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whisperedmeg · 3 days ago

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VERBAL IMPULSE ―.✦ s.r. soft animal series ∘ part vii

pairing: spencer reid x fem!nurse!reader

summary: a first cheesesteak, a slip of the word boyfriend, and a thousand miles of want unraveled one breath at a time.

genre: smut, fluff

w/c: 2.3k

tags/warnings: post-prison spencer, cavity-inducing sugary sweet fluff, singular use of “y/n” but it was necessary I swear, reader mentions being in her thirties (near spencer’s age) but you can ignore that if you’d prefer to imagine her younger/older, second half is basically porn with(out) a plot - phone sex, mutual masturbation, spencer talks reader through it, spencer calls reader good girl/angel. 18+ MDNI

a/n: i am genuinely obsessed with them you guys. I can’t even pretend I’m not. this chapter is so cute and steamy and AHH I just hope you all love reading it as much as I loved writing it. buckle up tho because part 8 is gonna be a roller coaster. as always, appreciate all comments/likes/reblogs more than I can even express! 🫶🏼

series masterlist

When I told Spencer I was taking him to the best hidden gem in DC, I don’t think this was what he pictured.

The place didn’t look like much from the outside — just a half-sunk storefront squeezed between a laundromat and a vape shop, with a flickering neon sign that said “GENO’S BUT NOT THAT ONE.” The “O” was permanently burnt out.

Spencer stared at it like I’d dragged him to the edge of a portal to another dimension. “This is… charming,” he said slowly, blinking at the graffiti-scuffed windows.

I grinned, tugging his sleeve. “Don’t let the vibe scare you. It’s the best cheesesteak you can find outside of Philadelphia. Swear on my life.”

“I’ve never had a cheesesteak,” he said, like it was a confession.

I stopped cold on the sidewalk and turned to face him. “You’ve what?”

He shifted awkwardly. “I’ve read about them.”

“Spencer,” I said, clutching my chest in mock offense. “This is the most serious thing you’ve ever said to me. More serious than quantum physics or being framed for murder by a serial killer”

He laughed, eyes creasing at the corners.

Inside, it smelled like heaven and heart disease — grilled onions, hot beef, grease seeping into paper napkins. The woman behind the counter gave me a nod of recognition, and I waved as I slid into the corner booth that was always just a little too sticky.

Spencer sat across from me, peering cautiously at the menu, which was just a black letterboard with six options and a lot of personality. “What do I order?”

“I’ll do it,” I said. “You’ll panic and ask for a salad.”

He opened his mouth to protest, then closed it again and smiled. “Fair.”

I went up to the counter and brought us back two cheesesteaks — one classic with onions and whiz, one with provolone and hot peppers — and watched his face transform as he took the first bite. Eyes wide. Cheeks pink. He didn’t speak for a full thirty seconds.

“Oh my god,” he finally mumbled around a mouthful. “This is life changing.”

“I know,” I said smugly. “You’re welcome.”

He pointed his cheesesteak at me like a gavel. “You could’ve led with this when we first met. ‘Hi, I’m Y/N. I know where the best cheesesteak in DC is.’ I would’ve proposed on the spot.”

I raised an eyebrow. “That’s all it takes?”

“Apparently.”

We were still laughing when the front door chimed, and a familiar voice called my name.

I turned to see Camille — one of my closest friends since undergrad — weaving through the tables with her usual chaotic energy, curly dark hair pulled up into a messy bun, sandals slapping against the laminate tile. She stopped when she saw Spencer.

“Ooooh,” she said, eyes gleaming. “Is this the boy?”

Spencer immediately stood, ever polite, even though his hands were full of cheesesteak and he had melted cheese on his thumb. “Hi,” he said nervously. “I’m Spencer.”

Camille looked him up and down like he was a rescue puppy she was trying to assess for adoptability. “So you’re the genius prison boyfriend.”

I groaned. “Camille.”

As if the ‘prison’ label wasn’t bad enough, the term ‘boyfriend’ just had to be thrown out into the open, too, before we’d had any sort of formal conversation to indicate I was allowed to call him that. It was a little silly at this point, to not even know if Spencer was technically my boyfriend considering that we spent every night we could together and said “I love you” like, 17 times a day — not to mention we were both well into our thirties and past the age where a multi-month talking stage would be acceptable — but still. I shot her daggers with my eyes and hid mortified behind my soda cup.

“What? That’s what you called him. In your texts.”

Spencer blinked. “You… called me your prison boyfriend?”

“Okay,” I said, raising a hand in defense. “Context is important. Camille said it first as a joke, I just went along with it.”

But Spencer was grinning now, delight creeping into his voice. “No, no, I like it. It’s accurate. Very specific branding.”

Camille plopped herself down at the edge of the booth and stole one of my fries. “So, Spencer. What are your intentions here?”

I groaned again.

Spencer, to his eternal credit, didn’t flinch. “Well,” he said thoughtfully, “she just introduced me to cheesesteaks, which I think makes this pretty serious. Also I’m wildly in love with her, but I’m not sure if we’re announcing that in sandwich shops.”

I choked. Camille’s eyes shot wide.

He froze.

“I mean—” he began, clearly scrambling. “I didn’t mean to just blurt it out. Not that I don’t mean it — I do. I mean, you already know I love you. We say it all the time now, so I just—was that okay? Should I not have said it in front of—?”

I reached for his hand across the table and squeezed. “Spence. It’s okay.”

He looked at me, worried, searching. “Too much?”

“Not enough,” I murmured. “Say it again.”

His gaze softened. “I love you.”

I smiled. “I love you, too.”

Camille made a gagging noise and threw a napkin at me. “Gross. I love it. Now someone please give me a bite of their cheesesteak before I start sobbing.”

—

We spent the rest of the afternoon in that little corner booth — eating, talking, laughing. Camille and Spencer bonded over obscure jazz albums and neurodivergent tendencies. He told her about a case once solved with a single strand of dog hair. She told him about the time I got so mad at a CVS self-checkout stand that I left my snacks and Midol on the floor and walked out.

Later, as we walked back to my place, Spencer slipped his hand into mine.

“I liked today,” he said. “Thank you for showing me your world.”

“You fit in better than you think,” I said.

He bumped my shoulder lightly. “You mean as your boyfriend?”

My heart fluttered. “Oh. Is that what you are?”

“I hope so,” he said. “Unless I just embarrassed myself for no reason in front of your friend.”

I laughed, leaning in. “You’re definitely my boyfriend.”

“Good,” he said, kissing my temple. “I’m kind of obsessed with you, you know.”

And I was kind of obsessed with him, too.

—

It had been a few weeks since our cheesesteak date and the accidental boyfriend slip, and in that time, life had started to stretch into something that felt almost like a rhythm. Spencer was back to work full-time, and we were both still figuring out what that meant — long days, last-minute travel, texts squeezed between interviews and autopsies. But still, we found each other in the spaces in between. Late dinners. Quiet mornings. Stolen kisses before the sun came up. Needy touches that started in our sleep and ended in breathy sighs.

And now, he was gone again. Three days into a case in Texas, and I’d hardly heard his voice since he left.

It was nearly midnight, and I was stretched across my mattress with the fan humming overhead, face buried in a book I’d already read four times. My bed felt too big without him. Too still.

When my phone finally lit up with his name, my heart did a little flip.

I smiled, thumb swiping across the screen instantly. “Hi.”

There was a pause, like the sound of him exhaling into relief. “Hey,” he murmured, voice low and a little raspy, like he was lying in bed too, half-lit by a motel lamp somewhere in the middle of nowhere. “Did I wake you?”

“You never wake me. I was just waiting for you to call.”

A warm sound escaped him — not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. “Good. I couldn’t sleep. And I missed your voice.”

I turned off the bedside lamp, settling deeper into the pillows as I turned on speaker phone and laid the phone down next to my head. “Rough day?”

“A little. Just long. We’re getting close, but I’ve been stuck in my own head all night. Thought maybe hearing you would help.”

My chest squeezed at the softness in his voice. “Always happy to help.”

There was silence for a beat. Then, lighter: “What are you wearing?”

I laughed, my cheeks warming. “Seriously?”

“I mean,” he said, that little edge of nervous teasing curling around the words, “I could guess, but I’d rather hear it from you.”

I tugged the covers up over me, suddenly shy despite the fact that he wasn’t even here. “It’s just one of your shirts.”

“That’s cruel,” he groaned. “Which one?”

“The purple one, with the little hole near the sleeve.”

He made a strangled little noise. “You always look so good in that one. It’s so stretched out.”

“It is,” I said, smiling. “And yes, I’m wearing underwear. Sorry to disappoint.”

“Damn.”

We both laughed, then his voice dipped lower. “I wish I were there. I keep thinking about last week. You in my lap. The way you looked at me.”

I shifted under the sheets, skin prickling with the memory. “I couldn’t help it. You looked so good.”

His breath caught on the other end. “You were straddling me. Hair all messy. You had that look on your face like you were trying to be good but barely holding on.”

I closed my eyes, heat pooling low in my belly. “I was.”

His voice turned molten. “I love how responsive you are. The little sounds you make when I touch your hips. That breathy one when I kiss behind your ear.”

“You know them by heart now?” I asked, teasing, breath uneven.

“I’ve memorized all of them,” he said. “I play them on a loop in my mind when I miss you.”

“You and your freaky memory,” I teased. I let out a shaky exhale before adding, “I miss you so much.”

“Miss you every second,” he murmured back. He was silent for a moment, like he was going over the next thing he wanted to say in his own brain before finally releasing the words. “Tell me where your hands are.”

I hesitated, breath catching. “Um, one’s under my head, and the other’s on my lower stomach. Just… resting. Why?”

“Are you wet?” he asked, barely audible.

I blinked, caught off guard. Of all the things I expected him to say, that wasn’t on the list. Not from Spencer — not the man who blushed the first time I straddled his lap, who once apologized mid-makeout for knocking my knee weird. I’d been so careful not to push him for more, even after months of being together, even after all the nights we’d spent exploring each other with only our hands and mouths. After everything he’d gone through, I didn’t want him to feel rushed into sex, so we still hadn’t gone that far. And while phone sex wasn’t exactly sex, obviously, it was still… a lot, and I hadn’t realized he was bold enough to cross this line. God, maybe I didn’t know everything about him after all. Or maybe long-distance horniness truly just knows no bounds, even for Spencer. It sent a pulse of heat straight through me.

The shock wore off after a beat, and I let out a soft sigh. “Mhm,” I hummed.

“God,” he groaned. “I can’t even tell you what I’d do if I were there.”

“Try,” I whispered.

His voice was raw now, velvet dragged over heat. “I’d start slow. Lay you back, run my fingers down your thighs. I’d take my time — tease you until you begged. You’d be so soft and warm under me. I’d press my mouth to your stomach, then lower, then kiss you between your thighs until you were shaking.”

I whimpered, hand slipping beneath the waistband of my panties and beginning to move. “Spencer…”

“Are you touching yourself?”

“Yeah,” I murmured.

“Good girl.”

The words hit me like a spark. I arched slightly, hand moving in slow, steady circles. “Tell me what you’re doing.”

He let out a breath that sounded like it was laced with agony. “I’m hard. Have been since you said you were wearing my shirt. I’m palming myself over my boxers right now, trying not to lose it.”

My breath quickened. “Maybe I want to hear you lose it a little.”

He groaned low in his throat, and I could practically feel the tension in his muscles across the distance. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

“I think I do.”

“I wish I could see you right now,” he said, voice wrecked and beautiful. “Wish I could press your thighs open with my hands. Watch your face. Feel the way you move as you’re getting close.”

I whimpered again, toes curling under the sheets, my free hand clutching at the fabric beside me like I could anchor myself to something.

“I want you to touch yourself the way I would,” he murmured. “Slow at first. Then deeper. Let your hips roll.”

