines and the seizure. Taking it weighed other risks, but those are risks I was willing to take.” 

“Can I see them?” 

“Of course.” 

Minho gave a final look to Han and Chan. Han squeezed his hand a final time and Chan nodded. He wiped his eyes and followed the doctor to your room. Seeing you in your state, it broke his heart. 

Your hair had to be shaved for the surgery. A line of stitches sat along your scalp. The doctor led him closer and gestured to a chair beside your bed. “If you need anything at all, press the call button and a nurse will be here immediately.” 

“Thank you.” 

The doctor reached out, gave his shoulder a light squeeze, and disappeared from the room. Hooked to a variety of medical equipment, you turned into a stranger. Beneath IVs of medicine and the tangled cords of a heart rate monitor, he felt like a stranger in your room. 

Flashes of your seizure shot through his brain. He squeezed his eyes shut and placed his hands in his face. He just wished you would have told him about everything. Maybe, he would have felt less guilty about the state you were in. 

“Minho?” You croaked five minutes later. 

He sniffled and jerked upright. “Hey,” he forced himself to smile. “I see you’re still kicking.” 

“I’m invincible.” 

“You think so?” 

“I’m trying to be.” 

Even in the middle of everything, you were still trying to be upbeat. Swaddled in the warmth of sedation, your head didn’t hurt anymore. Your eyes met his and then you shut them. “They’ve got me on the good shit.”

“You’re an idiot.” 

“Rude.” 

“But you’re my idiot.” He leaned forward and pressed his lips to the center of your forehead. “Don’t scare me like that ever again. I thought you were dying.” His own eyes shut and he kept his forehead pressed against yours. 

“Not dying, just keeping you on your toes. Reminding you of what you’ve got. Don’t take me for granted ever again.” 

“You’re such a pain in my ass when you’re sedated.” 

“I always am.” 

He pulled away with a sigh. “You should get some rest.” 

“Did the doctor fix everything?” 

“For now. They’re going to biopsy your tumor to see if it was cancerous or not.” 

“It wasn’t.” 

“And how do you know that?” 

“Because I feel good.”

“You’re still drugged up.” 

“I feel like myself again. I know me and I know my body. I think if it was cancer, I’d still feel like shit.” 

He stared at you, trying not to cry again. He blinked rapidly and swallowed the lump in his throat. “You should get some sleep again. You’re foolish when you’re on drugs.” 

“Your worst nightmare.” 

“Good night.” 

“I love you.” 

“I love you too, dork.”  _ _ _ 

And you were right. You knew your body pretty well. A week later, your tumor was diagnosed as a benign tumor. Not cancerous, you were issued a few follow up scans and blood tests. You’d probably have scans every year, just to keep an eye on things, but that was manageable.  

You’d do whatever it took to keep your forever with Minho for a long, long time.

| ♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡ | ♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡ | ♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡ |

Taglist: @lia-linny @seungnishi @stellasays45 @emilyywhyy @rockstarkkami @flightlessackerman @danihwang882 @inlovewithstraykids @velvetmoonlght @chrizrizz

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Ko-fi

[sirazaroff]

Hey :)! Just asking but how does Glinda hide her scars on the visible parts of her body(like hands or the one on her face). And if anyone ever noticed did Morrible say that Glinda got attacked by the Wicked Witch?(you don’t have to respond with a drawing :), hope you have a good day/night)

Hey there! Thank you for the inquiry, I know yall are waiting on me to say SOMETHING since first posting the two ideas. Such a tease I am~

I will make a disclaimer that my ignorant ass has yet to know what goes down in act 2. I have plans to change that soon enough. Here’s my current take on things but I’ll make an update if they no longer have any merit in the timeline.

And speaking of a timeline, just keep in mind that after she’s struck on the back, the final beats of act 2 start to play out: Glinda going to Kiamo Ko and witnessing Elphaba’s ‘death’. The Wizard leaving and Morrible tries to grab power before Glinda can, and then failing. Glinda takes over as ruler and changes Oz in Elphaba’s vision.

——————

So, why does Glinda cover her scars?

It’s cause of her image as hope to the masses. The Good Witch can’t be appearing all busted up like that, people will ask questions. They’ll be afraid that the Wizard can’t actually help them, or at the least that Glinda can’t. Truthfully she’d rather people believe the truth but between the threat of more punishments from Morrible, and the fact that she’s putting her own public image and safety at risk, it’s better to just hide the scars. No one ever really sees them and so they never question it.

——————

Now let’s talk about how she covers them.

My thought process is that with her hands she would hide those with gloves during the frequency of the beatings. Gauze underneath, hoping they won’t bleed thru while she’s away from the palace. When Morrible eased up on this, Glinda switched over to covering them with makeup since they could finally heal over.

For her lip, Morrible gave her 3 days to figure out how to deal with the fresh wound before throwing her back into the spotlight. The pain of this caused Glinda to resent smiling. This scar would also be hidden with makeup once healed.

Now once she’s struck by lighting, all of this goes out the window. Glinda is quite literally bedridden for a few weeks and her absence is dully felt. Ozians are aware something happened at the palace, but they’re not sure what and who did it. In that instance it was easier to just blame everything on the Witch and rile up the public. (This narrative falls apart after Morrible tries to make for a power grab. Ozians will learn that it was she who hurt Glinda).

When Glinda can finally stand again, she’s in no shape to work. Of course that doesn’t stop the Wizard from having Glinda stand out on her balcony and address the worried masses.

From here on out Glinda doesn’t cover up any of her scars, only her demeanor. Even if she wanted to cover her back, it’s too large and touching the entry point sends a jolt that feels as sharp as when she was first stricken. She’s riddled with constant pain and walks with a limp, but when in public she acts like everything is peachy and is full of smiles. Glinda does this mostly because the people need a leader and if she shows her true ailments, there’s bound to be a threat for power by those taking advantage. Years down the line she’ll eventually retreat within the palace, unable to physically do much anymore but drink in an effort to numb the pain.

[samgirl98]

Forgotten Demon Twin 14/?

Prev | Next

Bruce put away his phone after confirming with Constantine that they would meet with the Justice League in a few hours by text. He turned his attention toward the Fentons, who were all on one side of the living room. Dick, Damian and Bruce were on the other side, showing a clear divide.

Danny and Jazz had searched the living room and kitchen for bugs and found three. Bruce was itching to know who had been spying on the Fentons and how Danny and Jazz knew. He was pretty sure the Fenton parents wanted to know, too. Unfortunately, no one voiced their thoughts.

Silence reigned for minutes, neither side knowing how to start the conversation.

Eventually, Danny sighed.

“Look, can we just get this over with? I want to talk to my family privately.”

Bruce put his hand on Damian’s shoulder and gave a warning squeeze.

Damian looked at Bruce and scowled, “Tt.”

“It’s obvious you’re keeping secrets from us,” Maddie said. “Honestly, we don’t care about those secrets unless they could endanger our family.”

“That’s fair,” Bruce acknowledged. “To be able to tell you our secrets, my whole family will have to agree. It affects them, too.”

Bruce sent a group text, asking what his children’s opinions were.

“Now, there’s just the matter of the DNA test.”

“We don’t need a DNA test! Akhi, you know we’re siblings; come home with us.”

“I am home. I have a sister and two parents who love, value, and don’t see me worse than the dirt on their feet. You were never my brother. You were another enemy that I had to survive in that hellhole.”

By the end of his rant, Danny was breathing hard. Mr. Fenton had put his hand on Danny’s shoulder while Mrs. Fenton held on his hand. Bruce could admit to himself that he was jealous of the family's easy touch. Damian didn’t look for physical affection often, and Bruce was too stunted to be able to give it. The Fentons didn’t have such qualms.

“I should actually thank you, akhi,” Danny sneered the word brother. “If it weren’t for you showing how weak I was, I would have never escaped and found my true family. I’ll give you your DNA test, but don’t you dare think that whatever that paper says will make me abandon my family.”

“Do you hate me that much?” Damian asked, hurt.

“I don’t hate you; I nothing you. All these years, I wasn’t the only one that was forgotten. I only thought of Grandfather and how he could make my life a living hell if he thought of for even a second. You, Talia, you were never in my mind.”

Danny stood up and went up to Bruce.

“So take your test, Bruce Wayne, it won’t change a thing.”

Damian got up. Bruce flinched at the sound of his son’s knees hitting the floor hard. He put his left hand over his heart.

“Akhi, Danyal, my little brother. I want to formally apologize for everything you’ve been through, for everything I’ve put you through. My words may not be enough, but hopefully, you can see I’m trying. I want to get to know my little brother.”

Danny stared at Damian for a few seconds, his face impassive. Then he looked at Bruce and said, “Let me know when you want to take the test tomorrow. We can talk better tomorrow, and by then, you and your family can decide what you do and what you do not want to tell us. Now, if you can give me some time with my family, I would appreciate it.”

Bruce and Dick got up.

“Of course,” Bruce said, “I’m sorry for interrupting.

Dick helped Damian get up and Bruce’s heart clenched at Damian’s wet eyes. Damian rarely cried; when he did, no one in the family knew how to react.

“We’ll take our leave. You have our number; call us if you have any questions or need anything.”

Mrs. Fenton walked them to the door and watched as they entered the car. Damian gave one last look at Fenton’s work before entering. It wasn’t until Bruce was driving that Damian broke down crying.

“It’s my fault. I messed up so much.”

“No, little D, you were a child. Talia, Ra’s they were the ones who fucked up; not you.”

Bruce’s fist clenched over the wheel. He would find a way to fix this. He had to.

____

Danny breathed a sigh of relief when Wayne’s car disappeared.

He entered the house and went straight to the living room, where his parents were waiting for him.

Crap.

How was he going to do this? Should he apologize first? After all, he had lied to them for years. Their entire foundation was built on a lie, and it just kept piling up until Danny had constructed a tall building of deceit. His parents didn’t have to forgive him. Hell, if they wanted to throw Danny out, he wouldn’t blame them and would accept it gracefully. He wouldn’t go to the Waynes. He didn’t think he could survive living under Damian’s shadow again. That’s what he would miss the most if his parents kicked him out. Here, in the Fenton household, he was his own person.

“I’m so sorry,” Danny said, tears coming down his face, “I’ve lied to you for years.”

“Oh, sweetie, don’t cry,” his mom wiped away the tears, “we understand. You were put in such a precarious situation at such a young age. None of this is your fault. We don’t blame you at all.”

“Yeah, Danny,” dad said, “if anything, we should apologize. We should’ve realized you were our son. We should’ve listened to you and Jazz when you said Phantom wasn’t evil.”

“I was going to tell you. I was going to tell you today, but,” he bit his lip. Should he tell them about Vlad? Would they believe him?

“Ancients, there’s so much I’ve kept from you. I don’t even know where to begin.”

“Oh, sweetie, you don’t have to tell us everything at once or at all,” Mom said.

“No, I want to; it’s just so much.”

“How about we drink some tea and think about this rationally?” Jazz suggested while bringing four cups of tea and some cookies.

They sat silently with their tea and cookies, everyone lost in their thoughts. Eventually, the snacks were gone, and an awkward silence filled the air.

Danny cleared his throat, determined to get this over with.

“Before I begin, there’s something else I feel is important you need to know.” He took a deep breath to calm himself. It didn’t work.

“Remember a while back when Pariah Dark swallowed all of Amity Park into the Ghost Zone?”

Both his parents nodded.

“Yeah, Phantom, you fought him,” his mom recalled.

“You almost died,” dad said.

“Well, in the Ghost Zone, the Infinite Realms as the denizens call it, the king is determined by right of conquest.”

His parents looked confused.

“I beat the old king. I’m the new one. Or, well, the crowned prince. I convinced them to give me a few years before making it official.”

“Not only am half-ghost, I’m the ruler of everything you hate.”

____

Vlad swept everything that was on the table with his arms.

The bugs he had planted in Fenton’s work had been found and destroyed. By now, Daniel had probably told the Fentons, and more importantly, Maddie, everything.

No, he had to find a way to bring Maddie and Daniel to his side. He would be the ruler of the Infinite Realms, with Danny as his son and Maddie as his queen. He would not accept anything less.

[sheepispink]

tldr i deleted the hybrid angst fics

I’m not gonna bother doing a long explanation on this, and get straight to the point on this.

The hybrid au (the angst not the owl) fics will be removed from this account and all my other socials. After recieving multiple asks that have talked to me about it, i decided it to be better to just delete it altogether. You can scroll through my account and see the asks for yourselves and the responses i’ve given.

Thank you to everyone who had followed because of those fics and all the love you’ve given in the comments. Unfortunately, i shouldnt have posted that fic at all since i didnt ask for permission from the post i got the inspo from first. Other asks have told me she considered to leave the fandom/take a break because of all of this. I have NEVER intended to push someone out of a community and i feel strongly about keeping everyone on here comfortable but everyone makes mistakes and i figured somethings would be okay and then it turned out it wasnt. I’m also sorry i didnt delete it earlier, others i asked said it was fine to keep it up so you can see the dilemma.

I’ll have other fics to post, other stories that’ll do great and i wont keep this one up just for the sake of “my followers like it”.

If you decide to unfollow me because you were only here for that fic, i’m sorry and that’s a understandable. If you stay, thank you and i hope we can all better this community.

I hope you can all accept that and i know you wont but please DO NOT attack the creator, that’s the reason why i havent tagged her or anything. It’s a possibility i dont like.

Anyway this is pinksheep logging off, for like.. the rest of the week because i am so ill like bro where did this even come from. See u guys next week

[odileeclipse]

https://www.tumblr.com/odileeclipse/775661126176391168/choosing-her-pure-vanilla-x-reader-angst-i-wanted?source=share

This is amazing! Also now I can't stop thinking about an alternate version...sorta an angst to comfort version...