We moved in tandem, hands on our own skin, breathing syncing through the line, chasing the same rhythm from over a thousand miles apart. I could hear him stroking himself now, the soft, slick sound and the hitch in his breath every few seconds. I closed my eyes and imagined it — him, sprawled out on some hotel bed, hair mussed, lips parted, body taut with wanting, hand wrapped around his cock.

“Are you close?” he asked, voice tight, fraying at the edges.

“Yes,” I gasped. “Spencer, I—”

“Come for me,” he said, low and commanding. “Right now. I want to hear you fall apart.”

That was all it took. My body seized, pleasure crashing through me like a wave too big to fight. I bit my lip hard but couldn’t stop the sound that escaped — half cry, half his name. My back arched. My legs shook. Every nerve lit up like a struck match.

On the other end of the line, he let out a quiet, guttural moan. “Fuck, angel.” There was a pause — then another sharp exhale, the telltale stutter of his release. Not loud, but raw. Unfiltered.

We lay there in the aftermath, nothing but soft breathing and crackling silence between us.

“You’re perfect,” he murmured eventually, voice loose and sleepy, like it had all unraveled something in him, too.

“I miss you,” I said softly, my fingers curled loosely around the phone as I picked it up from the pillow next to me. “I wish you were here.”

“I will be soon. And when I am,” he said slowly, deliberately, “I’m going to take my time with you. Every inch. Every look. Every sound.”

I swallowed hard, heart thudding. “Promise?”

“I promise.”

ᝰ.ᐟ

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid #spencer reid smut #spencer reid fanfiction #criminal minds #dr spencer reid #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid criminal minds #criminalminds #doctor spencer reid #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x self insert #spencer reid x fem!reader smut #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you #soft animal s.r. x reader

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inseobts · 2 days ago

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Smoke and Fire

sabo x fem!reader (+ sanji x fem!reader)

sabo keeps avoiding his feelings, but what happens when he sees you with another man?

words count: 3.2k

tags: jealous sabo, during time-skip, angst with fluff, sanji flirting, hidden feelings, emotional tension

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

The mission is simple.

Drop off a message to an allied contact. Rest. Leave.

You've never been there so you don’t expect the island to be... this.

“What the hell…” you mumble, blinking at the huge heart-shaped flowers and men in dresses sprinting around with makeup kits and high heels.

Sabo’s eyes narrow behind his goggles “This is Momoiro Island. Ivankov’s old base.”

“Oh,” you say “Explains the fashion.”

A pink-haired man runs up to you “Revolutionaries?” he asks cheerfully.

You and Sabo nod.

“You just missed the princess!”

“...Princess?” you repeat.

“Our guest! Handsome, blond, always cooking, always crying!”

Sabo raises an eyebrow “We weren’t told anyone else was here.”

The man laughs “Oh, he’s not with the army! He crash-landed here months ago. Poor thing’s heartbroken, but my, does he know how to use a frying pan~!”

You glance at Sabo “Should we meet him?”

“We’ll rest first” he says, almost too quickly.

The rooms they give you are small but cozy. Yours smells like lavender. You toss your bag onto the bed, then lean on the windowsill. Outside, Sabo talks with one of the locals.

You watch him.

Strong. Calm. Always a little distant.

You’ve been traveling with him for months, but he never lets you get too close. You wish he would.

He glances up and catches you looking.

You wave.

He waves back, but turns away fast.

The next morning, someone knocks on your door.

You open it, and there’s a man with blond hair, a thin cigarette, and the longest eyelashes you’ve ever seen.

“Pardon me, mademoiselle,” he says, voice like silk “I heard there was a beautiful stranger staying in this wing. I had to see for myself.”

You blink “Uh… Your nose is...”

“My name is Sanji,” he adds with a little bow “Can I interest you in breakfast?”

You smile, unsure “Do I know you?”

“Not yet,” he says, grinning “But I’m hoping that will change.”

Before you can answer, a firm voice cuts in “She already ate.”

You turn.

Sabo is standing in the hallway, arms crossed, gaze cold.

Sanji raises an eyebrow “Oh? And who might you be?”

Sabo walks up slowly “Her partner.”

Sanji grins wider “Lucky man.”

Sabo doesn’t smile.

You cough “Um. Sanji, right? You’re the guest here?”

“At your service, angel.”

Sabo steps slightly between you and Sanji “She’s busy.”

“I was just—”

“I said she’s busy.”

Sanji looks from you to Sabo, then smiles politely “Understood. Another time, perhaps.”

He bows again and walks away, hands in his pockets.

You stare at Sabo “That was… intense.”

He shrugs.

“You okay?”

He doesn’t answer.

“Sabo.”

“I don’t like the way he looked at you.”

Your heart skips “Why?”

His voice is quiet “Because he saw you before I was ready.”

You blink “…What do you mean, before you were ready?”

Sabo looks away.

The silence is awkward. Heavy. You're not used to this from him. Usually he’s composed. Sharp. In control. But right now, he looks... cornered.

“Sabo?”

He exhales slowly, then changes the subject, fast.

“The ship’s got a leak.”

You frown “What?”

“Engine room. Nothing major, but we’ll have to stay here a few more days while I fix it.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“I already talked to the dock crew. They’ll give me parts.”

“Sabo.”

He ignores you “Until then, try not to wander too far, alright?”

You cross your arms “Why are you avoiding the question?”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“No, I’m—” he cuts himself off, jaw clenched “It’s nothing.”

You step closer “Sabo.”

He looks down at you, face unreadable “Let it go.”

Your chest tightens “Why can’t you just talk to me? You're always like this.”

He hesitates.

Then, quietly, he says, “Because I don’t want to say something I can’t take back.”

And then he turns and walks away.

You spend the next hour pacing in your room.

What was that supposed to mean?

Since when does Sabo... who always knows the right words, the right move... get flustered like that? Why would he not be “ready” for someone to see you? What was he going to say?

And why does your heart keep racing when you replay the way he stood in front of you?

Like he was protecting something that already belonged to him.

You finally step out, needing fresh air, only to nearly bump right into someone.

“Oh! My goddess!” Sanji clasps his hands like he’s praying “Fate has brought us together again!”

You stare “Are you always like this?”

“Only when inspiration strikes” he says, and offers you a rose that definitely wasn’t in his hands two seconds ago “Would you allow me the honor of showing you the garden?”

You hesitate.

Then you glance down the hall... no Sabo.

“…Sure.”

Maybe some flowers will clear your head.

Meanwhile, from the top of the hill behind the garden, Sabo stands with arms crossed, staring down.

He watches Sanji lead you through the path of tulips, hand occasionally brushing yours, smile wide.

You’re laughing.

Not like you do with Sabo. No teasing. No guarded glances.

You’re actually relaxed. Glowing.

He should feel happy you're enjoying yourself. Instead, he feels like someone lit a fire in his chest... and it burns like hell.

The garden is beautiful, even more with the sunset light turning the sky soft orange. You’re laughing at something Sanji says... he’s dramatic, but kind, and you admit: he’s easy to talk to. He treats you like you’re the center of the world.

You’re not used to that.

He suddenly turns serious “Would you let me cook for you tonight?”

You blink “What?”

“Dinner. Just us. I’ll prepare something special. A private meal, from my heart to your plate.”

You hesitate “Sanji, I—I don’t want to lead you on…”

He smiles gently “You’re not. I know your heart isn’t mine. But I’d still like to make you feel… seen. You're not staying here much more, so let me help you.”

Your lips part slightly.

It’s not that you’re not thinking about Sabo. You are, constantly. But Sabo never says how he feels. He pulls away. He hides behind orders, missions, excuses. Maybe dinner will distract you. Maybe it’ll help clear your head.

“…Okay,” you say softly “Dinner sounds nice.”

Later, the main dining hall is loud with laughter and clinking glasses. Revolutionaries from every part of the island are eating together, the smell of food heavy in the air.

Sabo walks in, scanning the room.

You’re not here.

He sits next to Ivankov “Hey. Have you seen—”

Ivankov grins “Oh, sweet cheeks? She’s having a private dinner with that Sanji fellow.”

Sabo’s expression freezes “What?”

“You didn’t know?” Iva leans closer, voice teasing “He invited her earlier. Said it was just the two of them. Very romantic~”

Sabo’s grip tightens on his glass.

Someone across the table adds, “I passed her on the way, she looked amazing. Like, wow. Dressed up and everything.”

Another person laughs “Didn’t know she had clothes like that. She cleaned up good.”

Sabo doesn’t hear the rest.

His mind is stuck on just the two of them.

And she dressed up.

You never dress up for him.

Then again... he never gives you a reason to.

He stands up suddenly.

Ivankov blinks “Not staying?”

“I lost my appetite.”

He walks out, fast.

No plan. No words. Just a quiet storm building in his chest.

The table is set under the stars.

Lanterns float in the trees, casting warm yellow light. There’s a small bottle of wine, fresh flowers, and two plates that smell so good your stomach actually growls.

Sanji pulls out a chair for you like a perfect gentleman “For you, mademoiselle.”

You sit, smoothing your dress, a simple thing you found buried in your travel bag. You didn’t even remember packing it. But after looking in the mirror... you needed to feel like someone else tonight. Someone not tired. Not confused. Not constantly waiting for a certain blonde revolutionary to stop avoiding her.

Sanji pours you a glass “To good company.”

You raise your glass “To good food.”

You both sip, and for a while, you eat in silence. The pasta is soft and rich with cream. The vegetables are grilled perfectly. You try to focus on the flavors. On the warmth. On Sanji’s voice when he tells you stories about the wild people on this island.

But Sabo keeps creeping into your thoughts.

His silence.

His half-finished sentences.

His sharp looks at Sanji.

You chew slower.

You’re not sure when it happens, but your fork stops halfway to your mouth.

Sanji notices “Something wrong?”

You put the fork down “No. I mean... yes. I don’t know.”

He tilts his head, serious now.

You sigh “This was supposed to be a distraction.”

He doesn’t answer, just waits.

“I thought dressing up and eating with someone charming would help me stop thinking about him.”

Sanji’s voice is soft “Sabo?”

You nod slowly.

“I don’t get him,” you admit “One minute he looks at me like I’m the most important thing in the world. The next, he acts like I’m just another soldier.”

“Sounds like a man afraid of his own feelings” Sanji says gently.

“I’ve tried to be patient. I get that he’s busy. That we’re at war. But I’m always the one reaching out. Always waiting. Always guessing.”

Your voice gets quieter “And I’m tired of feeling like I care more than he does.”

Sanji leans forward “You want him to fight for you.”

You swallow “I just want to matter. Out loud. Not in silence. Not in hints. Not in things he doesn’t say.”

For a moment, there’s only the sound of wind in the trees.

Then Sanji says, “You do matter. Anyone with eyes can see that.”

Your throat tightens “Thanks.”

He smiles gently “You’re incredible. And if he doesn’t tell you that soon…”

He pauses “…he’s going to lose something he won’t be able to replace.”

You look at your wine glass, eyes stinging.

You don’t know what to say.

So Sanji just refills your glass, and starts talking about spices and the sea, until your heart feels a little lighter.

Later on - Sanji’s stories only get more ridiculous as the night goes on.

“—so then I’m running through the kitchen, completely on fire, and Zeff is just watching me like, ‘This idiot deserves it’.”

You burst out laughing, nearly choking on your wine “You’re kidding!”

“Swear on my spices. I smelled like smoked fish for days.”

You lean on the table, grinning hard “You were such a mess.”

He places a hand dramatically over his heart “A charming, well-dressed mess, thank you very much.”

You’re still laughing when a soft sound catches your ear, footsteps.

You glance over your shoulder.

Sabo stands a few feet away, just… staring.

His expression is unreadable, but his eyes are locked on you. Not Sanji. You.

You straighten in your chair “Sabo...”

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t move.

Sanji follows your gaze and stands up smoothly “Hey,” he says casually “Join us?”

“No” Sabo says flatly.

You blink “Sabo?”

He steps forward now, voice low, tight “You’re really having fun, huh?”

The tone makes your chest tighten “I—yeah. Sanji was—he made dinner. I just—”

“You dressed up.”

That hits harder than it should.

“Why does that matter?” you ask quietly.

He doesn’t answer right away. Just stares at you like he’s trying to find the words he’s been choking on for weeks.

Sanji clears his throat “Maybe I should—”

“Stay,” Sabo cuts in “You’ve already seen enough.”

Sanji raises an eyebrow but doesn’t argue. He leans back against the wall, arms crossed, watching.

Sabo looks at you again “I thought I had time.”

Your heart beats faster “Time for what?”

“To tell you how I feel.”

Silence falls between you.

You stand slowly “Then why didn’t you?”

“Because I’m not like him,” he says, jerking his chin at Sanji “I don’t know how to be soft. Or charming. Or say the right things. But watching you out here, laughing with someone else like that—”

His voice breaks a little.

“I hated it.”

You don’t speak.

“I hated that I wasn’t the one making you smile like that.”

Now you do.

“Then why did you keep pushing me away?”

Sabo steps closer “Because if I let myself fall, I knew I wouldn’t be able to stop.”

He’s right in front of you now.

And you can feel the heat coming off him, more than fire.

“I don’t want to keep pretending I don’t feel anything,” he says, voice low, rough, vulnerable “Because I do. I always have.”

Your breath catches.

He reaches for your hand, finally “I’m sorry it took someone else for me to admit it.”

Behind you, Sanji sighs quiet, like a gentleman who knows when the spotlight isn’t his.

He turns to leave “She deserved to hear it. Finally.”

And he disappears into the night.

Tears hit your eyes before you can stop them.

“You’re an idiot” you whisper.

Sabo flinches, but doesn’t move.

You step forward and punch his arm. Not hard, but enough to make a sound.

“You idiot!”

Another punch. He doesn’t stop you.

“You absolute, emotionally-stunted dumbass! I thought I was crazy!”

Punch. Punch.

“I thought I was making it all up in my head! Every time you looked at me like I mattered, every time you said something sweet and then pulled away, I thought I was imagining it!”

Sabo looks like he’s been stabbed, but he lets you keep going.

You hit his chest with both hands now, frustrated tears running down your cheeks.

“I waited so long! I kept hoping, and hoping, and you never said anything! You just acted like nothing was happening while I... while I was falling in love with you, you idiot!”

Your voice cracks on that last word.

And then you just drop dramatically, right onto your knees, wiping your eyes with both hands, sniffling like a mess. “Ughhh I think I drank too much” you wail into your palms.

Sabo blinks, stunned.

Then he rushes over “Hey—hey, come here—”

You swat at him half-heartedly “Don’t touch me! No—wait—okay yes, touch me, help me up, I’m dizzy.”

He gently pulls you to your feet. You stumble into his chest and grab the front of his shirt like a lifeline.

“You made me crazy,” you sniff “I literally dressed up for another man just to forget you.”

“I noticed.”

“You’re so STUPID.”

“I know.”

“And handsome.”

He makes a choked laugh “That too.”

He steadies you with one arm around your waist, the other carefully holding your wrist “Can you walk?”

“No. I’m too emotional.” You throw your head back dramatically.

He actually laughs this time, soft and helpless “Okay, drama queen. Let’s get you back.”

He walks you slowly through the halls, his pace patient, arm never leaving you.

Your head leans against his shoulder. You speak again, softer now.

“I really do love you, you know.”

His steps falter, just a second.

“I tried not to. I tried to be cool. Like, maybe I could just move on or pretend I didn’t feel it. But... it was always you.”

Sabo swallows “I don’t deserve that.”

You stop walking and look up at him, red eyes shining “You don’t get to decide that.”

He looks at you like he’s seeing the sun for the first time.

Then he says quietly, “Okay.”

And keeps holding you, like he’s never letting go.

The walk to your room is slow and quiet.

Your steps are wobbly. Your thoughts are loud.

Sabo keeps holding you like you’re something fragile. Like you might shatter again.

He opens the door to your room and helps you sit on the bed, gently pulling off your shoes like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like he’s done it a hundred times in his head.

You stare at him.

“I’m not drunk” you say suddenly, even though that’s a lie and both of you know it.

“You said you drank too much like ten minutes ago” he says with a small laugh.

You smile lazily “Liar.”

He leans down to pull the blanket over you.

And that’s when you move, reaching up with both arms, eyes heavy, lips parting...

“Wait!” he says quickly, hand flying up to block your face “Hold it.”

You freeze, lips a breath away from his fingers.

You blink at him.

“Are you serious right now?” you whisper.

Sabo grins, but there’s a flush in his cheeks.

He gently presses his hand to your forehead like he’s checking your temperature “Let’s keep that for when you’re not tipsy.”

You pout. Full lips, big eyes, dramatic sigh “That’s mean.”

“You’ll thank me tomorrow.”

“I doubt it.”

“You’re pouting like a child.”

You blink slowly. Then nod.

“…Okay,” you mumble, smiling anyway, eyes still wet but shining “But you better not forget.”

He stands there for a second, just watching you melt into the blanket.

“I won’t” he says quietly.

You hum, eyes fluttering closed “Promise?”

“I promise.”

He turns to leave.

“Wait.”

He pauses at the door.

“…Will you stay? Just for a minute?”

He nods without a word and sits in the chair beside your bed.

You fall asleep with his hand resting gently over yours, and for the first time in what feels like forever, everything feels okay.

You wake up slowly.

Your mouth’s dry. Your head’s a little heavy. But you remember everything.

The dinner.

The tears.

Sabo’s voice telling you the things you waited so long to hear.

You sit up. There’s a folded note on your nightstand in careful handwriting:

Went to get you water. Don’t move. –S

You snort and stay right where you are.

A few minutes later, the door opens and he steps in quietly, holding a glass in one hand and a small plate of toast in the other.

His eyes meet yours.

“…You remember everyting?” he asks softly.

You nod “All of it.”

He sets the things down on the nightstand “You look less like you’re going to punch me today.”

You smirk “I still might.”

A pause.

Then, you look at him seriously “Thank you. For last night. For not… taking advantage."

He looks almost offended “I would never.”

“I know,” you say gently “That’s why it meant so much.”

Another pause.

You take the water, sip it. Then look up at him.

“Still keeping that kiss for when I’m 100% sober?” you ask, tilting your head.

He stares for a second.

Then moves slowly toward the bed.

You shift, knees bent under the blanket as he stops right in front of you.

“I’m still kind of scared” he admits.

“Of what?”

“That if I do this… I won’t be able to stop. I won’t want to.”

You smile “Maybe I don’t want you to stop.”

He exhales, heart in his throat.

Then he leans in, slowly, like giving you a hundred chances to pull away.

You don’t.

When his lips finally touch yours, it’s soft. Careful. Not rushed.

It’s not perfect, he’s nervous, and so are you, but it’s real. It’s warm. His hand comes up to cup your cheek and you lean into it like it’s the only thing holding you together.

You kiss him again, this time slower, longer.

When you pull back, your foreheads rest together.

“Still scared?” you whisper.

“Yeah,” he says, breathless “But it’s better than pretending I don’t feel anything.”

You grin and pull him back in.

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diaryofavillainwhore · 3 days ago

Text

— Ink Me Where It Hurts ♠️

You wanted something small, delicate and hidden. But nothing will be delicate when you met Dabi. He was all tattoos, piercings and fucked up attitude that drew people in.

“Under the breast,” you murmured, pulling the hem of your shirt up to show him the space. “Right here.”

Dabi was silent for a full beat, eyes locked on that stretch of skin. Then he looked up slowly and grinned. “Yeah,” he said. “I can do that.”

He didn’t say much while prepping. Just gloved up, pulled the stencil, told you to lie back. The chair creaked under you, the leather felt cold against your back. Your shirt was pushed up, your bra tucked out of the way. Your ribs rose and fell with every breath.

“You nervous?” he asked low, needle humming like a threat in his hand.

“A little.”

His hand settled just below your breast. Warm even through the glove. “It’s gonna hurt.”

You nodded. He didn’t start right away. Just… stared at the stretch of your stomach. The curve of your ribs. The tender skin where the ink would go.

“Stay real still for me, pretty.” The first sting made you flinch and his hand pressed firmer. “Don’t move.”

He worked slow and deliberately. Needle biting into you while his fingers curled around your ribs, steadying you.

“Doing good,” he muttered, eyes never leaving the design. “Breathing like that’s makin’ your tits bounce, though. You trying to distract me?”

“No.” You flushed.

“Mm.” His hand slid higher, thumb brushing the underside of your breast like it was part of the process. “Pretty little thing like you walkin’ in here askin’ for ink in a spot like this. Either you’re real brave or real stupid.”

You whimpered as the needle dragged deep. He leaned in, close enough to taste your skin. His hot breath ghosting over the tinted skin.

“Bet you like the pain,” he murmured. “Bet your thighs are stickin’ to the chair already.”

You were soaked and you knew he could smell it. That sweet musky scent of desire. He set the gun down mid-line, just to look at you. His turquoise eyes turned dark and his lips curled into something sinister.

“You want me to finish this or fuck you senseless first?” he asked. “’Cause I’ll do either. But I promise you, sweetheart—” He grabbed your jaw, leaned over you, with his voice like smoke and sin. “Once I’m done marking you, I’m gonna fuck you right here. Just like this. Shirt up, mouth open, ink still bleeding.”

You gasped as his pierced tongue dragged hot and wet over your nipple.

“And every time you look at it you’re gonna remember who made you cry.”

#dabi smut #dabi x reader #dabi x you #dabi x y/n #dabi x oc #bnha dabi #touya todoroki x you #touya todoroki smut #touya todoroki x reader #touya x reader #touya smut #touya todoroki #touya x you #mha smut #mha x reader

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kingkat12 · 2 days ago

Text

... chased a guy (roman godfrey x reader)

WARNINGS: piv sex, vampire sex, blood, blood play (?), light gore, smoking, Olivia Godfrey deserves her own warning tag

summary: now that you and Roman are broken up, you suddenly find clarity in the situation that used to haunt you-- are you actually scared of upirs? it seems not.

word count: 8,588

never have I ever: ← previous chapter

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*book 1 masterlist

a/n: I know this chapter took a crazy amount of time to finish, but exams have been biting my ass with big mouthfuls, so EEK WE R FINALLY BACK<33 thank you for all the love, enjoy!!<333 credits to @godfreysteel for the gifs!!

"At least she's not... crying,"

"Not yet," I muttered, lighting my cigarette. "Give it a minute."

Peter turned to me, glaring as he flicked ash off his own. He wasn't even smoking it-- he was just letting it burn down like a fuse. "And how often do you stand around watching Letha be miserable, exactly?"

I shrugged; "It's my favorite morning spectacle. I keep debating whether I should bring tomatoes and toss them at her,"

Something told me Peter knew he wasn't in the position to scold me, even though I saw how much he was itching to-- it was obvious with the way his jaw ticked. "You're really enjoying this, huh?"

"I'm enjoying the karmic symmetry. Sue me,"

Seriously. Karma had never felt this good.

Everything had changed-- the events of the night Brooke died had had a huge impact on everyone, in their own way. However, the most brutal change to watch was how Letha's biggest fears had become real. After all her plotting, after all her doomsday-planning, her ultimate nightmare had come true; she had been dethroned by the public. It was like a coup of democracy, with the way everyone had cast her off her high chair when they found out about her hypocrisy-- her relationship with Peter ended up having the effect on her life that she had dreaded most.

And I stood there, half-hidden by the corner of the art building next to Peter, watching the girl who had once ruled this place get picked apart by whispers and glances and that sick kind of fake smile that burns more than a slap. Believe me when I say I didn't invite him to join me, by the way-- he had found me here somehow, like he always did when I wanted to see him least.