Imagine y/n just wanting to see him happy and sees that he is happier with white lily than with themselves so y/n breaks their own heart and watches him go off with white lily...then, after whatever events you wanna guess this happens after, pure vanilla realizes y/n loved him but had done something out of love for him...let him go...because of that old saying 'if you love something, let it go.'

And for the comfort part...can go bitter sweet or sweet. Bitter sweet is where he thanks y/n and hugs them...Still friend zone but now appreciates them more. Sweet would be...him finally choosing y/n, recognizing their sacrifices and how much they loved him!

Has it always been you?

pt 1 is linked here

Pure Vanilla x Reader Part 2 (Angst to comfort) (A/N at the end)

How could you say no to the one you loved. If he needed you on the sideline for moral support, then that’s exactly where you’d be. “White lily cookie, I know we’ve been friends for so long, and we’ve shared so many secrets” Pure Vanilla started off, with nothing but sincerity a raw emotion you wanted to keep for yourself. “If you would make me the happiest cookie alive, it would mean the world to me, White lily, I selfishly ask you to be mine, for now and for as long as forever lasts” You felt tears stream down your face watching helplessly feeling, wishing maybe that in another universe those words would be meant for you. White lily stared back into his eyes. Her eyes also welled up with tears but unlike you they truly were out of happiness. “Pure Vanilla…I feel the same way. Nobody has ever believed in me the way you have, and whether you had asked me now or years from now the answer would always be yes.” She was so soft spoken, and eloquent perhaps that’s what you were missing. You questioned Pure Vanilla’s kindness why would he have you witness something that would break your heart a thousand times over. Perhaps your patient nature disguised your true feelings and intentions. “I-I’m so happy for you guys, I’m so glad I was here to witness my greatest and dearest friends that I” You paused for a moment to wipe your tears and to calm your bated breath. “That I truly love” You watched them smile pure vanilla being the first to speak up. “(y/n) cookie, I couldn’t have done this without you, white lily, I hope you know no matter what happens, from now on you won’t have to walk alone.” 

As much as you hated to admit it, they were perfect for each other. You felt resignation was better, after all what was there to fight for. The prize has been claimed and your heart has had enough of this. Whatever this is. “Pure Vanilla cookie, White lily cookie, I’ll be taking my leave, a kingdom doesn’t rule itself” You said laughing off the hurt, of course you knew your kingdom would be fine but any excuse to leave was necessary. You looked at him longingly but left with a smile before any more words could be exchanged. You spent the day walking through the vanilla kingdom but the kingdom only served as a reminder of who you were missing. You sat in front of a garden of orchids, they were always your favorite flower. At first it was just because, but once pure vanilla entered the picture the smell of orchids followed him. It was an even bigger reason to love them. As you touched the yellow petals you let yourself smile. “He’s happy, that’s enough for me…I do wonder as an orchid do you wish you could see the world in its limitless glory?” you said to the orchids, not rushing to do anything else but enjoy them. If any cookie saw you they’d think you crazy. “It’s time for me…I'm a ruler, a successful one, and I did it all without him.” Though hurt you knew that what’s meant for you would find you, and anything that didn’t belong to you wouldn’t be yours. You could live with that. “Goodbye orchids, grow big and tall because you don’t know what comes tomorrow” Feeling that bittersweet feeling, love for your friends at your own expense. But if they had found each other there’s hope for you too. You returned to your kingdom by carriage, it was a bumpy road.

But no road is without its challenges, and with every day you began to embrace yourself more and more. Healing from a love you wanted was hard. But the kindness of your people helped you through it. Patience really was a virtue, your soul jam was the only proof of it. In the shape of an hourglass. The passage of time was the only thing you needed. As the days went by, weeks turned into months. Nightfall came on fast as you were getting ready to rest, when frantic knocking on your personal chambers doors alarmed you. “(y/n) cookie! Let me in I need your help” the familiar voice, usually soft spoken, was now pleading for your help. You opened the door carefully and were enveloped in the smell of lilies. A scent you would never grow tired of. You did have to pry her arms away after all the matter seemed urgent. “Well what can I do for you? I didn’t get a letter concerning your arrival?” You said skeptically wondering if perhaps you missed it. “No, there was no letter. I needed this to be as private as possible.”

“Is this why you show up in the middle of the night? Your plan already sounds defective, what if I had been asleep or worse what if someone thought you an intruder. You need to be careful, take your time” Pure lily sighed out. “Patience is the only thing I can’t afford right now, it’s why I came seeking you. You're the only one who ever has enough of it.” You looked at her quizzically. “You’re starting to scare me you sound awfully-” you stopped yourself mid sentence sensing the atmosphere had no space for jokes. “Well what’s wrong, how can I help?” You said urging her to share her troubles. “Pure Vanilla and I…I love him I do, but I want answers. He has a kingdom to rule, people to heal and care for. It won’t work out.” White lily looked at you for answers searching through your features for clues. “(y/n) cookie, I know you loved him too. So I ask of you, as a friend, as someone dear to your heart. Take care of him in my place won’t you?” You stared wide-eyed. “No…No! I can’t do this how could I- you, you both belong together freedom always follows the truth” It wasn't that you didn’t want this, you did but to get it handed in this way wasn’t something you wanted. “Truth seeks structure and clarity, but freedom, freedom thrives on limitlessness and change. I can’t stay, I need to know our purpose.” You saw her face contort into one of pain. “S-so if you love me and Pure Vanilla, take care of him” She embraced me seeking comfort, that’s something you would never deny to a friend. “If you won’t do it for me do it for him” she said through sobs as you rubbed her back in circular motions, a feeble attempt to tend to her broken heart. “Does he know?” you said in a hushed tone. “No, that's your job” your job? She couldn’t be serious could she? You gave it all up, a future with him and it was all for nothing? Your emotions stirred starting off as a soft dance, becoming a battlefield. “My job? White lily, you can’t be serious. You can’t just run off, that's not how this works, you can't be unfair to me. Not like you’ve always been unfair to me, you had him first and I let you because I was the ‘bigger person’ I resigned my feelings all for nothing? You’re both so unfair” you said in disbelief, your words came out sharper than intended but you weren’t upset with anyone because it isn't anyone’s fault things turned out this way. “I’ll do it” your voice with the smallest tinge of regret. Regret because you didn’t want to be the one that broke his heart. It just wasn't your burden to bear. But White lily was your friend, someone you also held dear and for her you were doing this. You could put your sentiments aside for her. It was the least you could do, after all she was a stellar scholar back then always helping you, in a morbid way the academy being in ruins served to help you, your grades were never stellar and you actually stayed in the class. “I can’t stay any longer, he’ll come looking for your help I know it. I wasn’t here okay?” You nodded sighing out. “Okay hurry on out I’ll ask a guard to accompany you at least till you’re out of my kingdom…it’s the least you could do.” She nodded as you asked a guard to accompany her. You watched from afar as her figure only got smaller. Until she was nothing. Quickly you lit up sugar candles to conceal the penetrating scent of white lilies that could give your lie away. 

It wasn’t long before you got a letter informing you Pure Vanilla cookie was on his way. You wondered how long it had been since you last saw him. Months of course but you didn’t wish to see him now. You loved him but you would be the one to hurt him, maybe you could put it off for some time. Not worry about him. So you headed towards your garden, a large greenhouse full of orchids and white lilies, representing the friends you held dear in your heart. It wasn’t long before a guard knocked on the door “Virtue of Patience, you have a visitor” it’s what everyone in the kingdom called you, you were hard to anger in the beginning the kingdom had a rough start building itself but you never once got angry. Insisting time would run its passage. “Who? If it’s not Pure Vanilla please turn them away I’m in no shape for visitors” You said firmly after all you wouldn’t want anyone to see you when you’re worried sick. “(y/n) cookie, I’ve come needing your help, forgive me. I wish we would meet in better circumstances but as you know, White lily has gone missing. She just disappeared one day. I came in hopes you’d know something” That melodious voice greeted your ears, even when frantic it made your heart skip a beat. You turned to see that familiar serene face. “You should breathe, I wouldn’t want you to pass out on me” your heart stirred conflicted. Knowing the words you’d have to utter. Could you lie to him? “(y/n) cookie, have you seen her?” confronted with the question made you freeze. “I’m sorry I haven’t. I’ll send out search parties if it would make you feel better” You said hoping your nerves wouldn’t give away the truth. But knowing he held the light of truth made you question how you’d fool the truth. Pure Vanilla cupped your face hoping to find answers knowing something was awry. However this only made uncomfortable heat rise to your cheeks. “H-Hey you can’t just do that to me you know” you said nervously prying his hands off gently turning your back to him. “Pure Vanilla you shouldn’t do that for other reasons too, someone might see and call you unloyal.” Silence. That was odd you turned to him, tears leaking from his closed eyes. Frantically you wiped away his tears. “Hey don’t cry, it’s okay I’m here for you, always” You whispered as you embraced him. “Don’t lie to me about what you know (y/n) cookie. I’ve known you so long I can tell when you lie.” He said sniffling. “What gave it away?” You whispered. “You always furrow your brow and if you’re feeling especially guilty” he grabbed our hand and opened up the hand curled into a fist. “You’ll curl your fists” he said softly. “I didn’t think you’d pay attention to me” you said with an ounce of disbelief. “You’re my beloved friend, first friend who illuminated my path and taught me to be kind to myself” he said in that soft voice the one reserved for you.

“Pure Vanilla promise me you wont be mad?” You didn’t know when his tears stopped but the only sign of them were the soggy streaks on his cheeks. “I promise I could never be angry with you. You’re my soothing light.” You shook your head. “You shouldn’t say things like that, people will get the wrong idea. And okay I’ll tell you what really happened but please don’t blame her. I promise you she, she’s just I don't even know anymore. White lily came to me frantic, she said something about seeking the truth.” You sighed out. “Pure Vanilla I plead to you and this time please listen to me, don’t go. Stop where you are, you're a king, a beacon of hope. A-And someone I love and hold dear to my heart. White lily told me it’s not working out, and that she can’t settle down.” In the flurry of emotions you rambled off the burden sharing it with him like you’d always done. Pure Vanilla sighed. “I felt this would happen, but you my dear light would never leave me right?” He was looking to you for comfort even if the logical part of your brain felt this was wrong, you were basically taking her beloved. And for the first time you were impatient as you embraced him. “Never would I leave you, you’re my sanctuary” You said in the hopes you could selfishly convince him to stay. “(y/n) cookie, during the 12 trials of the sugar free road, I feel ashamed but I continued in the hopes to see you again.” You looked at him confused. “Why me?”

“Because you left abruptly I thought you had found another. I love white lily. She's a dear friend to me, but how could I forget my light. When you left I had thought perhaps there was no more room for me. I mean how could I ask you for myself, I thought it selfish.” He looked at you the same way he looked at you before white lily, back then when it was just you and him. You are the light and him your sanctuary. “I’m sorry, I know you sacrificed your love and happiness for mine, I’ll spend the rest of my days repaying you.” He said his voice was compassionate, full of that love. Those eyes that knew everything about you, what made you cry or laugh. He was a vault full of your secrets. To be loved is to be known. “How could you do that to yourself?” He said, cupping your face. “My dearest light, if you love fight for it, I would have fought for a chance with you a million times over. Throw away rationality for you, why didn’t you fight?” His voice was earnest and searching. You whimpered attempting to hold back the tears, perhaps it was because of how sudden White lily’s disappearance was or because you had what you always wanted. It was in the palm of your hand for you to keep or destroy. Isn’t this what you wanted? “I wanted you to be happy, shouldn’t I let things go if I love them? And I loved you so much.” You said, biting back tears. He embraced your entire being the hug felt like your souls were connected on the same wavelength.

You broke down in tears. “I always loved you” you said and he only pulled you closer. “My dearest, I’d give up my soul jam for you.” parting from you he pushed back the strands of hair that adorned your face and kissed your temple. “I have spent my days bringing warmth and healing to others, but in your presence, I have found a warmth of my own…a light I never knew I needed. You are my solace and my quiet joy. If you would have me, I would walk beside you always” You couldn’t express anything into words, grabbed him by the collar, your lips meeting in a slow lingering embrace, kissing like a whispered confession, slow and deliberate. Taking him by surprise as he opened those beautiful heterochromic eyes. Your lips hovered a breath apart, the air charged with longing and words left unspoken.

A/N This is my apology for breaking everyone's heart <3 The long-awaited sequel due to popular demand I got to this request first but trust I am working on my other requests!!! If you have any requests, send them my way!!! ALSO NOT PROOF READ ANY GRAMMAR ERRORS PLS IGNORE <3 I hope you guys enjoyed!!!

*feeds you writing meal*

[xyfanficarchive]

unlucky seven

(Mouthwashing) Jimmy/F!Reader

Words: 1293

Summary: After you went missing, Jimmy has viewed six bodies attempting to identify you. He still has hope that you’ll come back to him.

Content Warnings: healing!jimmy, hurt no comfort, implied murder

Notes: might be cringe might be ooc but idgaf. this was in my head. this is the kinda shit i imagine as im lying in bed going to sleep snork mimimimi. unedited. i love giving him good things, i also love taking them away and making him suffer ❤️

Two weeks ago was the last time he'd seen you. When the cops found your ID and belongings, bloodied clothes in a dumpster across town, your missing person case turned into a homicide investigation.

Jimmy had been to every morgue in the city at this point, had viewed six Jane Does, colourless and laid all square as they were pulled out from refrigeration. None of them were you. It's a gruesome business that he didn't particularly enjoy, viewing these random dead women, but a necessary part of the process; your parents were far away in a different country and he was the only one who knew your face intimately enough to prove that you were in fact absent from the cold chamber.

He had something to thank those unidentified women for, at least: each of their corpses not being you strengthened his conviction that you were going to turn up. Fuck what the cops said, you were the only good thing that ever happened to him, the best thing he'd ever had and held and he didn't give a fuck about their opinion, especially not after they interrogated him like he was your killer. Clearly they had no fucking clue what they were talking about. You were going to turn up, probably not safe or sound, and you probably wouldn't be the same, but you would be alive, and if you had shown him anything it was that if someone was changed for the worse, they could always be changed for the better after. Hope is what you'd given him and it was alive and vigorous, pulsing defiantly in his chest. He was going to have and hold you again.