Letha sat on the concrete ledge a little further away, her shoulders hunched as she picked at her nail polish like she could peel her way out of this reality. Her nails, which were usually gelled to perfection, were in a state of visible despair, but her hair remained perfect as ever. Maybe that was how it always was? Did she wake up with the Godfrey beauty protecting her? There was something about the way she sat all curled in on herself that made her look small, like someone else entirely-- it felt like one of those horror shows you don't want to watch but can't take your eyes off.

The girls she used to walk arm-in-arm with passed her like she was air. No, wait, not air-- like something rotting. Rotting, and dying. One of them muttered something under her breath as they passed, and I couldn't hear it from afar, but I saw the way Letha's jaw clenched, the way her mouth twitched, like she was fighting the urge to cry or claw back.

Someone laughed, but not at a joke-- at her.

Finally, she knew how that had felt for me. People weren't afraid of her anymore; instead, they only smelled blood in the water.

I inhaled another round of smoke as Peter continued watching Letha with those big, sad eyes of his. Something told me that the sight of her like this pained him the same way it pained me to be away from Roman, and it filled me with a certain sense of evil satisfaction. If I was going to be in agony, then I was going to drag him down with me.

Peter sighed, the smoke from his mouth accompanying his next words; "Are you always this heartless before second period?"

"Yes, actually. I don't owe her any pity," I mumbled. "And are you always this spineless after screwing things up?"

His mouth twitched-- half smirk, half flinch. "I didn't screw everything up by myself,"

"Oh, right, because it was all her," I said, nodding to Letha. "You were just getting your dick wet! You have no fault in this."

He rolled his eyes; "You don't get it,"

"And you're a piece of shit,"

"... Thanks," Peter looked back at Letha, then down at the ground like it might offer answers. "But I can't talk to her, you know this. It's over between her and me. The guilt of it all just... broke me."

"And as I keep telling you, dickwad, it doesn't help anyone that you're ravaged with guilt, or whatever! Roman and I have split up, and he doesn't want to see you anymore, so you've done all the damage you could do," I took another drag, letting the smoke coil out of my nostrils slow and deliberate, like a dragon halfway through a nervous breakdown. "Go be evil together, seriously. Maybe make a game out of seeing who else you can break up, that'd probably be fun, no?"

Peter didn't respond right away. He just stood there, gnawing at the inside of his cheek like he might bite through it; "You're awful. It's not funny," he finally said, voice low. "You think I don't feel like shit about this?"

"I think you feel like shit the same way a raccoon feels bad for tipping over a trash can," I muttered, flicking ash off the end of my cigarette with a snap. "You're not sorry. You're just caught."

"I am sorry," Peter said. "I lost my girl, and I lost my best friend. If you think I'm feeling good about any of this, I suggest you think again." He shoved his free hand into his jacket, pacing a slow, aggravated half-step. "How is Roman, by the way? How's the murder mystery going?"

I shrugged, taking a short, annoyed drag-- I hated the way all my feelings about the matter felt like wet cement in my chest. "No idea," I mumbled. "Roman isn't answering me either."

Peter blinked; "Seriously?"

"Dead serious," I said, letting the smoke curl lazily from my mouth as I tilted my head, smirking just slightly. "Knock, knock, by the way."

Peter blinked, wary. "Uh... Who's there?"

I exhaled through my nose; "The consequences of your actions,"

"Oh, fuck off," Peter groaned, rolling his eyes. "You act like I planned it this way, and you keep acting like you had no fault in this yourself, and!-- ugh, all I ever wanted was for everyone to be happy!"

I took one last drag, let it hang in my chest, and exhaled directly at Peter in hopes of making him cough, of making him hurt. My eyes bore into his, feeling my anger at his stupidity simmer with my words; "And how did that work out for you?"

Peter didn't answer. He just stared at me like I had crossed some invisible line, one even he wouldn't dare to overstep. The wind cut between us, stirring the smoke that drifted around my face like a veil. With one last, final glance at Letha, Peter's cutting gaze landed on me as he threw his cigarette down to the floor, smushing it with his heel. "I can take a lot of shit from you, but you need to cool off. Being a bitch doesn't suit you. I commence this meeting of the dirty mistress club over,"

I would've probably laughed had I not been so dead and bitter inside, but I smiled, slow and mean; "Done? Great. Go waste someone else's time,"

Peter hesitated like he might say something else, but with a sigh, he turned away, the silence between us still crackling like static, like a slap to the face.

As Peter stormed off, no longer caring to bicker with me, I hated the pang of guilt that expanded in my chest. As it started to snowball, it worsened when I turned to look at Letha one last time. Over and over, I told myself I didn't feel sorry for her. I wondered whether Letha ever felt this way when looking at me, all that time ago-- I stayed longer than I meant to, allowing myself to gaze at the girl who had never failed to hold my hair back when I felt sick. There was a sadness in the exile of Letha Godfrey, yet not one I cared to sit with.

To distract myself, I occupied my mind with thoughts of the other Godfrey. The love of my life, the one I hadn't seen physically at school, but the one who hadn't failed to show up in every dream I'd had since the night of the murder. It was the same dream again and again, one I couldn't decipher, one I couldn't make sense of-- was I simply ovulating, or was I going insane?

Every girl had questioned that once or twice, surely.

The dream was the same every time; I'd tell Roman I loved him. Then, he'd ask if someone like him could ever be loved. Then, I'd ask him who he was to decide who could be loved or not, and then... he'd bite me.

He'd bite into my chest, sink his teeth into my heart, and... fucking hell.

I swallowed hard-- just thinking about it made me feel uncomfortably warm. It was horrifyingly embarrassing to think about, and as I turned away from the pathetic sight of Letha, I allowed my cheeks to go rosy.

In my dreams, Roman would bite me, drink my blood, and every fucking time, without fail, I'd...

I'd cum.

Shivering, I wafted the image of the dream away. I tried to explain it as my brain trying to cope with the image of Brooke's body scattered all over the playground, and that it was my mind trying to make the sight of the blood a little less scary. Why did it have to mix in with Roman being a upir, though?

Then again, the more I thought about the fact that he was one, now that Letha wasn't involved and telling me how dangerous he was, the more I realized... I might not be so afraid as I had initially been. Maybe my body was telling me I was starting to embrace him fully? I had no idea. I couldn't make sense of it.

Still, I knew what I had to do; I needed to find Roman and speak to him. Maybe I could clear my head about it if I saw him again? Maybe the fear would return, maybe I could make up my mind about it?

Yeah... I was definitely going insane. ｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

This was a stupid plan. A really, really stupid plan, but it was the only one I could come up with.

I remembered the code to the gate around Roman's house (or should I say mansion?), and I parked my car in front of the massive entryway in the roundabout before the door. It was odd to be back, but it was necessary-- however, in my quest to talk to my murder-solving ex-boyfriend, I had forgotten about the main obstacle in the house.

The door creaked open, and a woman opened the door. Her annoyance with my presence was overshadowed by confusion as she racked her brain for how I could've gotten to her doorstep without being stopped by security. "Yes?" she asked, irritated, as she cocked a brow and scanned me from top to bottom.

It was then and there that I realized where Roman had learned that move from.

Olivia Godfrey was intimidating as ever with her long, black hair falling at around her hip-- she was exactly as I had imagined she'd be after seeing her face on several magazines while shopping at the stores around Hemlock Grove.

Putting on my nicest smile, I straightened up before I spoke; "Sorry to intrude, ma'am, but is Roman home?"

Olivia's upper lip quirked as she spotted my car parked in the roundabout driveway. It was clear that she found me misplaced. "May I ask who's calling?"

I felt my smile turn tighter after I spoke my name, hoping it would ring some sort of bell in her head and that she'd recognise me-- Roman must've told her about me, no?

After hearing my name, Olivia's grip on the door loosened as her eyes gained a wicked twinkle, like she had trapped me and enjoyed poking me with a stick. "Oh..." First poke. "How odd..." Second poke. "Roman has never mentioned you." Third poke. And for the fourth, the finale, the last poke that'd impale me and turn me into a shish kebab-- "Are you one of his pom-poms?"

Pom-poms?

Cheerleaders?!

"They usually never come to the house..." Olivia continued with a grin on her face, her voice deep and warm like a dangerous purr. Something about her tone almost carried pity for me, like it was pathetic of me to sink so low as to come to their house for an easy lay. "Is it something urgent?"

The corners of my mouth twitched as I forced myself to keep smiling, to keep my composure. This woman felt like the equivalent of talking to a rattlesnake. "I'm not a cheerleader, no,"

"No?"

"Certainly not," I said, hoping to gain some of my dignity back.

Olivia now seemed rather confused-- "So this is in regards to...?"

Your son, who is also my ex-boyfriend, is looking for a murderer, and I need to make sure he's not lying dead in a ditch somewhere. "Study group, ma'am," I lied. "English lit."

This seemed to liven her up; in an instant, Olivia was back to smiling again, and she fully let go of the door and leaned towards me like she was about to tell me the juiciest gossip of the town; "Wuthering Heights, then, is it? So tell me, darling, the gypsy orphan Heathcliff-- was he a Byronic hero or proto-Marxist class warrior?"

What the fuck did any of that even mean? I stared at Olivia, my smile unwavering as my brain racked through the last time I ever picked up that book. That must've been last semester, when I ended up not reading it and looked up a summary on the internet. "Sorry ma'am," I tried. "I'm only on chapter two. Haven't gotten very far, you see."

With a disappointed sigh, Olivia's glee retreated as well as her steps, and she scanned me once more with that displeased look in her dark eyes. "Yes... I suppose you haven't," And then, in a different snake-like tone, she continued with a pitied warning; "It really does not end well for him."

"Pardon?"

"For Heathcliff, dear,"

"... Oh,"

What was that supposed to mean? Meeting this woman felt like a psychological exercise, and I began to understand why Roman had been so reluctant for me to meet her.

"Anywho," Olivia huffed, returning to her polite smile. She was switching out her expressions like masks in a theatre. "I'm afraid Roman isn't home at the moment, so I will tell him you stopped by. What was your name, again, darling?"

As I spoke my name with a composed breath, I turned to Roman's red jag, which was parked in front of mine. I wouldn't have approached the door if I hadn't seen it when I came-- he was obviously home. I wanted to say something, maybe even something a little sharp, but as I turned back to face Olivia Godfrey, the alarm in my head went off; upirism is hereditary. She could very well be the one Roman had inherited it all from, and there was no way I was about to piss her off.

With a sigh, Olivia's voice chimed in sweet as honey, yet keen to get me off her doormat. "It was nice to meet you, darling, but--"

No, wait! "He hasn't been to school,"

Fuck it. If I could fuck a upir, I could go up against another one. Was I maybe not so scared, after all?

I nodded towards his car. "Roman hasn't been to school," I repeated, standing my ground. "I haven't seen him all week since the murder in town, and I'm just getting a little worried so-- so if it's not a bother, could you at least tell me how he's doing?"

Caught off guard, Olivia's brows quirked in surprise. "Oh my," she purred, amused. For a moment there, I was sure she even laughed a little. Was it that pathetic that I had bothered to come? Was it blatantly obvious that it was a stupid decision? Everything about this woman made me want to dig a hole and die in it.

It took Olivia a few seconds to recover from the sight of yet another girl pining for her son, and some more to contain her humour, until she suddenly looked like she had sensed someone behind her. Then, she looked down at me with a newfound nonchalance (or was it annoyance?) and stepped away from the door. "Ask him yourself," she sighed.

Olivia let the door swing open fully, revealing Roman a few feet behind her, arms folded over his chest, glaring at me with scathing wrath.

I nearly shivered-- composing myself, I swallowed hard and allowed my heart to abuse the inner linings of my ribs with its excitement. Even now, with his hair undone and with dark circles around his eyes, he looked breathtakingly gorgeous.

Roman's glare never faltered, not even as Olivia rounded the corner and left us alone. His jaw was clenched, and his forearms were flexed, revealing that his hidden hands were balled into fists. "Yeah?" he eventually said, not allowing my stunned silence to go on any longer than necessary.

... Was that all he had to say to me?

I straightened my skirt, my anxiety seeping into the tips of my fingers and burning into my blood. "You disappeared," I breathed. "You haven't been to school all week, you haven't answered any of my messages... I got worried."

Roman didn't flinch, didn't move-- nothing. "I think that's something you should talk about with your guidance counsellor,"

Fucker.

I cocked my head to the side, sending him a look he knew too well. "Seriously, Roman?"

"Dead serious,"

"Can we talk?"

He shrugged, and just as I thought he was about to tell me to fuck off, he pushed away from the wall with an annoyed groan. "Fine," Roman stepped forward with not as much as a trace of a smile, and held out his hand.

Within a second, my hope skyrocketed. I felt myself blush as I raised my hand too, about to put it in his like in the good old times, but he scoffed and dodged me. "Jacket," he hissed, cold.

"Oh," With a heavy heart, I handed Roman my jacket-- things really had changed. We had broken up. We truly weren't together anymore. "Thanks..." I breathed, too flushed and embarrassed to look at him anymore.

This was unbearable-- it was torture.

Yet... it wasn't scary.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

The last time Roman and I had been alone in a library together, I had let him fuck my brains out-- that was certainly not going to happen this time.

But now, as Roman scoured through the Godfrey library, having scattered tons of books on the floor, opened on specific, marked pages, I could only think about how it was to have his hands around me on the floor of the restricted section at the school library. Even though he was now wafting through books that were so old, they should be sent to some sort of archive for preservation, I couldn't stop thinking about how he had used those exact same fingers to fuck his cum deeper into me. Christ.

That day would've probably been the turning point for us, had it not been for Letha telling me he was dangerous over and over. When you get fed one line of information, told with such confidence and fervour, how do you convince yourself it's not true? I suppose it was my brain trying to tie itself down to normalcy instead of going against the stream. As I stood here now, leaning against some gorgeous old shelf in Roman's family library, I once again reinstated the thought that I had fucked us up by trusting Letha.

God, how I had fucked up.

Anyway-- it was really damn inappropriate for me to be thinking about the way Roman had fucked me that time in the restricted section, especially as he finally started rambling about what he had been up to all week.

"--So, since the police found Brooke's legs a little further away, they're not saying it's a mauling... Have you caught that on the news?" he asked, climbing down the set of library stairs with another book in hand. "Those stupid idiots are looking for a human. I told you they wouldn't look in the right places."

It felt wrong to encourage Roman's obsession with the murder and the idea that it wasn't a normal animal, yet I did what I could to stay close to him. The crime scene had looked odd, after all-- I could get behind that. "Okay, yeah... I hear you,"

"They think it's some sicko serial killer dude running around," Roman huffed, flipping through the pages of the new book to find a page he had previously read. "That it's someone's mark. I listened in on the police intercom a few days ago to hear what they were saying, and they're trying to connect it to some killer dude in Iowa--"

"Hold on!" I flailed my arms as I stepped away from the shelf, hoping to get his attention. "You hacked into the police intercom?!"

Roman fixed his gaze on me, visibly annoyed to have to stop scouring the pages of the book. "Not technically. Since when would I have had the brains for that? I just know the password to their system,"

"Password?!"

"How many times do I have to tell you that my family basically is the police? It was easy to get," With a roll of his eyes, Roman returned to his search. "Anyway, this serial killer guy from Iowa would've carved something into her abdomen, some satanic symbol, and Brooke didn't have that when we saw her. I'm waiting for the police to make that connection, but she's getting buried soon and they're all talking about how the morgue is giving them shit for wanting to delay the funeral so they can inspect the body again... It's all unnecessarily complicated." Finally, he put down the book next to the others on the floor, stepping away to look at them all together as though it were an art installation he had to decipher. "It's not some dude from Iowa who is responsible for this. I'm sure of it."

Slowly, I dared to step forward towards the carefully laid out books spread out across the hardwood floor. When I got closer, I caught a glimpse of the look in Roman's eyes, how big his pupils were, how disoriented he seemed-- he almost looked like he was in the middle of a manic episode, or like he was about to audition for the role of the new Doctor Who. "So... you've been home from school to figure out who could've done it?"

"Yeah," he breathed, not blinking. "But there are many possibilities, too many. I'm getting in over my head here, and I've got too much information on my hands... This fucking library is huge. My great grandpa wasn't fucking around about knowledge, and he made sure all this stuff was preserved."

I sighed-- if Roman and I had still been together, I would've known how to soothe him better. Now, all my methods would've been deemed highly inappropriate or simply too intimate. "That's why I'm here to help," I tried. "I told you that I'm not letting you do this alone."

In the midst of his daze, Roman didn't care to turn to look at me, but I knew he saw me through the corner of his eye. It made me feel like I was some spider on the wall that he was deciding whether to squish to death or not. "Your heart's not in it though," he said, monotone.

"It... is?"

"It's not. You don't care about the murder,"

"I do!"

"Not like me," he argued. "Your heart's not in it."

If only Roman knew how much of my heart was actually in it, in the palm of his hands. With a sigh, I dared to speak; "My heart is wherever you are, Rome,"

Silence.

Deafening silence.

Finally, he turned to face me, but it wasn't relief that softened his expression-- it was something more devastating; regret. Maybe even fear? "Don't say shit like that," he said, his tone raw in a way that broke me bit by bit. "You're making it worse."

My heart twisted into my lungs. "But I mean it," I breathed.

Roman groaned; "That's the problem," he snapped, suddenly sharp. "You mean it, and I-- I can't--" He cut himself off, dragging a hand through his hair as though trying to scrub the words from his skull. Roman did his best to erase it from his memory, now pressing his palm to his forehead as he closed his eyes and pushed it all away. "I've cornered it down to at least three things it could be."

"... What?"

"The killer,"

"Oh," Swallowing hard, I nodded and forced myself to turn away from him to look down at the books. Was Roman maybe going insane? Was I enabling a manic episode? I wasn't so sure. All I knew, was that I had promised to stay by him no matter what this time, and I was going to stick to that.

There were many gorgeous illustrations of different animals, all made with something calligraphy pen-like. Heaps of information had been written down on the pages with much less precision than the drawings, and the more I looked at them all, I realized they didn't look like books-- they looked like diaries.

"Roman?" I breathed. "Were these all made by your great grandfather?"

He was still rubbing his temples, eyes closed, when he hummed. "He had a lot of money, so he travelled a lot,"

Okay... This went much deeper than this generation of Godfreys. "I see," I tried, bending down to get a closer look at one of the many beautiful illustrations. "He writes that he saw these things?"

"Yeah," Roman opened his eyes to see which book I was checking out. "He drew everything to remember them."

Jesus Christ. "Was your great grandfather perhaps... schizophrenic?"

Roman let out a short, humorless snort, the sound edged with just enough irritation to sting. "Thanks," he muttered, not even bothering to hide the sarcasm. "Real supportive. You're doing a great job so far."

I turned to glance at him, caught between an apology and an awkward half-smile. "I didn't mean--"

"No, it's fine," His jaw tensed as he leaned back against the shelves, eyes flicking toward the ceiling like he was praying for patience. "Let's just entertain the possibility that maybe, just maybe, my dead great grandfather wasn't completely out of his goddamn mind... just for fun."

Fine. I shut up.

Roman sighed, grabbing the nearest diary and flipping through it without care, like he knew exactly what page he wanted. "He saw things," he continued, tone flatter now. "Things that match what we saw at the playground."

I stepped closer and frowned at the page he'd stopped on. It was some kind of creature that looked like a wolf if it had been dragged through hell and then stitched back together. Bone-thin limbs, eyes like pits, a mouth full of teeth that curved wrong. Was Roman's great grandfather maybe tripping on shrooms back in the day? "Is this the...?"

"Vargulf," Roman nodded. "First suspect. It makes sense, sort of. They kill their prey without eating it, and they're not connected to the full moon, like usual werewolves. This is basically a werewolf that's gone crazy, and it just... rips bodies apart out of insanity, or something. I really, really don't want it to be this thing."

I swallowed, suddenly cold at the memory of Brooke's torn body. "And the others?"

Roman ticked them off with his fingers, not bothering to look at me. "Some French thing called the beast of... however the fuck you pronounce it. It was some wolf-lion hybrid that killed tons of people back in France. And these Welsh death hounds that I also can't fathom how to pronounce, but they were dogs that hunted souls.... And these things were all animals, all real, if you believe half the shit in these books,"

"And you do?"

He glanced at me a little sideways. "I believe what he saw. This guy was legit. These aren't fairytales made by some drunkard,"

"But... I'm sorry, that's what this sounds like,"

Roman closed the diary with a sudden boom, almost like he was trying to wake himself up or scare me half to death. "Fairytales don't leave bodies," He dropped the book to the floor with a loud thud-- he could've just as easily dropped a mic.

"Okay..." I mumbled, trying my best not to sound so skeptical-- no, this was crazy. "But I doubt that French wolf-lions would be roaming around the Pennsylvanian countryside, and I don't know how these Welsh hounds could've made their way all the way across the ocean, so that sort of leaves us with the--"

"Vargulf," Roman found another book which seemed to have more details about the beast. "I agree that it makes the most sense. They can appear all over the world, and they have the biggest chance of being real."

"Being real? So now we're doubting your great grandpa again?"

Roman straightened up, realizing he had walked directly into that one. Clearing his throat, he raised his gaze from the book to stare back at me, blinking; "This is a guy that drew mythical creatures. We've got to be a little realistic,"

I snorted before I could stop myself.

Roman rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched, just barely. "All I'm saying is, if a supernatural creature is running around eating girls in our town, I'd really prefer not to be the guy who shrugged it off because it sounded a little French,"

"Right..." He had a point, albeit a crazy one. I still had hope this was some serial killer from Iowa after all, even though that was no less dark. "But Roman?"

"Yes?"

"When..." I almost didn't dare to ask the question, but the more I looked at him, the less I saw of that usual spark in his green eyes, and the more I worried. His cheeks were sunken in, the circles around his eyes were concerning, and he almost looked a bit paler than usual (although I wasn't sure that was even possible). I took a deep breath; "When was the last time you ate?"

Roman froze, the question hanging in the air like a heavy fog. His expression tightened, the usual charm replaced by something sharp and distant. "You're still asking that?"

I couldn't help it-- the thought had been gnawing at me for a good few minutes now. Maybe even days, if I allowed myself to admit it. "I worry about you," I breathed. "I'll always ask that."

He dropped the book he'd been holding onto a table nearby with a soft thud, taking his time to answer. It was clear that it was overwhelming, confusing, and distracting to hear those words from me. "Look, I'm not your boyfriend anymore, alright? You don't need to check in on me,"

My heart dropped. "Roman, I'm--"

"I knew this would happen," he mumbled, running a hand through his hair as he turned to me. It was only then that I saw how seriously this was affecting him-- his green eyes had rounded out, and his breath came out in choppy motions. "If you're going to keep saying stuff like that, then we can't investigate this together. I can't handle the push and pull that comes with being around you, so if you want to be of any help, if you still want to solve this case with me, then I suggest you stop."

"But I'm not trying to!--"

"Yes, you are!" Roman barked. "Either you're solving a murder, or you're trying to get me back! Pick one, because you can't choose both!"

My fists balled-- I hated what we had turned into. "And if I want you?"

Roman's jaw clenched at my words, but his eyes didn't soften. There was that wall again, and it felt higher than ever before. "You can't," he said, his voice lower now, almost like he was trying to convince himself more than me. "You can't. Not with what we've been through. Not with how you reacted to what I am."

"That's unfair! I was scared!--"

"And you said you'd love me through everything! You promised!"

The words echoed in the library, and they hit my heart with shattering pain. I could feel my heart splitting in my chest, the ache gnawing at me as I tried to steady myself. "Roman," I whispered, my throat tight. I couldn't look at him. I didn't want to see the pain in his eyes. "What makes you think I don't still love you?"