It’s why he holds his chin up and walks across the mortuary floor with an air of confidence, even boredom, as he’s led to the wall of morbid fridge doors by the attendant and detective. Sterile stainless steel surfaces gleam dully all around them. Curly, who’d insisted on coming with him for “support” every time, is less sure as he trails behind, his nice leather shoes clacking against the tile. Don’t they make a pair; Curly in a woolen pea coat and cashmere scarf and Jimmy in a cheapo parka all wearing out at the seams, as they stand side by side across from the attendant, who is warning them so very carefully about what they’re about to see. Jimmy resists rolling his eyes. “Just get on with it so I can go home already,” he’s thinking, just before the attendant pulls the handle and rolls the body out in its bag.

So cautious and gentle is the attendant as he unzips the bag.

Curly flinches away at the sight, his hand snapping up to cover his eyes as he groans and turns away.

Jimmy is frozen still as neurons fire.

Animal instinct, he runs. Runs like mortal peril itself is lying on that slab, like reality is dissolving just behind his heels. The detective moves to intercept him but there’s a shout as Jimmy pushes past, shoving him to the floor.

“That’s- that’s her. Fuck!” Curly curses, strained. He sneaks one last ill-advised glance and screws his eyes shut again - underneath the splotchy bruises and misaligned nose and jaw it’s unmistakable. Behind him Jimmy leans weak-kneed grasping at the exit door frame, doubles over and retches once before the vomit comes up and splatters on the floor. Then he disappears from the room, the door slamming behind him with jarring finality that leaves the morgue silent as death.

Adrenaline propels him up the stairs and through blurry hospital halls and out into the snow. And he runs. And he keeps running. “I’ll just run forever,” the voice says, small as a boy, from inside the eye of the storm. But the universe has other plans for him, a chunk of compacted snow has him crashing and rolling across the frigid ground. His aging ankle screams, there’s a terrible snap from somewhere in his wrist, freezing hard snow abrades his cheek and he tastes blood in his mouth. With the breath stolen from his lungs, he lies on his back struggling for air. And grinning like a wolf, caustic and violent, the world-destroying despair that pursued him catches up, descending upon him and piercing him right through.

When he leaves the hospital, Curly only has to follow the sound; somewhere, a man is screaming, wailing in anguish. He follows it out to a field, dotted with dormant trees. In the summertime, it’s a sprawling, blooming garden on the hospital grounds, but it’s bleak and barren in the cold grey light of this winter day, thick with overcast clouds. Jimmy is a silhouette in the distance, small and crumpled like a crushed insect. “This is bad. This is really bad,” Curly worries. There’s a tense, creeping feeling of horror in his gut as he approaches. The sight of Jimmy like this is so deeply unfamiliar it’s like an unsettling, uncanny valley sensation, as if something not quite human has crawled into his skin and taken over.

As he draws nearer, something becomes clear: as he’s curled up on his knees doubled over with his forehead almost kissing the ground, hands white knuckle tangled through his brown hair damn near tearing his own scalp off, he’s not just screaming, open mouthed and raw. After every ragged, heaving inhale is a word, “Why? Why?,” ripping from Jimmy’s throat. Curly’s heart breaks for his best friend. His mind is racing with every step trying to tease out the right thing to say, to soothe, to tame the man before him. He’s fixed a lot of things for Jimmy, and this was going to be his hardest task yet.

He begins softly as he approaches, and makes to kneel down next to him. “Jim. Jim. Listen, we-”

“SHUTTHEFUCKUP! SHUTTHEFUCKUP! DON’T FUCKING TOUCH ME! DON’T FUCKING COME NEAR ME!!” Jim screams as he whips around, the words pressured and slurred as they bang into each other on the way out. His hazel eyes are crazed, like he’s not all there, pink-tinged spittle flying from his mouth. Curly backs away, heart palpitating in fear, as Jimmy begins to rise to his feet, rabid and rageful. “TOUCH ME AND I’LL KILL YOU! I’LL KILL YOU AND I’LL KILL MYSELF I DON’T-” He cuts off with a cry of pain, almost to his feet, the weight on his ankle has sent him collapsing to the ground again. For a few tense seconds, he seethes into the snow, clenching his fists, attempting to rise once more, until finally he goes limp, and devolves into desperate sobs.

For once, Curly thinks better: there is nothing, nothing he can say, nothing he can do right now, that will save Jimmy. He lost a love, and Curly doesn’t understand that. Still, he wouldn’t dare leave. He kneels down before his friend, and cautiously reaches his hand out to rest it on his back. This time, there are no threats. Jimmy is inconsolable, but still, he crawls to close the remaining distance and clings to Curly like he’s the very last thing mooring him to the Earth. The tears well up in Curly’s own blue eyes and fall, as he encloses his arms around Jim.

Despite this small act of reaching out, of accepting the comfort offered, somewhere deep inside Curly knows that there is no coming back for Jimmy. You were good for him. You effortlessly inspired something in Jimmy that Curly had worked so very hard for to no avail; growth, something that budded within him, green and tender and vulnerable, in the slow process of unfurling, and so unceremoniously cut down in the basement of that hospital. Something critical inside Jimmy died with you.

[fangdokja]

I don't know if anyone else has told you this, but you are a really captivating writer. Maybe it's just me, but when I read your writing I feel genuine fear, it is almost as if I've jumped into the screen and experiencing the story myself.

Hook, line, and sinker, I am reeled in by your words. Thank you for sharing your talent to the world!

WARNING: Semi-formal rambling + Library Recommendations, based on what emotions you want to awaken inside you.

Aww, very wholesome message, Anon :)). That’s very nice of you. I’m honored you think of me as a captivating writer, your genuine support and honesty it’s appreciated. Thanks for taking the time out of your day to leave such and encouraging message here with me, thank you.

Don’t worry, you aren’t the only one. I’ve gotten comments even from those who have read horror and yandere content for years, and don’t react or feel much, even personality-wise. They did say that they felt genuinely afraid or immersed in the story.

And now you too. That honestly makes me so happy :)). I always aim to create extremely immersive stories, characters, and worlds after all. Especially grounded in some form of moral grounds and logical world building, even if it takes place in a fantasy setting.

One of my musts as a write is that I always want my Readers to actually live in the role, to feel that they’re actually in the stories. Fully immersed and not simply reading it passively, or as a third person with a safety net. Especially when it comes to horror yandere content.

Whenever I write, I always aim to awaken and touch the emotions of people. Whatever emotion I’m aiming like for Yandere! Valentines! Special:

Yandere! Valentines Special

Novella : Red Roses, Black Hearts

This Valentine’s, your heart might be the last thing you give away.

Yandere! Yan-Apocalypse

Drabbles

The perfect Valentine’s present: something personal, thoughtful, and won’t scream anymore.

And Yandere! Otome Game, it’s full of dark humor and comedy.

Yandere! Otome Game

♡ Characters Included. Yandere! Crown Prince, Archduke, Supreme Mage, Demon King, War Hero, Master Thief, Enemy Spy, Demon Assassin

Drabbles

How do you escape a yandere harem? Asking for a very distressed friend (me).

How to Turn ‘Till Death Do Us Part’ Into a Very Literal Situation.

"Romance is a garbage genre, but if I have to play, I might as well do it on easy mode."

The love interests were bad. The backup plans are worse.

One of them wants to marry you. The other wants to make sure he never does.

Headcanons 1 : How to Survive a Reverse Harem (You Don’t) (General)

I hate it here.

System: “Would you like to resume the main storyline?” You click ‘No.’ They click ‘Yes.’

Imagine hating me so much that you chase me across lifetimes. Imagine being that obsessed.

It’s made to make people laugh and enjoy lighthearted feels. Dark humor is my lightest yandere content, and people love it. They laugh, enjoy, comment, etc. I consider it a huge success already for me if you found it funny or amusing.

Other times, I aim for fear, dread, panic, feelings meant to be inspired in horror. The best Yanderes for this would be my personal “Unhinged Yandere Collection”.

Other people already freaked out a bit in Yandere! Alpha! Hybrid Wolf.

Yandere! Alpha! Wolf Hybrid & Little Omega

Drabbles

“You look prettier when you cry.”

“Do you know what I love most about you?”

“You don’t get to decide anymore,”

“And treasures don’t get to escape.”

“You’re waiting for someone to come for you, aren’t you?”

“Cry for me,”

“But don’t worry, darling. I’ll fill it with something better. Me.”

“You’ll only ever have one choice with me,”

Novelette 1 : Marked and Mated

🔞Run all you want, little omega—I love the chase.

But the truly unhinged Yanderes I have? We currently have three who are part of this collection: Yandere! Russian! Mafia Boss...

Yandere! Russian! Mafia Boss

♡ Main Story. 🔞"I trusted you, wife, and now I'll teach you what betrayal feels like."

Headcanons 1 : The Bride of Blood (General)

To him, you're perfect. To you, he's just a mission.

🔞"I don't need your love, I need your submission."

And, Yandere! Author.

Yandere! Author

Headcanons 1 : Fate’s Final Draft (General)

He’s the hero in his own story… and you’re his latest toy.

🔞"You like happy endings? Too bad. I don’t write those."

There’s a third one, but those are major spoilers lol.

Or how about sadness, despair, and pain? Yandere! College! Bully did really well in this, which was what I was aiming for.

Yandere! College! Bully & Loser

Oneshots

The worst part? You’ve stopped trying to fight it.

Novella 1 : Torn Between Us

In a world where no one cares, he’s the one who notices you… and that’s frightening.

Trust no one. Not even yourself.

Or maybe bittersweet and wholesome? Comforting, realistic, yet warmly wholesome. Ironic considering the character I wrote it for. Yandere! Light Yagami.

Light Yagami

Novella 1 : In the Name of Love

Two hearts, one unspoken promise—forever best friends.

The sweetest kisses are often the most dangerous.

And of course, we have the gaslighters who make you question reality, full on gaslight, gatekeep, girlboss.

Scaramouche / Wanderer / Kunikuzushi

Novella 1 : Lover or Captor?

Your body is chained, but your mind? Still free. Or is it?

Mixed Character Stories

You tried to break up with him… but did you ever really want to? (Chrollo Lucilfer, Johan Liebert, Geto Suguru)

I’m genuinely curious on what your favorite story is or who your favorite characters are, Anon. This is just me usually being curious on my Readers’ personal takes and perspectives. Plain curiosity. You don’t have to answer if it makes you uncomfortable or the like. Just have fun and relax, you’ve already done a lot just with leaving me this wholesome message :))

Haha, I liked how your described your feelings. “Hook, line, and sinker, I am reeled in by your words.” That makes me sound like a fisherman, and also reminds me of the verse, “Come, follow me, and I will make you fishers of men (Matthew 4:19).”

And no need to thank me. You’re welcome though. This also goes for all my Readers. The thanks is appreciated, but don’t need to thank me or anything. I enjoy writing, it’s healing for me. It’s not as if it’s a job or anything. I’m genuinely happy writing stories.

And, honestly? I’m genuinely shocked how much people are reading my stories. Engaging and even being genuinely impacted it, makes me really happy. It honestly feels like I’m running my very own social entrepreneurship project. Technical terms, it’s not. But, just the vibes.

Nevertheless, thank you for all the support. From you, Anon, and to the rest of my Readers.

Thank you very much for reading, immersing yourselves in my stories, having fun and relaxing, commenting, reblogging, and sharing your thoughts with me.

Actually all of you Readers have varying personalities. Most of you are lurkers, but it’s interesting to see this growing diversity in community.

∘₊✧ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐈𝐁𝐑𝐀𝐑𝐘 𝐎𝐅 𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐁𝐈𝐃𝐃𝐄𝐍 𝐓𝐄𝐗𝐓𝐒 ✧₊∘

❝ 𝘈 𝘴𝘦𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘤𝘭𝘶𝘣 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘣𝘪𝘥 & 𝘮𝘢𝘤𝘢𝘣𝘳𝘦. ❞ (✦ 𝙰 𝙿𝚁𝙸𝚅𝙰𝚃𝙴 𝚂𝙰𝙽𝙲𝚃𝚄𝙰𝚁𝚈 𝙵𝙾𝚁 𝙻𝙸𝚃𝙴𝚁𝙰𝚁𝚈 𝙷𝙴𝙳𝙾𝙽𝙸𝚂𝚃𝚂 ✦)

I’m well aware it’s not really a social hub, which is why I’m genuinely shocked with the influx of inbox messages. Though, even then, it’s a generally quiet community. And that’s alright. I don’t want any of you to feel pressured to engage beyond just reading if it makes you uncomfortable. All I want for each of you is to just relax and enjoy the stories here. It’s your digression if you want to do more or less. No worries. And no need to feel pressured with outside factors and people.

Life is already difficult enough as it is, so think of it as a breather in a life that’s always moving, always asking for more. In a way, it’s about appreciating the moment and present, the blessings you have. And slowing down to think, ponder, and relax in immersion.

Hope that’s understandable.

But if you want the short answer?

Please do continue to have fun and relax in The Library Of Forbidden Texts.

We welcome you all here. Whether you crave our dark humor cafe snacks, or the sophisticated erotic horror dining, we have it all here for you to enjoy.

All you have to do is read and relax. :))

[cal-daisies-and-briars]

MAKE ME WRITE ASK

@inell I accidentally copied the wrong answer into your 1k for 🔼 - SORRY! Here is a panicked 900 words instead.

---

“I have to go actually. Um, if you could… I mean, this doesn’t need to go beyond us, right?” 

“Maddie, you’re putting me in a really weird position,” Shannon says.