That seemed to be the breaking point for Roman. Not his great grandfather's mythical creatures, not the vargulf, not the murders-- it was the thought that someone could maybe love him for what he was. He wasn't looking at me anymore when he picked up a few books and started putting them back where they belonged, letting the silence comfort him like a warm blanket. "Leave," he breathed, pained by the words. "Just leave."

His words hit me like a slap, but I swallowed the sting and nodded slowly. I deserved that-- I knew that deep in my gut. Deciding not to add to his turmoil any longer, I stepped away from Roman and started walking towards the door, taking in the sheer height of it. Everything had to be accommodated for the giants in this house, after all.

But then, I heard the creak of wood-- Roman had paused and taken a step back from the bookshelf, yet he still held one book up, frozen. He didn't turn to me, the tension in the air almost suffocating, but he sighed as though he was forcing the words out; "It's the same guy, y'know,"

With my hand now on the knob of the door, I glanced at Roman-- with his arm stretched out like that, I could see the vein running up his arm, and it immediately made my mind buzz. Being in a library with this guy was ridiculously dangerous for my mental state. "Sorry?"

"My great grandfather was the one I inherited those vials from," he breathed. "The ones you and I shared."

The ones that were lying safely on top of my nightstand-- the ones he didn't know I still had both of. The night I found out Roman was a upir, I had told him that I threw away his vial when I stole it off of him, yet his blood was next to mine in my bedroom, just like our human forms had once been. At least some parts of us could enjoy the closeness, although not sentient.

My heart lurched in my chest, dying to let him know I had kept it after all this time-- I concluded that today wasn't the day. If Roman was taking small steps like these, I needed to match his tempo. This time, it was me chasing him, after all. "I'd have loved to meet this guy," I said, allowing myself a faint smile. "You Godfreys are one hell of a bunch."

Roman shrugged, finally moving again. "Hell, indeed,"

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

When is a monster not a monster?

Oh, when you love it.

Oh, when you used to sing it to sleep.

I could feel it clear as night-- the dream I had been having every night since the murder was back, and I knew it because of how soft Roman's hair felt against my fingertips. I gently held him in my arms and pressed my lips to his temple as softly as the first snowflake falls onto land. Roman's skin was smooth, cold to the touch; I wanted to warm him. Wanted to keep him forever, wanted to get us both to the temperature of warm glass so that we could melt into one another and become encased in the restraints of our love.

When he moved, when his soft lips met mine, I could feel them against my mouth-- the sharp edges of his teeth. They were small for now, so small that no one would notice something was off unless they knew. Cute little fangs, like milk teeth for a baby upir, still waiting for the real deal to come in when he'd grow into the creature he was meant to be.

They grazed against my bottom lip, careful not to nick skin. Roman's breath was warm, a contrast to the rest of him, and my breath hitched, a small moan leaving me as he filled me up over and over-- I pulled him closer, and he let me. How could he ever deny me? In my dreams, he'd certainly never. I arched up against him, whimpering with the pleasure I had so dearly missed.

Roman groaned like it hurt to hold back what he wanted to do to me, his hips stuttering against mine as his hand interlocked my hair, forcing me to expose more of my neck with the first rough pull of the night. No longer holding back any of his desires, Roman's cock dragged into me over and over with the sweetest of rhythms, the tip pressing against the spot he knew made my jaw quiver against him, and his tongue licked a wet line above the thrumming of my heartbeat along my neck.

My fingers pulled into a fist in his hair, whimpering beneath him-- "I love you," I breathed, kissing the top of his head, anywhere where I could reach.

Roman hummed against my throat, his upir fangs dragging a little harder over my pulse. "Why would anyone love a monster?" he whispered, a sliver of restraint coating his voice.

It was hard to answer now that my legs pulled around his waist, dragging him deeper into me, and I caused myself further ruin, all for the pleasure. Getting filled up by Roman, my love, was all I ever wanted in life. "Who are you to decide who-- a-ah, who's worthy of love?"

At that, he slowly raised his head, lips parted, eyes narrowed like he was scanning me for lies, like he was waiting for me to say something contradictory, to say something that would hurt him beyond everything I had already done. Roman's green eyes met mine-- there was something ancient there. Maybe every Godfrey had looked at someone like this, with the tiny fragment of hope their generational curse hadn't manage to strip them of?

Roman didn't answer-- his forehead pressed to mine, and for a moment, we just breathed. Our chests moved together, hearts pounding in sync, and the sweat cooling on our skin only made his coldness feel sharper; evidence of what he was, of what I had embraced.

He kissed me again, slower now. Devotional.

Every kiss a thrumming repetition of I'm yours, I'm yours, you're mine.

I'm yours, I'm yours, you're mine.

His thrusts deepened, burying his cock in me to the hilt, and I could only clench around him. I had missed the stretch, missed the sting, missed the dizzying pleasure. So when Roman's kisses burned into my skin for all of eternity, he started travelling lower, like he was ready to mark the whole of me so that hell would know who I belonged to when I walked through the gates of damnation.

I shivered as his lips trailed across my collarbone, each kiss paired with a rough snap of his cock, growing desperate. My hands slid through his hair, urging him on without a word; what could I possibly say? I had said enough. I didn't need to guide him-- he already knew where he was going.

Down.

Over the swell of my breast, just enough pressure to make me sigh and arch against him again.

Down.

To the center of my chest with purpose, with reverence.

Roman paused over my sternum. His hand came up to rest on the left side of my chest, right over my heart. He could feel it there-- thrumming like a caged bird against his palm. My breath hitched as his lips brushed the spot, featherlight.

A pair of dangerous green eyes flicked up to mine; dark and wide, pupils blown, lips parted. In the moonlight, I could spot the small shine of the moonlight against his fangs. And then, the words slipped my mind before I could stop them;

"It's okay," I breathed. "Drink me where I love you most."

Roman's hips stilled, yet the twitch of his cock inside me gave away his instant excitement. I could see the way he melted at my bid. He didn't ask for confirmation, not wanting to deny himself the feed, before he kissed the skin above my heart one last time. I closed my eyes, feeling myself tremble beneath him as his mouth opened, followed by the scrape of his fangs.

"I love you," Roman whispered. "Forever."

And then he bit down.

It was a deep, brutal puncture-- the sound of the crack of bones would haunt me until the day I ceased to exist. His teeth dug straight through my skin, ripping through the layers of my body to get to my beating heart.

And it hurt, God how it hurt, but not in the way I expected it to. My veins were on fire as the blood drained from my system, and it burned as I could only sob and scream-- my soul had been cracked open and was pouring into him. My blood, my love, my fear, my rage, my want; all of it.

I cried like I had lost all that was dearest to me, cried like it was my first cry all over again as I clutched onto Roman's broad shoulders, digging my fingers into his skin like it'd do him the same harm, like it'd do my pain justice. But suddenly, something clicked-- it must've been death. It must've been the sweet lull of death turning this agony into pleasure. Because suddenly, I was writhing beneath Roman's body, pushing myself further down on his cock as he drank me, whimpering like I wanted him to keep fucking me to death.

With a groan, Roman's cock went deeper at my pleading request, harder, until every thrust drove me into peaceful silence.

I wasn't crying from the pain anymore-- I was crying from the relief.

But when I awoke from this dream, I cried out with a shriek.

Drenched in sweat, I sat up in bed, heaving for air. My thighs were clenched together for relief, because even in my awake state, I felt like I was still getting fucked-- it was the oddest feeling. If I really focused, then I could still feel the pressure of Roman's mouth over my chest, and to relieve the burn that followed, I hammered my fist over my heart to battle the pain.

Grabbing my pillow, I let out a yell of pure and utter frustration into it-- I wasn't scared.

My Brooke-PTSD had somehow turned Roman's upirism into...

Something hot?

I knew I was fucked when I grabbed the vial of his blood by my nightstand and pressed it to my chest, right where he had bit me in my dream, and it worked. It stilled the erratic beating of my heart, it made the pain subside, yet, as I continued to rub my thighs together, feeling myself pulse in my soaked underwear, my breath refused to calm down.

Tonight was different-- something in me shifted. I couldn't go on like this. I promised I'd give it more time, but I couldn't do it anymore.

With trembling hands, I let the vials lie against my chest as I reached for my phone. I searched through my contacts for the old name I used to have in my contacts, Romy Schneider, before I remembered the time I had changed it to Roman when we broke up the first time.

Was I about to do this? Was I about to call my ex in the middle of the night?--

Yes.

Yes, I was.

With a shaky breath, I dared to finally press the button I had wanted to press ever since the night Brooke died; it was time. I wasn't sure whether Roman was up at this hour of the night or not, whether he would answer, or--

My phone stopped beeping. He had answered.

To my absolute horror, I was completely tongue-tied. I lay in bed, mouth wide open in shock that Roman was literally on the other side of the call; a stillness bloomed in the silence, fragile and waiting, like the air itself had braced for the weight of this call. It was long enough to hear the faint rustle of sheets on his end.

"... Hello?" His voice was coated in sleep and something else I couldn't quite name, something that sounded like dread.

Okay, okay-- it was now or never. "The vials," I blurted out, curling further into myself on the bed, pressing the phone tighter to my ear like it could anchor me. "I mean-- hi, good night, or evening, or... whatever? Sorry for calling you so late, but you mentioned them earlier today, and I just-- I didn't get rid of yours, Roman. I lied."

The quiet on the other end stretched longer now. I could picture him sitting up, rubbing his face, trying to shake off the dream he was probably still half in, trying to decide whether to indulge my pathetic rant or not. "You're calling me... at three in the morning," he finally said, slow and deliberate, like he needed the words to catch up to his thoughts. "To talk about this?"

"... Yes,"

Another pause. A sharper inhale this time. "You're impossible,"

"I'm sorry," I pressed the vials to my chest, fingers trembling. I didn't know why I was saying any of this out loud. I hadn't planned it, but after the nightmare, after waking up soaked and breathless, heart hammering and thighs clenched like I'd been touched in real time, I couldn't hold it in anymore. "I saw you tonight," I breathed. "In my dreams. I dream of you every night, and I... I hate that that's the only place I see you." And just as I thought I couldn't get any more pathetic, it slipped past my lips-- "Do you ever dream of me too?"

Roman's response was strained, fragile around the edges; "Seriously, you have to stop this. Do you not hear me telling you that? You can't say shit like that to me right now,"

"Why not?"

"Because I don't know if this is real," he snapped, groaning. "Because I'm half-asleep and you're... you're calling me about our blood and your dreams and... what do you want me to do with this? Are you trying to make me upset?"

"No! I-- I just needed you to know!"

Roman let out a shaky breath, shifting in his bed. Something told me he wasn't trying to suppress his annoyance anymore; "You're not letting me move on. When you call me like this, you're making it really fucking impossible for me, are you aware of that? Do you do this on purpose? We ended it, then you show up at my house today, and I think it's only fair that you!--"

"I still love you, Roman,"

Another pause. A ragged breath from him, like he had run a mile just lying in bed. "Stop it,"

"Hang up, then," I said, voice barely above a whisper.

His breath stilled-- that told me enough.

I sank deeper into the mattress, every nerve alive. My fingers tightened around the vials resting on my chest. The glass felt cool against my skin, grounding; at least he was here with me, in some form or another. "I know that I reacted... wrongly when I found out what you were, and I'm sorry," I said. "If I could take it all back, I would. Do you believe me when I say that?"

Roman's answer was immediate-- "No,"

I was crying before I realized it. Silent, hot tears spilling into my hair as I stared up into the dark. The vials trembled against my skin. "You once told me that you wouldn't be satisfied until I woke up and saw that I'm supposed to be with you and no one else. Do you remember that?"

"... You're really damn persistent, are you aware of that?--"

"Then you know what I feel for you," Saying that out loud felt like a huge exhale, and I continued; "I've chased you before, Roman, I can do it again. Don't you think we deserve another chance?"