“Okay, uh…” There’s genuine panic in Maddie’s voice. “I’ll talk to you later, Shannon.” 

The call ends. 

“What the hell?” Shannon whispers at her phone. 

▶️

After their shift, Eddie heads home. Buck heads to Maddie and Chim’s. 

To tell the truth, Eddie is nervous about it. He doesn’t know if he sees the point of Buck enduring a second dinner with those people. If Buck’s account is accurate, they didn’t even give him a chance. They treated Jane like she was something shameful. Which, honestly? Eddie doesn’t give a single fuck about what Buck’s parents - strangers to him and to Buck - think about his daughter. But he cares that, if Buck actually did have a baby of his own, that’s how they’d treat their own grandchild. That’s pretty fucked up. 

Overall, Eddie’s just worried. He doesn’t think Buck needs this, and he’s protective. That’s all. 

He picks Chris up from school on his way back to the house. Chris is fascinated by Eddie’s story of the guy who wanted to blow up an office building today. Kind of a crazy thing to find entertaining, but Eddie supposes it’s his fault for telling him. 

When they walk through the front door, Shannon is waiting for him. She looks stressed. Eddie wonders if the application process didn’t go well. She says hi to Chris, then he goes off to unpack his bag. Once he’s gone, she looks to Eddie.

“Buck went to dinner?” 

“Yeah,” Eddie says. “Not sure why, but he did.”

“Damn,” Shannon whispers. 

“What? Why?” Eddie asks. 

“Maddie called me earlier,” Shannon says. “Uh, I don’t really know what’s going on, but… But I have some concerns.”

🔼

Dinner, take two, is actually worse. Maybe all the fuss about Jane had been a good shield. 

Buck is already frustrated. He’s already been assured, by Shannon and Eddie, that the way they treated him wasn’t fair. That he deserves better. That he doesn’t owe anyone anything, if he can’t be treated with basic decency. The point is, he’s already sort of worked up by the time his father says something fucking stupid. 

“It still seems risky. I mean, from what I hear, Evan has spent quite a lot of time in hospitals,” Phillip says, about their jobs. 

And yeah, okay. It is a risky job. But it’s also the thing that makes Buck feel like he matters. Like he does something good. And they’ve never expressed any concerns before…

“From what you hear?” Buck echoes. 

Everyone looks at him. Maddie sighs, like she knows dinner is ruined now. Like Buck has spoiled everything. 

“‘Cause you could have come,” he adds. “Seen for yourself.”

But they don’t care. They do not care at all. 

His mother takes offense to this suggestion, though. Like it’s a personal attack on her. 

“Evan, I’ve told you-”

“You, uh, you’re not good with hospitals,” he finishes for her. “I got it.”

“I’m not good at seeing my children in them.” She rebuts, eyes watering. “You don’t know.”

Uh, no? He doesn’t? Because she never comes? 

“Mom, mom,” Maddie shakes her head. 

Buck looks between them. Some sort of understanding occurs in their look. Something that leaves Buck on the outside. He doesn’t like it. He doesn’t trust it. And more importantly, it’s not what he and Maddie agreed on. 

“I’m fine,” Margaret says, taking a shaky breath. “I’m ready for dessert.”

Buck’s jaw tenses. He’s suspicious. 

“Oh, Howard,” Phillip interjects. “Where’d you put that box we brought?”

“Dad, more gifts?” Maddie bemoans. 

“Not exactly,” Phillip assures her. 

“It’s over by the couch,” Chim says, hopping out of his chair. “Let me grab it.”

He hurries out of the kitchen to fetch whatever Buck’s parents brought. 

“I like him, Maddie,” Margaret says once Chim is out of earshot. 

“Me too,” Maddie smiles. 

“You picked a good one this time,” their mother continues. 

“Mom,” Buck glares at her. 

“It was a compliment, Evan. Maybe if you bothered to introduce us to the woman you’re seeing, we’d compliment her, too.”

Yeah. Not going to happen.

“Oh, I’m good,” Buck says.

“Ugh,” she sighs, exasperated.

Chim returns with a beautiful, handcrafted wooden box and sets it down on the dinner table. Maddie’s name is carved on the lid.

“Your baby box,” their mother explains. 

Wow. That’s sort of sweet actually. 

“I thought you might wanna pass on some of these things to your little girl someday,” she continues as Maddie opens the box. 

“Aw,” Chim beams. 

Buck moves to look at the contents. All the little mementos of Maddie’s infancy and childhood. As though she had kind and attentive parents. 

“Oh, this is so cool,” Buck says, pleasantly surprised.  “I didn’t know you made these for us.”

He wonders if Shannon and Eddie - or, Shannon, he supposes - did this for Chris. He doesn’t think he’s seen anything like it for Jane.

“When do I get mine?” Buck asks.

His parents look at each other. They look nervous. Uncomfortable. Neither of them answers. 

Oh.

They only did this for Maddie. 

“Hey, you’re not even a grown up yet,” Chim teases, clapping him on the back. “They’re probably still adding stuff to it.”

But they’re not. Buck knows they’re not. 

[lvrgirl-inc]

K.N.K.

pair. Fuck Buddy!Yuki Tsukumo x m!reader

wc. 3.2k

genres. Femme domme, submissive!reader, overstim, nīpple piercings (yes, again), cünnilingus, handy, “I’ll be a good boy,” bøndage, 69, switch.

AN ; Tribute. Hbd, TX.

Kisses ‘n Kunts Mlist

𓏵𓏵𓏵𓏵

Women in power are hot. Objectively.

Now, being under the scorn of a woman in power and being under a woman in power are…entirely different concepts.

Though, you get a crackling electricity when you mix the two together. Well, those and a tongue that was a bit too quick and thoughts that couldn’t count to two before it was too late.

Now look at you, all tangled up in the consequences of ‘winning’ an argument.

Though..who really won out in this scenario?

“Come on, boy. Why are you running away from it now?” your impatient, one and only Yuki would ask in a sharp.

You two weren’t dating, per say—easily being classified under fuck buddies who say “fuck you” a lot. It was a nice balance. One that let both of you have free reign over your partner choices.

So long as you got to see her, every Friday night—it didn’t matter.

Oh you were just alll out of sorts.

Tongue-deep in her cunt, licking and lapping eagerly, not knowing the next time she’d lift her hips and deprive you of being a willing seat for that divine pussy.

Though how could you even focus on spelling your name out when she had your cock leaking in between her skilled and newly-done hands? Having you a panting mess between her thighs as she ground allll that down on you, gracing you with soft moans from between the barrier of her teeth and bottom lip.

This has to be a form of torture, right?

No doubt, given how your hips were forced to stop their antsy movements when her elbows propped up on your thighs, along with the cool metal of her piercings brushing against the area surrounding your base.

Oh but..you’re taller than her. You’ve definitely got the strength to make some sort of stand but—ah, that’s right.

When she’d gotten to her breaking point with the back and forth, she’d ultimately hogtied you—more like a passive aggressive tying of intricate and experienced bondage patterns—and you put up no fight.

Though now, with regret settling in as you were terribly over-sensitive after the..what? 5th orgasm denial? You were practically begging for a break based on how your hips were twitching and stuttering.

Arguably, it was better than when her plump tits had you in a chokehold—or your cock, rather—making ungodly sounds and whining into her cunt. Or..perhaps you’d prefer that overstimulation better if you were actually allowed to see it to its fullest extent.

Regardless, you were snapped out of your hazed thought track when her smooth palm made a flat against your angrily leaking tip. Smearing the embarrassing amount of pre that had collected there with a hum and idle rocking of her hips.

A throaty groan reverberated off her walls that were clinging so familiarly against your tongue, falling into muffled…expressions. You knew better than to complain when the Yuki Tsukumo gave you anything.

Whether it be a gesture of kind that she’d later brush off or teasing the slit of your weeping cockhead with her fine-cut index.

You’d take it. You’d take anything as long as it came at her whim.

“Such a smart mouth, it’s hard to believe you can’t even finish your sentences now..” She’d said in a bite, tucking a tress behind her ear as she brought her tongue down to lick a stripe from base to tip, ending with a playful suck. That had your tongue pausing its monotonous rhythms, simply leaving your mouth spread open on her sinfully saccharine folds. Aching to get just an ounce of approval for your enduring efforts. “How pathetic…”

And just like that, her hand was no longer still and neither were her hips. Stopping at seating herself wholly, she’d begun to ride your face, your nose, your tongue—getting herself off as breathing was becoming scarce on your behalf.

“Hahaa..try to win an- mnh..~ argument, now..~” she’d boasted, her hand making flawless glides up and down your shaft that had you bucking up into her grip simply because of the base need to.

She was talking sooo much for someone greedy enough to keep you on the edge like this—with added mobility restriction—muscles having strained against the maroon of the rope more times than you could count. In the back of your head, you couldn’t help but hype yourself up to think a new PR could’ve been the answer to future occurrences of this.

But who cares, right? It’s your face she’s sitting on, you who she’s belittling, your cock that her dangerous hands had been bullying for the past..however long it had been since you made the mistake of forgetting yourself.

That twisted sense of exclusivity was the high that you rode each instance you stepped into the 5-star room with the vixen in tow all the way up to when you would escort her out to her car to compensate her funny walk—sometimes the other way around.

You felt the heat of her glossed lips kissing and licking down your shaft, going as far as to suck one of your swollen balls up into her mouth. Eyes giving a flutter, your tongue made a flick that had her shivering for a second.

Efforts redoubling, you continued to fuck up into her hand, getting a little jolt whenever her tongue had gingerly started to navigate your aching sack.

Stamina was something Yuki prioritized in training you with, right from the start. For the most part, when you were actually in good graces and given the leeway to fuck her right, you could last for—what Yuki has debated on calling overkill—impressive and more than satisfactory lengths of time.

But when you were at the mercy of her hands? Oh, you had a mental log for how many times you came unexpectedly at the disposal of her skilled strokes.

Now…was going to add a tally to that.

With a guttural choking up on your breath, you soon found the consequence of back to back denials making your thighs stiffen up and your eyebrows furrow. Huffing harshly in that whiny pitch, you listened to the blond’s response to such a misdemeanor.

“To think.. all that obedience training and you’re still nothing but a quick shot,” had you whimpering into her welcoming folds. She knew you got off on the challenge and degradation as much as she did. “Here then, let it out. And apologize.”

Peeling her hips up of your face, leaving connecting strings of slick clinging to your nose and mouth. Your stone-set features contorting into one of hardly concealed relief as your eyes lidded.

Breathing hard and coming in scores, “Hah..oh I’m so..so sorry, ma’am,” giving air-headed shudders, Yuki wound up stroking you through your premature, letting the blanc, velvety ropes fall down over her fingers. “F-forgive me..” you said on a bit of a note.

“For?” squeezing under your sensitive glans idly.

You knew you weren’t supposed to be loving this so much—you’d disrespected her and then furthermore, came without her say so—but it felt too good to be wrong. “Cumming..before the—fuck…”

“Such a dirty little mouth on you..” Never once slowing, even when you’d went semi-slack again, in a terrible panting fit. “I meant the argument we had,” but even as she chastised, her cunt was drooling down her thighs. God, if only you could’ve just gotten a little closer… “Only thinking with your dick while I’m chewin’ you out—I bet you’re not even listening to me now.”

You were. Or..you had been. Though, the cogs in that head of yours were turning at rapid fire, still coming down in a daze from the physical high. All you knew was that she was talking a lot less sweeter than how her pussy was purring your name.

Soon mingling with soft winces, you knew that you’d be coming up on the starting embers of a limit you didn’t want to reach tonight. It was Valentine’s day, after all—what would it look like if such a loyal and devout companion to the blond temptress herself didn’t give her any thanks.

That fast-pace, lewd squelch her fingers made had tapered down to a sticky mess that left your cockhead twitching—the muscles of your core flexing and relaxing, instinctively still trying to get the most out of your pleasure.

Each strain of your limbs caused a taut tension against the ropes that were now preventing you from getting to what you really needed to get to. You missed having that sweetness on your tongue, you missed when she was spread out underneath you but you’d smart-mouthed your way out of going balls deep tonight.

What a shame…a terrible shame indeed.

It was only then, in that split second of thought that you got an idea that you found a bit hard to top, even looking back on the records now.

She was getting ready to say something else, probably to throw in a laugh or two here but when you used that sit-up practice and the moderate size difference to your utmost advantage.

Changing up the position, not by much, to sit upright. Tight arms still securely bound behind your back, uniformed in her iconic red restraint. Just now with her thighs hugging the sides of your face more snugly—as it had been when she was fully seated on you.

This had to be better though.

Yuki’s face was just moderately flushed when you’d originally managed to catch her in her vanity, flipping the arrangement to where you had a more controlled angle of approach. “You really are pathetic, you know that? Need to play unfair to get payback?” she scoffed.

With your own lazy eyes smiling down her spine, you closed them to place a few slow, sloppy, kisses from the pearl of her clit, dipping loving licks up to and into her dripping slit. Mumbling agreements as you intentionally nodded your head—dragging the flat of your tongue with a deep hum.

“I know I’m pathetic, miss..” you’d breathe in honesty against her sopping folds, feeling the trembles that your motions had her doing. Despite her feigned unaffectedness, she was already beginning to create trails of slick down your chin.

She had you whipped and she could tell just from how you ate her out.

You always got compliments and praises on how good your tongue was—from any pick of the gender spectrum. And where did all of that credit fall back to? Well, the woman who was starting to get a little less demanding due to the insistence of your determined tongue.

Now with you buried nose-deeep into her soaking paradise, you made sure to spell out all those pretty little letters of your name—first, middle and last—until she was shivering and reluctantly dropping her head sideways down into the sheets. “I know, I knoww..I’m just the worst to you, so ungrateful, so mean..” you’d drabble out, feeling how her hips were now eager to grind back against your mouth. “What did I ever do to deserve you, mistress..?”

Whether it was to get herself off or to shut you up was undetermined, though the moan that she bit into the sheets told more. Your eyes drifted to how she’d begun to periodically squeeze and adjust her hold on the linen.

“But you treat me worse than a piece of gum..stuck to your shoe,” you followed up finally earning an unrestrained moan from the prideful minx as you leaned forward, wholly flicking your tongue and making obnoxiously loud slurps into her cunt. “..and it’s intoxicating.”

By now you were actually drunk off her. How she still tried to foster an air of being completely in control, even as you were having to move your shoulders to keep her legs relatively still and in place.

‘Lick my, no hands’ if it were personified was well..you.

And even though you could’ve watched her golden locks lay spread out on the bed, tossing and turning with each lamenting movement her body gave—you were petty. Very, very petty.

Pulling your bottom lip in as you pulled away from the second-most significant girl in the room—her crying cunt, of course—you licked the flat of your along once again, making a small ‘S’ around her labia. “Let me..hmn, make it up to you..let me make you cum, too.”

“But..~” in a simper that already had your not-so little friend twitching back to life. Like you weren’t getting off from tonguing her down alone. “Fuck.. why do you c-care so much..?”

Yeahh, yeah you definitely smiled all-too cheekily at her question. “.. ‘Cause I wanna be good for you, princess,�� a genuine current of sincerity riding with your words as you felt the homey sensation of her walls pulsing around your tongue. “I’ll be a good boy, promise…” said in a trying lilt as your mouth slid out a glob of saliva from your tongue, licking it all back up.

“I’ll be the best—I’ll be so fucking good for you..” even as you were making the poor woman lose her mind with the sound of your criminally smooth and baritone voice speaking into her pussy. “So please..fuck the argument and just let me apologize. The right way.”

It wasn’t like you were making much of a counter for your prompting words. At all. And with how close she was already, she’d have taken up the same offer from the nearest 7/10 she found but regardless, she didn’t complain.

For once.

“F-fine, fine..~ Please, just…” a cat’s arch in her spine and you knew you had her right where you wanted her. “Oh..please just don’t stop..~”

She did not have to tell you twice. From there, it was just you and her—and I’m not referring to Yuki. “Anything you want, princess..”

Completely latching onto her now, forcing cries of mass variety to come from those entrancingly wetted lips, Yuki was crumbling on your tongue in mere moments. You were always a good eater, after all, never turning down a meal and always cleaning up after yourself and the lady’s messes.

And it was just all the more better when you’d gotten the chance to chase her a bit as her hips wriggled to not be so firmly glued to your mouth. “You’re close..” in a sultry breath. “Stop running from it.. ‘s not fair to her.” you said, too close to making amends in the most guaranteed way the both of you had.

Her frustrations were taken out into the sheets, the lucky thread bearing the full brunt of her vocal workout. She sounded so good when she lost the attitude. But you’d prefer either—as long as it was her.

A few broken up chants of your name and you were joining her in unison, moaning out hers and urging, “You can do it. Such a strong, pretty girl. My powerful, gorgeous, tantalizing mistress..~” with every vibration of adjective against her cunt, you felt her body winding up tighter.

“Nghh! Haah, right th- hnn..~!” gasping so cutely for you to keep on with the pressure you’d so lovingly showered her G with. And from the moment she gave a final claw of her nails against the sheets, “Fuck, ‘m cumming.. my fuckin’ God..” balling up the thread count as you finally felt the coil that’d been building curling in her stomach.. snap.

Closing your eyes idly once more, you embraced how her clenching heat had been thanking your masterful tongue with its rhythmic pulses. Shudders dancing along her skin as her thighs clamped up around your face.

This is what forgiveness felt like. Knowing that you’d endured through the turmoil of being under her scorn, only to relish in the honor of being under her.

You let her grind out that quivering and much-needed stress relief. Dealing with you wasn’t easy, at the end of the day.

But she’d ultimately do it all over and over again, just as many times as you would. It was the thrill that you two adored within the dynamic—petty and unserious fighting to fucking and making up just to repeat the cycle.

You knew you’d at least never get tired of the way her body started making bucks back onto your cock—or, your tongue, in this instance—each time she rode the waves out with airy sighs.

Offering up your silence and your mouth’s availability to work her over, even as your semi-hard dick was throbbing underneath her.

You could do this for hours. Literally, too. Until your jaw locked and your tongue was tied up in knots, you don’t think you could ever get enough of how perfect it felt to have her coming apart by your own oral talents.

It took a bit for her to recover, steadying shaky hips as you leaned back to let her comfortably sink down. For just a fleeting moment, you felt the warmth of her cunt make a graze along your shaft. Oh you’d be fantasizing about that for an indiscriminate amount of hours.

But just as quickly as the brief contact happened, she was sitting up properly and draping herself over your chest. The cold iron of her bar nipple piercings brushed up against you as her soft mounds settled there. It gave you a hint of a tremor—your own left being pierced as well.

She looked down at you as if she was unhappy but it was instead her little post-orgasmic front. Especially after cumming so hard vía what she considered an illegal move. Your smirk was as smug as ever though, licking your lips in a boast. “Can I take this as a sign that I’m back on your good side, ma’am?” all huffy and sounding just so proud of your job well done.

“Please, when have you ever been on my good side?” she retorted slowly, in a murmur almost as her nails worked to get at the lengths of rope biting into your arms.

A wry and you replied, “Don’t know about you, but I don’t think she was too unsatisfied with my performance.” and your eyes did a suggestive flick down to where her thighs were still trembling and slick, then back up to her oak depths.

“Oh? And she holds all the cards here?” as she leaned in more heavily to properly snag the knot, soon threading the material through itself to loosen. “Quite shallow.”

“We both know that she’s anything but shallow.” crudely put.

Her face scrunched up and you soon jolted, feeling her nails pinch your skin roughly. “Fuck- ow..” you puffed, shimmying a bit to soothe the itching sting that spread out for a second. “Come on, I went to all this trouble to make this all special for Valentine’s. Got your favorite meals, room service, the whole nine yards. Can’t I get one little, ‘Happy V-Day’?”

Easing back up, Yuki slid back a bit, slithering the rope into the spiral it was already wrapped up in. “What you just described is a bare minimum requirement—I’m not impressed, honey.” she said with a shake of her head and slight raise of eyebrows.

Pulling your arms forward and stretching them there, then to the sides as you rolled your neck, you nodded. “That is true. I’ll just have to go all out next time, then, yes?”

After securing a knot in the coil, she set it off to the side, smiling with a roll of her eyes and a lolling of her head. Silken light gold lengths falling over her shoulder in a dance, your lips parted slightly as she got closer.

Was she..going to kiss you?

Just a hairsbreadth away from making contact with your quivering, she stopped. And with a playful giggle, a whispered, “Happy Valentine’s Day, my good boy.”

AN II : Happy birthday to my idol, TX. This day is special for two reasons. I’d love it if you could take this as a birthday present and..as an ask for me to have you as my Valentine. KnK has been so fun, I hope I can continue to wow you and the rest.

𓏵𓏵𓏵𓏵

Happy Valentine’s day, Tumblr, xoxo.

𓏵 Back Detail 𓏵

[wishful-thinking64]

HH & HB Worldbuilding Part #01

Worldbuilding, a beautiful and vital thing for all stories to have, is, for some reason, absent in the Hellaverse. Let’s change that.

_______________________

“When was Hell created?” ‣ I’ve decided to base Hell’s creation on how long the Earth has been around for which would mean that Hell was made around 4.5 billion years ago. I went this route because it makes the most sense from a logical and theological standpoint as God only made the Earth after he found out that Adam & Eve had disobeyed him by eating The Forbidden Fruit of Knowledge.

“How many Rings of Hell are there?” ‣ Usually there are only Seven Rings of Hell but I’m taking a page out of Dante’s Inferno for this and having there be Nine Rings instead. However, the order of these Nine Rings is rather different. First and foremost, one of the only things staying from the canon Hellaverse is that the Pride Ring is the very first Ring of Hell as I see it as the only Ring meant to house Sinners on account of the majority of humanities crimes stemming from the sin of Pride by believing that they are better than something else whether it be their fellow man, machine, or beast. As far as the other big Six Rings of Hell go after Pride it would be Lust in 2nd, Gluttony in 3rd, Sloth in 4th, Greed in 5th, Wrath in 6th, and Envy in 7th.

‣ That just leaves me with the 8th & 9th Rings which cannot be accessed via regular means (for instance, Hell’s Metro system for Hellborn citizens) or standard irregular means (like The Marked Alleyways in Pride that’s used by normal Hellborn citizens and Sinners alike.) The 8th Ring is known as The Ring of Treachery and very few know of its existence and even fewer are aware of the evil it holds. On the other hand, the Final Ring is one that every demon knows and fears as that’s where those found guilty in The Serpent’s Courtroom are forced to serve capital punishment (yes, there are things far worse than the death penalty in Hell) and go to suffer for the rest of eternity, in the Ring fittingly named, The Abyss. “What are the laws of Hell?” ‣ Obviously, if Hell has some kind of courtroom then there are some type of rules set in place. How said rules work differ depending on four major factors: which Ring you’re in, your place in Hell’s hierarchy, your race, and whether you’re a Hellborn citizen or not. Which doesn’t sound as bad as it could be until you take into consideration that Hellborn groups like Imps have to constantly be updated on and follow the laws in ALL Seven Rings, be "reminded" about their place in Hell by basically everyone around them, and overall be treated less than a Sinner would be because, “at least Sinners EARNED their right to be here.” The only Hellborn groups to have it worse than Imps are Half-Breeds (like Blitzø, Barbie, and Striker) as they’re expected to memorize DOUBLE the set of rules compared to everybody else and Hellhounds who have the most amount of rules while also having the least amount of freedoms thanks to them being often seen as pets or servants and nothing more. “Will the entirety of Hell be some various shades of red?” ‣ Short answer, no. Long answer, each of the Rings will be various shades of their specific Sin’s corresponding color. For example, the entire Pride Ring is going to be some tint or shade of purple. The only Rings I can’t really do this for are Lust, Treachery, and The Abyss. For the latter two it’s because they don’t exist in the traditional sense and as far as the Lust Ring goes, I’ll have to change the color to pink as Lust’s true signature color is blue however Sloth is light blue which means one of them has to change and I don't know about you but a blue Lust Ring just doesn't sound or look right to me.

_______________________

While I was doing this I hadn't realized just how much Vivziepop & Spindlehorse managed to accomplish NOT making Hell feel like Hell. Both Hazbin Hotel and Helluva Boss are solely set in Hell for the sake of being edgy and so that one show can do the done to death trope of, "angels are the real bad guys," while the other show devolved into a convoluted melodrama.

With a story setting like Hell you, as the writer/director, have to understand that you can't just visually show the readers/viewers that this story could only be set in Hell but you also have to make them FEEL like it could ONLY be set in Hell. Viv somewhat grasps the visual aesthetic of Hell but she's completely lost on how to appeal to an even wider audience due to her shows failing to convince people that FEEL like either show truly takes place in Hell. There's no real ongoing suffering happening to the Sinners in Hazbin Hotel (I'm not counting Angel Dust and his problems because they've opted for him to have rushed and off screen character development) as the Extermination only happens once a year and with Helluva Boss, it REFUSES to go all in on depicting high class Hellborn citizens taking advantage of those beneath them in Hell's society (gee, I wonder why/s.) That aside, I hope that you liked the worldbuilding that I've come up with so far and before the day is over I'll probably make a post dissecting Chaggie and why they should've stayed as best friends like they were originally planned to be in HH before Viv changed her mind last minute. Happy Valentine's Day everybody!

[cosmicgendershifter]

... (FINAL UPDATE FROM DAVID 4/16)

Guards swarm Ricky’s still-twitching body. The valet is nowhere to be seen. One of the cards reads: "The crew of Stede Bonnet’s Revenge did this."

...

Stede and Ed collect themselves and think of who might wish them dead. Ed: “Long list, mate.” Stede: “Not for me. But those who wish me dead must really mean it.”

Applejack happens upon the cave: “You guys, that was nuts.” He hands over a bloodied envelope. It reads: “Stede Bonnet." Applejack: “Someone left this on the front desk.”

Stede opens it and reads. His eyebrows raise. A husky voice: “Dearest Bonnet. You don’t know me. But I know you. Oh, do I know you.”

CUT TO: A fancy writing desk. Military and naval trophies adorn the walls. An elderly hand writes the letter: “You have taken so very much from me and mine. So now I will take all from you and yours.”

We scan the walls and pass a portrait. Captain Nigel Badminton, in better times (aka alive). We pass a portrait of Admiral Chauncey Badminton. We pass many portraits of the other members of the Badminton family, all played by Rory Kinnear, men, women, and children, old and otherwise.

“We are a proud family, Stede Bonnet…” We land on the letter writer. A verrrry elderly Sir Thomas Badminton. He is joined by his wife, Lady Eunice Badminton (both Rory). “And we will ride your kind directly into hell. After taking everyone you love.” Eunice: “Advise him we’re taking his lover first.” Sir Thomas: “Yes, dear.”

Back at the cave, Stede reads: “By now, your crew will be hunted for the murder of a high official.” In New York City, our crew slinks around trying to avoid detection.

CUT TO: A stained glass window. A familiar voice, it’s Mary Bonnet, arranging flowers in her Barbados home: “We know where your abandoned family lives. Where your children sleep.”

The cave. Stede looks up at Ed, ashen: “Mary. The kids.” Ed: “Guess we’d better get going, then.” Stede: “This isn’t your fight. It’s not your family.” Ed: “Your fight is my fight. Your family is my family.”

Applejack: “You guys are the fucking best.” Stede and Ed turn to him. Stede: “Who exactly are you?” Ed: “Seriously, mate, what the fuck?”

Applejack: “I know, I know; I’ll tell you on the way. You were good to a friend of mine. So I’m gonna be good to you.” Ed: “Who?” Applejack: “You buried him on that beach. Let’s get going.”