I heard the mattress shift again on his end-- he was pacing, maybe. Standing in the dark, forehead pressed to a window somewhere in that too-big house of his. "You've ruined me," he breathed. "You've left me in ruins."

"I love you,"

"I have no chances to give,"

"I love you,"

"You've fucking ruined me,"

I squeezed my eyes shut. "We've both made mistakes," I whispered, wiping my tears to no avail. "But I think I'll love you forever."

Forever.

Roman didn't respond right away. I could hear him breathing, shallow and uneven, like he was trying not to scream. This was the kind of silence that only comes when someone is holding themselves together by the thinnest thread. I held the phone tighter, wishing it could bridge the distance, wishing I could crawl through the receiver and be with him.

"I wish you hadn't called," Roman finally said. "Everything just hurts."

"Then let me help you feel better," I tried, broken and desperate. "Come over, Rome."

"... What?" Roman let out a bitter, breathy laugh, one that held no humor; "You're unbelievable. Do you even know what you're asking?"

"No, no, it's-- I didn't mean sex!--"

"Right... Should've known,"

"Rome, come on, it's not! I swear, I just... I just want to hold you," I said. "I can't breathe when you're not near, and I-- I miss your eyes. Your gorgeous, green eyes, and your soft hair against my fingers, and how peaceful you look in your sleep... I miss you. I miss sleeping next to you."

The silence that ensued was so quiet that I thought Roman had hung up, until he finally said; "Not tonight,"

A fresh wave of emotions rose in my throat. "Please," I whispered, allowing my breath to hitch as my tears doubled. "Please, Roman-- please."

"I can't,"

"I love you,"

"I need time," he breathed. "I need you to give me time."

Something in my chest shifted-- it was like he had lifted a ton off my shoulders. To hear Roman giving me a sliver of hope after this dreadful week felt like a blessing from all the Gods I didn't believe in. "I have all the time in the world,"

I heard a faint rustle, maybe him wiping his face. Was he not going to say anything? The silence buzzed, and I grasped the moment; "... Will you at least come to school tomorrow?" I asked, barely louder than a whisper. "Please?"

He let out a bitter, tired breath. "God, you don't give up, do you?"

"I just want to see you. I know we're broken up, but... this is agony,"

"So you're going back to staring at me from afar?"

... Yes. "I'll settle for that for now," I had forgotten that Roman knew about how obsessed I was with him before we got together. I had forgotten it too, to be honest-- repressed it, probably.

"For now?"

"For now,"

"What does that mean?"

"That this isn't temporary," I mumbled. "When this murder business is over, you'll see."

"... Christ," I could hear the rustle of him pulling the phone away, maybe checking the time again. I heard him curse under his breath before he spoke again, quiet, resigned, and wrecked; "Fine, I'll come to school."

I blinked up at the ceiling through the tears that still clung to my lashes. "Thank you," I whispered, trying not to sound too relieved.

Roman didn't reply, but the silence felt less sharp now. Warmer, somehow. I imagined him sitting down at the edge of his bed with one hand over his eyes, exhausted by everything, yet still choosing to say; "And I do, by the way,"

"... Do what?"

Roman sighed, sniffling; "Dream of you. Always,"

(a/n: EEK THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING THIS FARRRRR MWAH MWAH<3333 ILY)

never have I ever: ← previous chapter

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lovely little taglist:

@strmborns @eugsposts @ellie1725 @amidthechaos

@likecherriesinthespring @lussuria-zephyr @kittydiarys @4everangelblogger

@go-fuck-yourselfs-posts @dreamxaboutxsomethingxnice @sweatyconnoisseurstrawberry @burningmiraclekingdom

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#roman godfrey #hemlock grove #roman godfrey x reader #x reader #bill skarsgård #fanfiction #oneshot #bill skarsgard #fanfic #angst #vampire #vampirism #hemlock grove fanfiction #AGH OH THE NEXT CHAPTER IS GONNA SERVE Y'ALL #and Olivia UGHHHHH meanie

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harkness-pet · 3 days ago

Text

power grab gone wrong

Pairing: Agatha x fem!reader

Warnings: double manipulation? idk, kind of bottom!agatha?

Plot: agatha has found another source of power, playing her usual game of cruel words, but your ability makes it easy to play the game, maybe even better than Agatha herself

MEN AND MINORS DNI!

You were driven into the forest with stones and fire. You had not been burned, not yet, but the promise of it lingered in the air since the villagers banished you.

Now you lived in the dead places of the forest, where the sun touched nothing and the roots whispered of old hungers. You survived on stolen bread and berries and moss-water. Your magic was quiet, like the hush before a storm. It was not fire or wind or death, but feeling. You could pull sorrow from a bird’s wing or joy from a dying tree. You could understand others so deeply, it made your chest ache.

It was a curse, and it had saved you.

You were crouched beside a stream one twilight, half-starved, cupping you hands for water, when the forest went silent. The birds fell mute. The wind recoiled. You looked up.

A woman stood across the stream. Draped in robes the color of purple, skin pale, hair like wild and wavy. She didn’t blink.

You knew who she was, you had heard the stories of witches being attacked by one of their own.

Agatha Harkness stepped from the shadow of the trees like she belonged to them. Her cloak flowed behind her, whispering secrets in a language older than the soil. Her pale hand rested lazily on her hip, her eyes sharp and glinting like the edge of a polished blade.

“Well,” she said, looking you up and down with open disdain. “A little scrap of meat and magic. I smelled you half a mile off. You reek of hunger and hope. Disgusting.”

You didn’t move. You stood by the stream, your bare feet half-submerged in the cold water, your tattered dress clinging to your legs like ivy. You looked at Agatha the way you observe a storm - beautiful, terrible.

“I don’t want trouble,�� you murmured.

Agatha’s lip curled. “You’re in a forest older than death, little bird. Trouble is the only thing that lives here.”

She took a step closer, the ground beneath her feet darkening with each stride.

“What’s your trick, then?” she cooed mockingly. “Do you make flowers bloom from your palms? Heal injured rabbits and weep when people cry?” She leaned in. “Or maybe it’s something nasty, something hidden… are you going to explode my heart with a thought? Melt my bones with a scream?”

You said nothing. Your eyes flicked to Agatha’s fingers, where old magic hummed. Old powerful magic.

“Come on,” Agatha drawled. “Hit me. Hex me. Try. You want to, don’t you?”

Your breath caught. The witch was obviously crazy, but she was so mesmerisingly beautiful that you started wondering whether the dead witches had simply given up their powers upon meeting this woman.

Agatha grinned. “Don’t pretend you're a saint. You’ve got it in you. All that bitterness, all that grief. Use it. Cast your first spell with teeth.”

Still, you didn’t move. Her soul was pouring into your veins without you having to do anything. Empathy was your greatest power and your greatest curse.

Agatha’s tone turned sweet, mocking. “What’s wrong? Afraid you’ll miss? Or worse, afraid I’ll laugh while I burn?”

She circled you now, slowly, dragging her nails along the air as if shaping invisible wire.

“I know what you are,” she whispered into your ear. “A soft little doe who thinks kindness will save her. You think the world will change if you cry hard enough. You think if you love someone enough, they won’t put a knife in your back. Pathetic.”

Your eyes shimmered, but not with fear.

Agatha stepped in front of you, lowering her face until you were inches apart.

“I bet you’ve never even hurt anyone,” she sneered. “Not once. Not properly. You’ve never screamed so loud your throat bled. Never snapped a bone just to feel something break. You don’t know power.”

She raised a hand, and purple fire licked her fingertips.

“I could unmake you right here,” she said with a smile. “Wipe you out like a candle. But I’d rather earn it. I want to feel your resistance. I want to taste your strength when it bleeds out of your mouth.” She leaned close, breath cold as fog. “Make me work for it. Come on. Give me an excuse.”

Silence fell again.

Then you smiled, just a little. While Agatha was talking, your power made it easy to read her like a book.

“You’re trying so hard,” you said softly. “Is it always like this? Do you always have to beg people to fight you, just to feel something real?”

Agatha blinked. “What did you say?”

You tilted your head, your voice calm, kind, devastating. “You think if you hurt me enough, I’ll just attack you so you can steal my power? Trust me, you don’t want my power.”

Agatha recoiled a step, confusion and intrigue flickering through her expression.

“I’m not afraid of you,” you said. “I pity you.”

A flicker of raw emotion cracked across Agatha’s face, gone as quickly as it came. But you saw it. Felt it.

Agatha snarled. “Don’t pity me. Don’t you dare—”

“You’re tired,” you said gently. “And lonely. You push people until they turn to ash in your hands because you’re too scared to see who would stay. And it’s so much easier to kill someone who wants to kill you back.”

Agatha’s magic faltered, just a fraction. Her jaw tightened.

“But deep down you just want someone to surprise you. To not lash out at your cruel words. To not attack you.”

Agatha raised her hand again, fire boiling in her palm, but her wrist trembled. “Stop it,” she hissed. “Whatever curse you’re casting—stop it!”

“I’m not casting anything,” you said, stepping closer. “I’m just seeing you. That is my power.”

Agatha stared at you. Her chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths. No one had looked at her like that in a hundred years.

And that, more than any magic, was what broke her.

“You don’t see anything,” Agatha growled.

You smiled softly and lifted up your hand to trace the hem of Agatha’s bodice, where satin met skin. Agatha’s breath hitched and you could feel the touch starvation pouring from her into you in deep waves.

“You could have me, we could be a team,” you whispered. Your fingers trailed up to her neck and you pressed your thumb against her pulse. You leaned closer to Agatha’s ear and murmured softly, “I know everyone’s weaknesses.”

Agatha made a noise at the back of her throat and immediately pushed you away. “You think I want a child clinging to my skirts? Don’t flatter yourself.”

You closed the distance again, grabbing Agatha’s hips and making her step back until she was pressed up against a nearby tree. You could feel her resolve cracking, you could feel her hunger, her loneliness, her pride.

“I’ll be good,” you said earnestly. “You can teach me. I’ll learn anything you want.”

“You don’t know what you’re offering.”

“I do.”

Agatha sneered. “Are you trying to seduce me, little worm? You think I’ll melt because you beg prettily?”

You didn’t flinch and you smirked at her. I don’t think. I know you will. Agatha underestimated you, maybe empathy was a cruel ability to have, but it made it easier for you to manipulate. To get what you want.

And right now, you wanted safety. Even if it meant finding it with a witch killer.

You grabbed Agatha’s hair and pushed it over her shoulders. Agatha was watching you with caution, but also with interest, as if she wanted to see how the whole game would play out. Your lips softly attached to the soft skin of her throat.

“You’re already melting.” You tilted your head back to look into Agatha’s eyes, your finger tracing the lines of her face. When your finger reach Agatha’s lips, your own hunger deepened when she slightly parted them. “Poor thing”, you cooed. “How long has it been since someone touched you without fear?” How long had it been since someone touched you?

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, I could-“ Agatha’s words died in her throat when you suddenly leaned down and licked a long striped across her neck, humming as if tasting something delicious. Her magic was playing on your tongue. Agatha shivered.

“You’re shaking,” you said softly. “You wanted me to be afraid. But you’re the one trembling.”

Agatha’s jaw tensed. “Don’t.”

But you continued because you knew you already had her. Agatha might be a dangerous woman, but with your gift, with your clever words, she’d want you by her side, offering you safety you so deeply longer for. “You came out here to hunt me. You thought I’d throw sparks and scream. That I’d make it easy. But I didn’t. And now you don’t know what to do with me.”

Agatha snarled, but there was no fire in it now. “I could still take everything you are.”

You smiled. Not cruelly. Not innocently. It was the smile of someone who knew. “I’m offering it freely,” you whispered.

Agatha blinked. “What?”

You pressed herself more against her. Your voice dropped, soft and intimate. “You don’t have to break me. You don’t have to hurt me. I’ll give you all of me if you just ask. I’ll follow you, serve you. I’ll belong to you.”