Stede: “At least tell us your name. It can’t be Applejack.” Applejack: “Theodore. Or Ted. No one’s called me either in ages.” Ed: “Thanks, Ted.” Applejack: “All good, mate. I’ll be outside.��

As Applejack leaves, Ed and Stede regard each other. Stede: “Can we trust him?” Ed: “Dunno. If not, we’ll knife him quick.” (Reprise of "Out in the Streets": “He grew up on the sidewalk, streetlight shinin' above. He grew up with no-one to love. He grew up on the sidewalk.”)

Wide of Stede and Ed walking off with Applejack. (“He grew up running free. He grew up, and then he met me.")

The inn burns; bodies litter the beach. We pan to Izzy’s grave. A seagull lands on it. Blackout.

...

We hear waves and gulls. And hollow-sounding wind.

A different beach. All looks grey and washed-out. A gull lands, walks a pace. The gull’s tracks in the wet sand seem to morph into something other than webbed flippers. They eventually become imprints of human feet.

A naked man with long white hair walks the beach. It’s Nathaniel Buttons. But his eyes are icy blue now, his hair white as snow. He has no use for clothes.

He comes upon a figure lying in the sand. Two feet. Two legs. A torso, dressed in black.

The figure sits up with a start and a gasp. It’s Izzy Hands. Buttons: “Dunna try t’talk. Yer in th’ gravy basket, ol’ friend. Doggie heaven.” Izzy does try to talk, but it’s a useless rasp. Buttons: “Shh shh shh. We’ve much to discuss, luv.”

...

Back where we started, many, many years later. The editor looks at the manuscript, pages scattered on the desk. Thoughtfully: “This is some wild shit.”

End of Christmas (Valentine’s?) special episode 💜🏴‍☠️🦄🚬

DJenk's Bluesky OFMD Story

I decided to reformat David Jenkins' ongoing Bluesky story about our favorite gay pirates in non-skeet form, just so that it's easier to read on this here Tumblr platform. To be very clear, this is written by him. Original thread can be found thusly!

...

1775. An editor comes into work on Christmas Eve to find a manuscript on his desk. The title: A HISTORY OF PYRATES by Charles Johnson. (We have no budget, so we’ll say the editor is played by Michael Stuhlbarg).

He thumbs through the draft: a scene where a silly fancy pirate robs a fern from some fishermen. Another where he crosses blades in the moonlight with the legendary Blackbeard. Another where they pine for each other from a great distance. He thumbs further, grudgingly interested. These two pirates settle down with each other. They start a B&B.

Huh. The editor is interested now. He reads the last third of the manuscript in detail:

...

(Open on a beach. Nancy Sinatra’s “You Only Live Twice” plays. The track from the movie; this is important. It has the best intro and for some reason is only sporadically available on Spotify).

We use the classic James Bond opening iris to find a now established inn on a beautiful stretch of beach. White linen flows beautifully as it’s laid out on a table. Laid by co-innkeeper Ed, with great satisfaction. He lays out glassware. Perfect. Flowers. Perfect. He is content in this working meditation. He is precise in his adjustments to create beauty. (Over the following: “You only live twice, or so it seems: Once for your life and once for your dreams.”)

Meanwhile, a cluster of frustrated guests attempt to check in with a flustered Stede. The inn has become quite popular. A well-heeled family has hired it out to host a wedding banquet. They’re dicks. Very demanding. This is a Christmas event, and they want everything to be perfect. Stede’s overwhelmed and put-upon at the front desk; Ed’s nowhere to be found (Song: “You drift through the years, and life seems tame.”)

The year is 1719, two years after the events of the second season. The inn has become a bit of a bougie destination. A kitschy remnant of the bygone golden age of piracy run by two eccentrics who were apparently involved somehow.

Stede assures the guest of honor that their stay will be smooth. They’ve rented out the entire inn, after all. The guest asks him if the rumors of his pirate days were true. Stede says they’re largely embellished. A marketing hook that has worked to attract attention. He looks at a model of a pirate ship on the front desk.

[void-tiger]

Okay so like.

I don’t think Viktor and Jayce are actually dead/gone. We don’t get any explanation for how Arcane-Touched!Viktor is even going through realities with far more control than Ekko (who’s Thing literally time travel) or Heimerdinger. We only know he’s apparently the Mage who saved Child!Jayce, then shows up again when Jayce is flung into An Even WORSE Ending Reality.

ANYWAY!! Point Being.

Meljay Lives.

(As does the messy QPR Jayce has with Viktor.)

[hotroadkill]

today 2 years ago i was in america and i had the worst hangover of my life and i was in a waffle house with my friend in awkward silence bc we’d fought in a stranger’s kitchen the night before and the server refilled my water for the 5th time while i fought to swallow half a forkful of hashbrowns and she said “i know that look, y’all had a good time at the superbowl last night” and i was thinking actually we had a mediocre time at a nerd bar where u throw darts and all the drinks r named weird things and anyway my friend gives the fakest laugh ive ever heard followed by “yep we sure did” like are we in a CW show right now what was that line delivery and also what even is the superbowl i was born here and should know but honestly i’ve always just pictured everyone gathering at a comically large bowl of cereal but her nametag says leslie and she’s really nice and she’s refilling my water for the 6th time so yeah sure whatever i’m a red blooded american i’ll be anything for leslie in this moment anything and she tells us stories about working at bars downtown and my friend tells me bad jokes and i feel a little better even though my heart is kind of withering away because my flight is in 17 hours and theres not enough time never enough time i won’t see him for another year and a half and i won’t ever see leslie again and if i ever run into the italian stranger who fell in love with me over darts then it won’t be the same because we won’t be dancing and i’m sitting in a waffle house while the sun sets and i’m sweating gin and tequila and my flight is in 16 hours and i have so many goodbyes to say in this

city because when i was fifteen somebody threw my glass heart onto the floor of my childhood house and bits of it shattered everywhere and fell into the cracks of the floorboards and behind the fridge and i’ll never ever get them out much less back together but i feel like ive been trying for eight years all the same and my flight is in 15 hours but maybe if my friend brings me home now i can spend three of those looking for more shards even though i’ll cut my hand because time never wore down any of the hurt because time might heal wounds but it cant really do jack shit about a metaphysical glass shard its still gonna make me bleed and my friend brings me home and we curl up beside each other in my childhood bedroom thats too small for us it was really a supply room but it became my bedroom when i was eleven and i painted it blue and put up stickers of fish and never took them down but someone someday will take them down and hopefully the house burns to the ground before anyone can touch them theyre mine i grew up here theyre mine dont touch them dont please dont please please please i grew up here and my flight is in 12 hours now because i fell asleep beside my friend and he let me because he knew i needed it he kept watch even though we dont have time we never do because he has to go now and all i can give him is a hug and my hoodie to keep safe until i can see him again and fight him in a stranger’s kitchen again and the sun is gone now and i go and i sit with my dad and my flight is in 10 hours and im trying

not to cry im trying to stare at the stickers because maybe if i look at all of it hard enough i’ll get to stay but i dont because thats not how it works and now my flight is in 4 hours because i fell asleep in my childhood loft bed and now i have to leave i have to pack up and go for the fifth time and it never never gets easier and i know i only have a few more trips left until someone takes my stickers down and paints over my ocean but for now my best friend’s stepmother comes with me and my dad to the airport because my best friend is in college two states away and my flight is in 3 hours and i cry i cry so much and she cries too because she loves me and i think it is such a beautiful blessed thing that i am so loved but oh it is so painful too because i spend more time in its absence than its presence and my flight is in 2 hours and i have to go and my dad is waving goodbye and i see it because i looked back because im stupid i always look back i never look forward i’m forever walking blind through my life because i’m looking back and i can tell my dad is crying and now i have to go through TSA sobbing and it’s awkward because they ask are you okay kid and im not but i cant tell them sorry its just that when i was fifteen somebody threw my glass heart onto the floor of my childhood house and bits of it shattered everywhere and fell into the cracks of the floorboards and behind the fridge and i’ll never ever get them out i cant tell them that so i nod yes im okay and i go and my flight is in 1 hour and i hope it fucking crashes and my flight is in the air and im so far away from all those shards on the kitchen floor now but they’re hurting me all the same and i think i look kind of insane sobbing in the middle seat but how can i miss so many people and so many rooms at once and not lose my mind a little bit? i was going to tell you a short witty little joke about the time i realized i was 21 and didnt know what the superbowl was but i think i slipped on a shard. i’m sorry. maybe next time i’ll get it right. maybe in another two years. maybe you’ll never see me again. maybe this is all the time we had.

[poisonf0rest]

Intertidal Zone

♱⋅── rafayel x reader

♱⋅── about: Nightly Rendezvous card, but now we finally understand why rafayel was so desperate when he came back to the hotel room.

♱⋅── word count: 6.7k

♱⋅── warnings: mdni, smut, porn with some plot, the belt scene, slight exhibisionism, fem! masterbation, sooo much kissing, slight oral fixation, Lemurian mating bond, needy raf

art credit to @/khouxy on instagram

You swear Rafayel is doing this on purpose. 

The first time it happens is right after your flight, the two of you only just managing to check into your hotel and change for dinner.

It's a fancy restaurant overlooking the vast desert, and the outdoor patio offered a clear view to gorgeous sunset. Furious spirals of orange and vermillion cast their light across the sand, making it appear to glow as winds kick up waves of golden dust along the horizon.

It’s beautiful, almost as much so as the man across you, who is still staring longingly into the distance as though committing every color to memory. As if repainting it entirely in his mind. 

Not hues of warmth, but those of the deep sea. Blues and purples and colors so dark they’d only come to life in the night. 

“How’s your drawing?” 

Rafayel sighs at your voice, tossing his pen across the dinner table with a huff before leaning back against the sofa. A stack of crumpled sketches litter your table among half-finished plates of food. He insisted on traveling here to relax, and yet he seems to be doing everything but. 

“If a few lines count as a drawing, then wonderfully.” Sassy as ever.

He sighs again, but this one sounds more pained, and you notice the red tinge highlighting his ears and neck as he leans against your shoulder. 

“You still don’t feel good?” You ask, voice hushed as you place a kiss against his temple, the skin burning beneath your lips. Raising a hand, Rafayel immediately nuzzles into your palm as you pull his chin up towards you, feeling the rising temperature along his cheek and forehead. “We can head back if you’d like. Take a bath, or shower?” 

You hoped the together was implicit by now.

But Rafayel only nods, placing a chaste kiss against your exposed shoulder. “What about the sunset? I saw you admiring it, and squandering a beautiful view is unacceptable for an artist. It’s one of the greatest offenses.”

Rafayel’s breath is minty and dry against your ear, and when you turn to look at him, his face is doused in the fiery hues of the sunset, each one casting deep purple shadows that only make his features all the sharper, half his face veiled in darkness. 

Some days you wish you were an artist as well, if only to capture moments like this—to show Rafayel just how gorgeous he was. 

Perhaps it’s only natural for a god. After all, no mortal could ever need beauty so violently arresting, so worthy of worship. 

You’re leaning in despite yourself. 

Rafayel meets you halfway, one hand on your waist as the other traces your jaw and bottom lip. But as soon as you feel the brush of his lips across yours, he pulls away. 

You open your eyes in confusion. Rafayel’s never denied you before. 

When you look at him in question, he only gives you a tired smile and pulls you to your feet with a chaste kiss on your cheek. “Sorry. I’ll feel better as long as I’m close to you like this.”

The second time it happens is when the hotel reception mixes up your and Rafayel’s rooms, leaving you to deliver some sort of formal invitation to him. 

But the letter is soon forgotten; you can’t be bothered thinking about it, not when Rafayel still looks so absent.

He’s right next to you, knees brushing yours as you sit side by side on the couch, and yet he seems to be miles away, gazing out the window as the dunes shift and rise like waves under the moonlight.  

"I used to really enjoy scenic spots before," Rafayel says, voice barely rising above the hum of the heater. "Catching sights of subtle things that might be easily overlooked used to feel like enough. More satisfying than finishing a painting, even."

A laugh. Dry, humorless. 

His fingers grazed the edge of his glass, tracing the condensation absentmindedly. A droplet trails down his wrist. "But now, sometimes, I forget why I even decided to travel in the first place.” 

You watch him, waiting. He doesn’t meet your gaze.

"I think," Rafayel continues, "somewhere along the way, I stopped just... noticing things. And I started needing them. Like the world wasn’t worth looking at unless I could turn it into something. Capture it, hold it in my hands, and call it mine." He shakes his head, a shadow of a smile crossing his lips. "It’s not a very generous way to live, is it?"

"You don’t need to be generous with everything," you say carefully. "Some things are just... for you to enjoy."

"Enjoy," he repeats, like the word doesn’t quite fit in his mouth. A pout. "It doesn’t feel like enjoyment anymore. It feels more like... hunger.” 

Like he’s always fucking starving.

Rafayel finally turns to look at you, eyes eclipsed in the dark. Nearly dilated black. 

“Sometimes I’m afraid that if I feed it, it’ll only grow worse.”

You turn to face him on the couch, sliding your leg between his thighs before perching yourself on Rafayel’s lap. It’s not lost on you how his heartbeat picks up, chest rising and falling rapidly as each shallow breath hits your lips. Perhaps it’s cruel, but you can’t help but touch him again, fingers tracing his full lips, up his jaw, fluttering against his eyelashes and into his hair.

“You think hunger gets worse when you feed it?" You finally ask, voice quiet, slow, daring to push back. "Doesn't it stop when you're full?"

Rafayel’s mouth quirks, a sharp, fleeting twist of a smile. "Not always. Sometimes it makes you realize just how much more you want. Or how much more you could take."

You frown. “You’re not demanding anything. Not from the world, not from me."

"Maybe not yet. But, if one day, I become someone who only takes… If I were like that, would you leave me?"

The confession hangs for a moment, the truth of it hidden. Something about the way his shoulders tense under your touch— like he's bracing for something, but it hasn’t yet arrived. A phantom pain from centuries ago, and a pain to come for a thousand years more. 

“Silly fishie, I’d never leave you.” 

Rafayel smiles in a way you know all too well, lopsided and teasing and empty.

“Thank you…” he hums, finally pulling you closer as his lips skim alongside the curve of your neck. “for accepting me the way I am.”

His breaths come out in desperate huffs against your skin, and he inhales sharply, freezing, before finally placing a kiss against the crook of your neck. And then another, and another. 

“You’re just anxious,” you whisper, sucking a mark into Rafayel’s neck as he moans so sweetly against your ear. “I can help you relax.”

You wiggle your hips to better balance yourself on his lap and Rafayel looks almost near tears, one hand forcing you still while the other grabs your wrist, trailing kisses from your fingertips back up to your neck.

More. You need more. Rushing, your hands fly up into his hair, about to tug Rafayel to lay down on the couch when a crack echoes behind you. 

The glass lays shattered against the floor. 

Panting, Rafayel stares at the spilled water for a long moment before pulling away. You feel his erection digging into your thigh, the warmth of his fever spiking yet again as his skin burns against yours, yet he still refuses. 

“As you said, I’m anxious…” Still panting, Rafayel picks you up, gently lifting you up as he stands from the couch. “Or, more like restless. In every sense of the word.” 

The need in his eyes almost makes your knees buckle. He looks at you like you’re the only thing he could ever crave, like a bite would both be salvation and leave him hungry forever. 

“But see, now I can’t stand the idea of letting you go again, and you don’t want me to either.” He sets you down just a little farther than necessary, but his hands don’t leave your waist, trembling, waiting. “What should we do?”

“Rafayel…” You want him. You want him so badly it hurts. 

“Fuck.” 

You nearly jump at that. Rafayel curses again, his head falling onto your shoulder as his breath hitches. “I can feel your concern. That and…” another convulsion, his body burning up. “Fuck. You have to leave.”

You don’t even have time to retort before you’re pushed out of his hotel room, and the door slams shut behind you. 

By the third time, you know something is wrong. 

It’s not that you and Rafayel haven’t kissed yet. Hell, you’ve had sex before. The last time was quite literally on the night before you were supposed to leave for this trip. Obviously, Rafayel suggested that you stay at his place for the night—insisting he was closer to the airport and getting an Uber would be quicker this way—and one thing led to another, as is what happens nearly every time Rafayel and you are left alone for too long. 

But now it’s been nearly a week and Rafayel has barely touched you, let alone picked up on your not-so-subtle clues. 

So yes, it's safe to say you’ve become rather pent up. 

You’ve fallen asleep in the off-roader the two of you rented out for the day, bobbing up and down the dunes like waves flecked white not with seafoam but snow. There’s a chill as you drift off, but your dreams are anything but, plagued with memories of Rafayel. 

His hands, deft and talented with a brush, are even more so when teasing your skin, knowing exactly how to trace delicate circles against your thighs before roughly curling into your cunt. His tongue, every smartass comment and teasing grin now silenced as he licks and sucks against your clit. His body, the warmth of it, bearing down on you with every thrust, or perhaps writhing beneath you as you take him again and again and again— 

It’s the cold that wakes you up. 

Your eyes flutter open, first noticing the dim light of the hotel parking lot, and second, the burning desire still aching between your legs. 

“Rafayel?”

A shuffle makes you turn, and you find said man still seated in the driver’s seat, unbuckled as he sits with his head resting on his hand. 

“Yes, cutie?” Rafayel’s tone is teasing, but the way he stares down at you feels like anything but. The hunger is back. 

Sitting up, you clear your throat. “How long have I been asleep? Why didn’t you wake me up?”

“You seemed like you were having such a nice dream, I didn’t want to disturb you.” 

You inhale sharply. Glaring, you try and see if he’s teasing again or being serious, but Rafayel doesn’t let you read him for long, already leaning over the middle console. 

He places his lips gently on your temple, brushing over the skin, and then moves down to your cheek, his breath warm against your neck. He whispers your name, so softly you almost think it was a trick of your imagination.

Your mind goes blank when he kisses your jaw, a small noise escaping the back of your throat as you feel his hair tickle your skin.

"Raf," you mumble under your breath, but you know he hears it because he exhales sharply against you.

Rafayel trails a series of kisses up your neck, "I know, I know. I'm sorry, cutie." His body temperature is rising again, and the air in the van feels dangerously thin as he sways in your grasp. "I'm trying."

The hunger is back, all-consuming and hot as you genuinely fear you might burn up. A wave of dizziness washes over you, and you finally cup Rafayel's jaw, leading him towards your lips.

Yet again, he stops you halfway.

“Do you want to go back to your room first?”

At first you think he’s suggesting moving there before continuing, but you know better at this point. 

“You’re not coming with me?” 

Rafayel pulls out the invitation from before, waving it between the two of you as if all this was the letter’s fault. “I still have to attend my friend’s salon thing.”

“But you’re still burning up! Forget this, I can’t let you go out to who knows where when you’re still acting strange. Maybe we can see a doctor—”

“Cutie…”

“—No, no. Or maybe I can come with you.”

Rafayel says your name this time. Firmer. Cutting off your rambling as he places his forehead against yours. 

“Do you want me to turn into a sea creature that’s beached on the sand after the ocean recedes? Leaving me to suffocate when I come out of the water?” 

You don’t quite know how to respond to that, feeling his desperation in every word even as you struggle to make sense of it.

Rafayel continues, pulling away from you again. “Don’t you trust me? How about we make a promise?”

“What kind of promise?”

A smile. “I promise… I’ll be okay without you tonight.”

There’s no joke, no hidden meaning, just Rafayel who so violently hopes that this promise will hold true. 

So you relent. “Okay, just take care of yourself.”

Finally, Rafayel opens the car door, letting the desert night winds sweep in with a biting chill as he leans back against the driver���s seat. He lets out an almost inaudible sigh. “You can head back. I’ll be back before you know it.”

Rafayel promised he’d be okay without you tonight, but you don’t think the opposite could hold true. 

Not when the dizziness Rafayel caused remained. Not when you still feel the phantom touch of his lips and hands all over your body, burning you up, leaving you cold and empty and aching. 

You’ve been burning for the better part of a week now.  

Something stuck between a laugh and a cry of pure frustration leaves you as you fall onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling. “This is pathetic.”

Even the damned sheets smell like Rafayel, pillows deeply laced with his shampoo and the smell of his cologne—amber, yuzu, and something salty like the ocean—surrounding you as though this were his hotel room and not yours.

Desert nights were cold, but even the room's chill could do nothing to quell your desire, arms shaking with it as you quickly stripped yourself of your shirt and bra. The room spins as you stumble around, leaving your clothes on the floor, another delirious whimper seizing you as you sprawl against the silk sheets. 

You need him. 

Fuck, you need him, and you hate him for leaving you while the growing ache between your thighs threatens to swallow you whole.

The sheets are deliciously cool against your flushed skin, and you turn your head to rest your cheek in the cool embrace of the pillow. But it only needs a second to heat from your desire. 

And then the room is all too hot once again. 

Kicking off your pants, your hand snakes down your bare torso, leaving half-hearted squeezes to your breasts and hips, failing to replicate the touch Rafayel already has you addicted to. The memory only makes you more frustrated. 

A hand slips beneath your soaked underwear, and fuck, you’re dripping enough to ease your fingers in already. You force yourself to slow down, rubbing slow circles around your entrance, the mere friction enough to have your hips bucking up against nothing. 

Inhaling sharply, you slide a finger into your weeping cunt, a moan pushing from your lungs as you do. Not enough. It’s not enough.

You force yourself to draw each movement out, the curl of your wrist accompanied by your muffled cries and the slick, obscene sounds echoing alongside your ragged breath. Withdrawing your finger nearly to the fingertip, two plunge back in this time, and your back arches off the bed with violent tremors as you imagine it was Rafayel's hand instead.

How he’d tease you in the early mornings to wake you up, how he’d take special care of every sensitive spot on your body, how he’d draw his fingers along your clit just the way that will make you come undone.

And as your fingers find that sensitive bundle of nerves, the way you cry his name into the empty room is no different.

Your head is spinning, falling, your thighs shake, and it's not long before you're gasping out, "Rafayel, please.”

Still not enough. Every rough thrust of your fingers brings you higher and higher, but without the pressure of Rafayel's chest pressed to yours, or his hot breath ghosting across your ear, his voice, his lips, his touch—

Without him.

A sob rips from your throat, your hips bucking uselessly against the air as you fuck yourself harder, deeper. But your fingers are only so long, and your free hand, fisting the sheets, is unable to make up the difference. "No, no please," a whine, and your free hand rushes to circle your clit, the other picking up pace.

You're close, so close, sobbing his name when the dizziness from the car returns tenfold, overtaking your body in waves as your eyes roll back. "Please, ah! Rafayel, m’cumming-"

The world goes silent as pleasure surges through you, muscles convulsing, a choked, garbled sound escaping as you come. Collapsing back against the sheets, you struggle to catch your breath, the stickiness of both the heat and your orgasm coating your thighs. 

There’s another tug, a violent pull against your chest, but the dizziness remains. 

You know you should change the sheets or at least move them aside, but you can’t manage to do either as you rush to shower before Rafayel returns from his friend’s exhibition. 

It’s only when you stumble into the bathroom that you notice it. 

Shit. This is Rafayel’s room. 

You must be trying to kill him.

Surely, this is the gods' cruelest trial—a final test of his resolve—to see if he’d bow once more, forsaking divinity and succumbing to the temptation of you.

Because it’s been barely an hour, and Rafayel has already resigned himself from the party, passing blank smiles and empty compliments as he quietly counts down the minutes until he can return to the hotel, when suddenly he feels it.

The tug of your bond flashes through his body as his dick aches.

Rafayel freezes mid-sentence, the polite smile he'd been wearing slipping from his face. The conversation at the bar around him, something about chiaroscuro in the artist’s latest piece, become muffled static as the chains tighten, digging into his heart. 

It’s unmistakable now. The rhythm, the rising intensity, the waves of pleasure that don’t belong to him but still manage to spark delirious heat up his veins.

Rafayel’s breaths quicken, body temperature rising as his Evol flickers out of his control. He glances around the room, feigning interest in the conversation, the glittering glasses of champagne, the faint hum of the crowd. It doesn’t work. The only thing he can focus on is you.

He should leave. Go outside, breathe in the night air, and let the tether between you both loosen, just to regain control. Just to prove to himself it’s not too late.

But the bond tightens, as invasive as it is intoxicating, demanding Rafayel’s attention like a leash coiled around his neck. It’s not gentle. It’s not kind. It’s primal, every nerve in his body pulled taut like you’re screaming his name over and over into the depths of his soul. 

It’s not fair.

No god can deny the prayer of a worshipper.

Your pleasure becomes his, and when Rafayel closes his eyes, he swears he can feel your phantom hands on him, dick already heavy and throbbing, leaking through his expensive trousers.

Are you in bed, thighs trembling as you grind against your own palm? Or maybe the shower, steam curling around you as you chase release? Or worse—are you riding something of his? His shirt? His pillow? Is this vengeance a cruel punishment meant to shatter what little resolve he has left? 

Shit. He’s hard.

“Hey man, what’s wrong? You good?” 

The slam of a glass brings him back. Gods, he hates these rich socialites. 

The champagne glass Rafayel was holding is now covered in cracks, blood trickling down his ring finger. He’s unraveling, composure fracturing with every pulse of your pleasure surging in and out as violently as a full moon’s tide. 

Rafayel looks up, smiling. “Stress. And apparently a very needy pet.”

The man laughs at what he assumed was a joke, but Rafayel sees his hesitation, the type animals give when they pick up rustling in the bush. Fear. 

Rafayel’s grin only widens, all teeth. “I should probably go check on her. Wonderful party,” he adds, lifting his glass in a half-hearted toast before setting it down with a sharp clink.

As he steps outside, the desert air does nothing to soothe him. If anything, the dryness makes it worse as the pull becomes sharper, like you’re reaching for him, your need coiling tighter around his chest.

A growl, almost feral, rumbles low in his throat as he staggers down the cobblestone streets. He doesn’t need directions. He doesn’t even need to think. His body moves instinctively, guided by the bond, by you. 

Rafayel swears he can feel you all across his body, your heartbeat picking up as you get closer, the smell of your skin and arousal, the cries of his name that only become more and more desperate as you fail to bring yourself over the edge without him. 

You’re begging for him in a way his bond mistakes for worship, because Rafayel’s body feels like it’s burning. Like blood spilled on his altar, an offering of yourself to your god, your husband.

The thought that you might be doing so unintentionally only drives him further into madness.

But, beneath the frustration, there’s something else. A glimmer of something Rafayel hates to name but knows all too well: relief.

Because as much as he might deny it, Rafayel could never leave you. And now that you’ve reciprocated, now that you’ve begged for him oh so sweetly, he would gladly submit to his bond and become chained to you once again, forever at your mercy, unable to escape the inevitability of his fate.

He doesn’t even knock when he reaches the hotel room door. It swings open under the force of his hand, and the sight of you standing there—wide-eyed, startled, only in a bath towel—hits him like a blow to the chest.

There's a soft click as Rafayel locks the door. A hurried shuffle of shoes as he all but stumbles toward you, closing the distance between you in one hurried, unstoppable motion. A startled gasp as he grabs your face in his hands.

It's the last breath you take.

An arm wraps around your waist, blocked by only a flimsy hotel towel as Rafayel violently spins you around. Your surprise is swallowed by his lips as you’re pinned against the window, the chill of the desert snow, frosted against the glass, a harsh contrast to the burn of his touch. His hand pins yours at the wrist as he stares down at your fingers.

“Rafayel? What are you doing here?” 

The question barely gets out, not before he rushes forward to claim you in a kiss, if it was even that. A desperate, consuming need overtakes him, Rafayel pushing you back so insistently that your head hits the window with a thud, pain immediately distracted as his clothed knee grinds up between your bare thighs. 

Holy fuck, just a towel. Right.

You try to push him back, one hand pressing against his chest as the other flies back to tighten the towel. “Wait–”

Rafayel kisses you again. And again. And again. 

You can feel the cloth slipping.

But Rafayel makes it very hard to care. His hand traces your throat, your heartbeat, then drags you closer by your hips as he thrusts forward in time, still caging you against the window. He’s relentless, every kiss only broken with a ragged breath or gasp as though he’s given up on breathing entirely, content to consume you instead, his tongue sweeping against your lip before it coaxes yours to meet it halfway, licking and sucking into your mouth.

It’s obscene, animalistic, and you swear that there has to be something wrong with you because the dizziness is back, and this time it’s enough to make your knees buckle, the two of you blindly stumbling across the hotel room.

So you bite him. 

“Why–” Breathe. Remember how to breathe. “Why are you here?”

Rafayel almost looks offended, thumbing his bitten lip before licking away the smudge of blood with a lopsided smile. 

Fuck, he’s hard. You feel the heat of his cock jolt against your thigh, pressing into you as he surges forward again, kissing you as his hands squeeze and cup your waist, lifting you up.

"Why?" Rafayel laughs, roughly grinding up against you, your legs wrapping instinctively around his hips. "This is my room, remember? You’re the one who decided to come in here." He growls the last part, licking, biting, sucking at your throat. 

“Or was that intentional?”

The look in his eyes is feral. 

There’s no hesitation left, no half-riddled questions, no sweet praises, no semblance of your devoted lover. Just hunger. He’s rushing, pushing forward even with nowhere to go, almost in revenge. In punishment. Your teeth click together, foreheads bumping, unable to talk because when you try to open your mouth his tongue only slides in deeper. 

The wet sounds echo against your ears alongside your racing heartbeat, only causing you to grind harder, rougher, before Rafayel ungracefully drops you onto the bed. 

Your body bounces on the mattress, but it gives you a moment, and you scramble to cover Rafayel’s lips with your palm before he can begin devouring you again. 

“What I meant was, shouldn’t you still be at that art salon?”

He all but collapses into your touch. Lips parted, he grabs your wrist, tongue darting out as he licks up your middle and ring fingers, moaning against your skin. 

“I tried. I tried going, leaving.” He's panting, breathing in your scent before biting your palm. “But you called me back, you cruel, selfish human. And now I’ll never leave again.”

Your words come out between moans, unable to look away. “I called? I didn’t do—” You’re cut off as Rafayel licks up your skin, sucking lightly at your fingertips as his eyes, half-lidded and blown out stare down into yours. 

Oh.

A hot flush of embarrassment seizes you and Rafayel must sense it because his eyes flutter closed. His hips snap forward, grinding his erection into the side of the bed, and he lets out a low whine.

Gods, the taste of your cum lingers in Rafayel’s mouth. Every dry swallow, every inhale, every damn breath tastes like you, and it makes him want to submit to every horrid urge and simply consume until—

“You don't think I know? Don't think I can’t tell?” Rafayel goes back to kissing your wrist, needing something more, something stronger. His hand ventures to the edge of your towel. ”Can feel everything you do, no matter how far away I go. Gods, I feel it, feel everything, and it drives me insane. Need you so bad, need to hear you, feel you, taste you..."

A shudder runs up Rafayel’s spine at the mere thought, and he can't stop himself anymore, leaning down to suck your fingers into his mouth, tongue curling around the digits, saliva coating your fingertips. He rips the towel from your body.

"Say you need me too," He’s begging, sinking down to your knees. "Say you need me just as badly. I–ah fuck—I can smell how much you want me."

Throwing the towel to the floor, Rafayel runs his hands down your chest, rougher, long fingers cupping and massaging your breasts as his mouth trails wet kisses down your stomach, his tongue dragging against the smooth skin, a clear goal in mind as he settles between your thighs, looking up at you as though you were a thing worthy of worship. His Goddess. 

He’d offer himself to your alter time and time again. So long as he was the only one who got to bleed for you. 

“Yes.” You’re already soaked, the sight of Rafayel panting between your thighs enough to have you babbling, ”Yes, Rafayel. I needed you so, so badly all week. Couldn’t help m’self, please.”

He freezes at that, pouting. “Right, you already came, didn’t you. So mean, cutie. Leaving me out.”

Before you can argue, Rafayel dips his head, dragging his tongue up your cunt before sucking roughly at your clit. 

Your legs thrash above his shoulders. “Ah– wait, not so!” It’s too much too soon. Still sensitive from your prior orgasm, your back arches violently off the mattress, but Rafayel pays it no heed, deaf to your cries as he sloppily makes out with your pussy, drool and slick connecting his lips to you in sticky strands even as he pulls away just far enough to talk. 

“She’s already so sensitive, s’not fair,” he pouts, mouthing against your thigh as he flicks your throbbing bundle of nerves. You jolt, gasping at the sharp jolt of pain. At the same time, Rafayel fucks his tongue into your cunt, just barely dipping in before he moves back to rub nonsensical patterns on your clit. “But this is mine. I don’t want you touching it without permission anymore.”

Fuck, if you had any semblance of a coherent thought you would have argued, maybe even laughed at the sheer audacity of the man.

Instead, all you can manage is a pathetic whine of his name, because the strange swirls and harsh lines he’s licking into your clit aren’t patterns at all but letters, spelling something over and over and over again. 

R-A-F-A-Y-E-L-R-A-F-A-Y-E-L-R-A-F-A-Y—

The ring of the hotel phone buzzes from the nightstand. It’s the artist whose party Rafayel left only minutes ago.

“Tch,” Rafayel scoffs in annoyance, whiping his chin as he goes to decline the call.

But this gives you a moment to breathe, and all you can think of is getting revenge. Especially on the bastard who tried to take Rafayel from you tonight. 

“Wait,” you grab his wrist. “You’re just going to hang up? What if it was something important?”

Rafayel turns to you with narrowed eyes, knowing there’s no good intent behind your wicked smile. It turns you on more than you can admit, the sight of his glare, mad at both the call and you interrupting his feast. But Rafayel can't deny you anything and does as he’s told, pressing accept. 

“The guest of this room is unable to answer. Please leave a message.”

Instantly, you have Rafayel on his back. 

His neck looks far too bare, and you climb onto his lap, enjoying the way his pulse kicks up under your palm.

Ripping his shirt’s buttons off, you begin biting dark spots down the pale expanse of his chest and neck. You’re about to aim right for the glowing mark on his chest when the phone beeps again, playing a voice recording of a clearly very drunk man. 

“Why did you leave, bro? Come back here r’now. One more round of drinks a—” Incoherent laughter and sounds of clinking glasses. 

No. No, Rafayel’s not allowed to leave you, not again. 

You don’t know where the fear comes from, but you force yourself closer on top of him, breasts pressing into his abs as Rafayel shivers beneath you. Leaning down, you kiss the glowing mark atop his heart, admiring the way it flickers and glows when Rafayel bucks into your touch, moaning as you begin to nip and suck in earnest. 

And then you’re flipped onto the mattress once more. 

Rafayel’s heaving, arms trembling to keep himself up. Away. “...Are you sure?”

“If I don’t, then you might actually leave. What will you say if you’re asked why you didn’t go back?”

Rafayel smirks, and you catch a glimpse of fangs as he sits back on his knees. There’s a click, the rough sound of metal on metal as he undoes his belt, unzipping his trousers with one hand as the other cups the inside of your thigh, yanking it over his shoulder as he drags you down the bed. “I’m busy.”

And then he’s kissing you. 

You’re lost, so hopelessly lost in each other that you fail to notice the phone beep once again, the monotone voice of the machine saying, “Please leave a message at the tone,” before flashing twice, still running. 

Again, Rafayel seems to forget the concept of breathing, gasping into your lips as he ruts his hips into yours. “You’re not leaving me, right?” Fuck, he’s leaking all over his stomach, pre-cum splattering across your thighs.

“Never. I’ll never leave you, Rafayel.”

“Then tell me you’re mine. Tell me, please, please—hah—tell me and I’ll do anything, promise cutie, promise.” He’s all but gasping between kisses, cock trapped between his body and yours as he grinds forward, voice a pitch or so higher than it usually would be. “Say it, say you're mine, tell me, I need to hear it again."

He's talking in circles, rambling, the desperation in his voice palpable. Grasping the base of his cock, he sloppily fisting himself once, twice, before thumping against your entrance.

“I’m yours, Rafayel.” You writhe, grinding yourself up against him in hopes that he’s just hurry the fuck up.

“Again.”

“I’m yours, yours Rafayel.”

“Again, ah—again,” he’s nuzzling into your neck, lifting your leg higher and higher, pinning it to your head as he folds you into a matting press. Still, he refuses to press in, cock throbbing against your clit as he hugs you tight, every muscle in your body screaming in protest and pleasure. “Again, please, please.”

“I’m-” You’re either gasping or crying, words flooding out, ”Rafayel’s, I’m Rafayel’s.”

At that, Rafayel’s entire body convulses. He sobs, finally thrusting forward, bullying up into you bit by bit, forcing you to count every inch as the entirety of his weight bares down onto you. 

You can feel the way his muscles shift, the way his arms bulge and contract as he holds himself above you, hips flush against yours. The desert air must be infecting him, because Rafayel is dripping sweat, flushed from his ears to his chest as he begins to pull out and slowly grind himself back in. 

His voice is wrecked, breathless as he tries to kiss you, missing slightly as he sucks against your bottom lip, drooling. "I'm yours too, I'm yours." At the same time, his cock jerks in you, burying deeper with every filthy roll of his hips, throbbing against your sweet spots. 

Then something snaps, Rafayel’s lips sealed back on yours, and the rhythm he sets is brutal.

Rafayel's cock drags over your walls, molding you in ways you never thought possible. Each thrust is hard, deep, and leaves you gasping, eyes rolling back into your head as you arch off the mattress, nowhere to go as his body folds yours damn near in half, weight bearing down on you.

It's all you can do to wrap your arms around him, nails scratching into his back, drawing thin lines of blood across his shoulder blades as you try to stay grounded, keep your mind from being swept away as the dizziness returns.

But the pressure building up in the pit of your stomach makes it hard.

Harder still as Rafayel begins mumbling into your lips, the filth pouring from his mouth making you clench, cunt fluttering around his cock as he pounds into you.

He can see and feel everything like this. Unable to look away from your face only inches away, watching every expression with love-drunk eyes, hugging you closer, fucking you harder.

"Can feel you, can feel you getting tighter. You're close right? Say you're close, please, mhm fuck." he's panting, and if you focus hard enough you can hear the sloppy noises of him sliding in and out, wet and obscene, the harsh slap of his balls against the curve of your ass.

But then Rafayel’s pushing himself lower, your legs dangling uselessly in the air as his chest is pressed so tight against yours you can barely take a breath.

"You're mine, only I can touch you like this, feel this. My wife. Say it, say you're mine, wanna hear it, please. Please, ah, I’ll do anything, say it."

He's barely pulling out anymore, resigning to quick, deep grinds as though he can’t bear to part.

Too uncoordinated to kiss you, Rafayel's head falls to your neck, sobbing into your marked-up skin before messily kissing atop the bruises.

"Yours. Yours. I'm yours, your wife," the words spill from your lips before you can even think, and Rafayel nearly passes out trying to stop himself from cumming then and there. 

It’s like you’re trying to milk him, hugging him closer and ankles wrapped around his neck as he’s lifting your hips right off the bed. But now he needs to see it.

Needs to know the way you'll cry out his name, how your eyes will glaze over and roll back into your head, the way your chest will heave, the sweat that will pool at the valley between your breasts, the way the skin will flush from a soft pink to a burning red as you lose yourself in the feeling. To him.

It's the only thing he's able to concentrate on, the only thing he's able to think of. The feeling of your body beneath him, the sound of his name on your lips. 

And that alone is enough.

Rafayel’s orgasm is sudden, a jolt of pleasure that surges up his spine with enough intensity to have him collapse, pinning your body beneath him. You can feel it, the way his cum splatters against the walls of your womb, painting your insides, filling you up until the excess squirts out around his cock and your intertwined thighs. He can't stop his hips, can't stop the way he grinds his pelvis against yours, trying to get deeper and deeper still. 

"Mine, mine, mine," is all he can say, eyes wide and pupils blown out as he watches the way your body twitches, a mixture of sweat and cum painting your body as you nearly pass out in exhaustion. "Gonna- gonna fill you up, fuck, so pretty, my pretty girl, pretty wife, gonna make sure it sticks, so I’ll never leave. So you’ll never leave me again."

You're cumming.

He can feel the way your cunt spasms, the way your walls lure him back in, the way you tremble and shake as you throw your head back with tears. 

Rafayel can't stop himself from leaning down and biting, teeth sinking into the crook of your neck, his hands grabbing at any bit of flesh he can find. All the while he fucks you through your orgasm, the mess of fluids creating the most obscene noises as they squish and bubble out, pooling out from between your bodies. 

As you’re swaying in and out of reality, you think you see it. A field of red flame lilies, a poison so sweet that when you drink it, you lick your lips and thank the gods. 

God. Just one, the one of the sea and the flaming sun. 

The one who's still kneeling before you. 

The one who you love. 

"Maximum voicemail length reached, recording sent."

♱⋅── a/n: Uber now canonically exists in the lnds universe, thanks. Also, I would have included the absolutely gut-wrenching aftercare included in the card with MC asking Rafayel to sing for her, but honestly I would not change that scene in the slightest and am content to believe that is exactly what happened next.

Oh the things I’d give to hear Raf sing~