Agatha’s breath caught in her throat. You were weaving something now, not a spell, at least, not in the usual sense. But your words dripped with power. Power drawn from emotion, from truth, from Agatha’s own fraying desires.

“In exchange for…?”

“Safety,” you mused, dipping your hand into Agatha’s hair, pulling them softly. “Companionship.”

Agatha’s lips parted, but no answer came. One more push and you had her.

“I could be yours,” you said. “Your shadow. Your student. Your comfort. I could be the one thing that doesn’t run from you.”

You stepped back and lowered yourself on your knees, looking up at her, fluttering your eyelashes prettily, Agatha’s power seeping into you, your power seeping into her. Your voice dropped to a murmur. “I could worship you, Agatha.”

The forest seemed to exhale around you. Agatha let out a shaky breath at the implication and your energy rushing into her veins. Her fingers curled into her dress.

“You’re playing a dangerous game, girl,” she hissed, but her voice had lost its edge.

Your grasped the hem of her skirt and sneaked your hands under, firmly grabbing her calves, her thighs, drawing lines with your fingernails. You smiled lazily. “I’m not playing,” you said, “but if I were… I think I’d be winning.”

Agatha’s eyes closed for a moment and when she opened them again, looking down on you, they were full of hunger that was desperate to get out. “I should tear your mind apart.”

“You could try,” you whispered, softly massaging her thighs now, slowly spreading them and realising with pleasure that Agatha was letting you. “But I think you like this better.”

Agatha didn’t answer with words, but she slowly pushed her feet more apart.

You smirked and then looked up at her with a question in the tilt of your head.

And she knew what you were asking, and she nodded. You pressed the heal of your hand against her center and watched her head fall back against the tree.

You dipped your fingers below the fabric and moaned at how wet she was. “Aren’t you the most powerful witch in all the galaxies?” you whispered while your fingers worked. You pushed two fingers into her and her warmth accepted you as if your fingers belonged inside of her. “Spreading your legs for a nobody in the middle of a forest?”

Agatha’s hand dropped and she gripped your hair. “Shut your mouth.”

You chuckled and dipped under her skirt, putting your mouth to a better use.

#agatha harkness smut #agatha harkness x reader #agatha x you #agatha x reader

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son-of-lunadeyis · 2 days ago

Text

various riptide headcanons that keep me up at night

chip can't smoke weed very often because sometimes it makes the air smell of a late night card game in the back alley of a bar on skullslice with reuben and his friends while they were all high as fuck, back when reuben was his brother first and leader second.

despite the fact that gillion hopes knows he'll never have to use them, he has contingency plans on how to take down/out any of the crew members at any given time. there's a few things from his training that gillion can't seem to unlearn and that's one of them. some days he struggles to look his cocaptains in the eye as his mind runs through the fastest way to kill them despite how hard he tries to stop thinking about it.

when jayson started getting distant, jay found herself having intrusive thoughts of hurting herself and acting out in order to get his attention. these stopped shortly after ava's death, and jay can't help but wonder if it's because not even that got his attention.

may tried to use her mom voice on chip once before they left to go back to canella and he instantly started crying. he made her promise not to tell jay and she just hugged him until he let go.

furthermore when ollie's mom slapped the two in the forest, gillion didn't say anything but he could feel the way chip shook as he gripped his hand.

jay has a small doll hidden on the ship somewhere that she picked up at a market during a supply run because it looks like the one her father shot and when she's having a hard time she'll just go sit with it

chip frequently struggles with derealization and thinks it's normal but people don't like to talk about it, as well as his frequent PTSD symptoms

a few days after chip got his heart ripped out, he still had some now-dead tissue that began to fall apart in his throat so he would have coughing fits that made him wretch and dry heave until black viscera came out. he did his best to hide this from the others.

#🪸 ; high tide !#🏴‍☠️ ; riptide !#jrwi riptide #jrwi chip #jrwi jay #jrwi gillion

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jennxxe · 3 days ago

Text

She told me…

pairing — bobby campbell x fem! reader

summary — you find bobby’s diary and you read it because you’re a nosy ass bitch (same). the first few pages start off sweet.. then it turns into him detailing his deepest fantasies and kinks. being an amazing girlfriend that you are, you decide to make his wet dreams come to life.

warnings — 18+, p in v, longing, romance, power play, bondage (you tie him up), he calls you ma’am, sub! bobby, face sitting, he cries, because of orgasm denial, praise kink, edging, unprotected sex, cursing, whimpering, aftercare ofc, breach of privacy ig but bobby doesn’t mind </3, HE’S A LIL DYSLEXIC BUT THAT’S OKAY

a/n — this man is so adorable nd i will not stop saying that.

You weren’t trying to snoop.

But Bobby was at practice and the late afternoon light was spilling into his room like honey. You came to his house a bit earlier than expected and his mom let you in. You were mostly on your phone in his bed, waiting for him and rolling your eyes at the way he never properly organized his drawers. The drink in your hand managed to somehow slip a bit out of your grasp, ending up in your shirt being soaked and a quiet “Fuck.” from you.

You decide to take one of his shirts and that’s how you find it, tucked under a stack of old shirts, navy blue cover, slightly frayed on the corners. A small, unassuming notebook, nothing labeled, nothing flashy. If it weren’t for the way it had clearly been shoved deep into the drawer, you might not have given it a second thought.

But it was his and Bobby wasn’t a notebook guy. He barely remembered to take notes in class. The boy lived in the moment, by instinct, sunshine and impulse.

So you paused. Sat down on the edge of the bed with it in your hands. Thumbed through the edge of the pages. You almost decided to respect his privacy but you were pretty curious.. And you opened it.

Page one.

Small, slanted writing. You recognized it immediately. His lowercase i’s dotted with soft little circles. The first sentence made your heart stutter:

“She’s so pretty I think my chest hurts sometimes.”

You blinked.

The page creaked as you turned it slowly.

Page two.

“Today we made pancakes and I forgot the butter but she kissed my cheek anyway. I think she likes the way I say her name. I hope she never stops saying mine. She told me I smell like summer. I almost said 'I love you' right then. I almost said it. what if she knew. what if she knows already."

Your fingers tightened slightly on the edges of the paper. You could hear his voice in your head, saying these things softly into the air, never brave enough to tell you aloud.

Page four.

There were doodles here. Little hearts. A sketch of your initials and his, inside a lopsided heart.

Page ten.

This one was more chaotic. Scratched-out words, half-sentences, like he’d been writing in a rush, mid-feelings.

“She wore that dress again. I coudnt stop stareing. I hope thats okay. I wanna tell her how much I think about her but— idk. What if its too much?? What if Im too much. I just... I think about her so much. Its probbly weird. GOD. Im so dumb.

That last one made your chest ache. You could see him writing it; brow furrowed, lip caught between his teeth, pen trembling slightly in his hand. You flip through the pages, staring at the messy scribbles. At all the pieces of him you hadn’t seen, his quiet wonder, his soft obsession, his boyish insecurities tucked behind every lovestruck line.

You should’ve put it down. Should’ve respected his privacy. Left it tucked under his shirts where he thought it was hidden.

But it’s Bobby.

Your sunshine-soft, broad-shouldered golden retriever of a boyfriend. The boy who looks like he got lost on his way to football practice and stumbled into your life instead—blinking, blushing, and absolutely at your mercy.

And he writes about you like he’s never loved anyone before. You flip ahead. Later entries. The pages are more worn there, messier. Like he couldn’t write fast enough.

“She wore those little shorts today. I couldn’t think straight for the rest of the afternoon.”

“She streched stretched and her shirt rode up. I almost moand moaned (I’m writing this fast, okay?) . What is wrong with me.”

“She sat in my lap and kissed me like she knew what it does to me. (She knows. She definitely knows.)”

You do. Of course you do.

You felt the way he tensed when your thighs brushed his. You heard the way his breath caught when your fingers slid into his hair. The little gasp when you tugged.

You flip again. This one’s messier with little hearts scrawled in the corner, your name in the margins like a chant.

“Last night we… god. I can’t even write it. I came so fast. She didn’t laugh. She just smiled. Like she liked it.”

“She said I sounded pretty when I whimper. I’ve been thinking about it all day.”

“She called me a good boy today and I got all flustured—flusttered?? flustered. That looks wrong. whatever. She made me dumb."

Another page. You’re in too deep to stop now.

“She sat on my face. I thought I was gonna die. (Best way to go.)”

“She said I was good. Said I made her feel amazing. I’ve never been prouder.”

“She tilted my face up and told me to look at her. I almost cried.”

You bite your lip. Hard.

Because God, this boy. This sweet, overstimmed, desperate-to-please jock who writes about you like you’re his religion.

He still hasn’t come into the room.

You can hear him come home though, footsteps in the kitchen, the soft clink of a glass, probably drinking straight from the jug like always. You’ve got seconds. Maybe a minute. And that diary? Still open, still bold, still begging to be read.

So you turn one more page.

It’s the last one.

No date. Just a smear of ink at the top where he must’ve pressed too hard with the pen. Like he sat there for a while, hesitating. Like he didn’t know how to start. Like the words felt too heavy to say out loud but not too heavy to bleed onto paper.

Eventually, he starts.

"Idk why Im writing this. maybe bc I cant say it. not yet. sometimes I think abt her tieing my wrists. I dont think she knows how bad I want it. I want her to pin me down. not like—rough, just… like, on purpose. the way she looks when she’s serious. fuck. I like when she tells me what to do. when she touches me like I’m hers. like I belong to her. I wanna beg. I think I’d be good at it. is that fucked up? I just— idk. I wanna be good for her. I’d do anything if she just told me to."

The same boy who blushes when you call him pretty, who can’t stop kissing your neck when he’s flustered and here he is, writing about being ruined with that same gentle reverence. Your fingers drift down the page, following the curve of his scrawl like a lover’s touch.

Then, another line, ink heavier here. Like he stopped, then came back, needing to get this next part just right.

“I think I want to call her ma’am. Just once. See what she does.”

You pause. Then grin. At the bottom, scrawled like he ran out of nerve halfway through:

“I hope she NEVER!!! reads this.”

Too late, sweetheart. But it doesn’t feel like crossing a line. It feels like entering a home you already lived in.

Because this isn’t snooping. This is knowing. And now you know it all; the want, the fear, the desperate little pieces of him he was too shy to say out loud.

And the best part?

He doesn’t know you want it, too.

Not yet.

You glance toward the door. Still no Bobby. Still distracted.

Good.

You reach for his pen, flip to the back page, and write in neat, steady script:

“You’re already mine. But if you call me ‘ma’am’ again, I’ll make sure every page you wrote turns into a memory you beg to relive. Sound fair?”

You place the book exactly where you found it and lie back on the bed like nothing happened. When Bobby walks in a minute later, hair tousled, cheeks flushed, hoodie clinging to his broad shoulders, unknowing.

A day later you’re in your apartment. It’s barely noon when you hear the knock. Soft. Hesitant. Like he considered backing out halfway through and only knocked because momentum carried him.

You open the door and there he is.

Hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands, cap low on his forehead, cheeks burning red. He’s not even looking at you properly, just staring somewhere near your collarbone like it’s safer.

“Hey,” he mumbles. Voice thick, like it got caught in his throat on the way out. “Uh… hi.”

You lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, lips curled in something far too close to a smirk. “Hi, baby.”

That makes him flinch adorably.

He shifts his weight, sneakers squeaking faintly on your floor, and then lifts his hand to scratch the back of his neck. “I, um…” He swallows hard. “So. About the—the thing.”

You blink slowly. “The thing?”

His face goes redder.

“The… diary. I know you read it.” He glances up at you, then away again just as quickly. “The.. thing you wrote in it—I can’t stop thinking about it and I—uh. I just wanted to say—”

You tilt your head, pretending not to notice the way he’s squirming. “Wanted to say what, sweetheart?”

He whines. Not loud. Not on purpose. But it slips out.

“I wanted to say I didn’t mean for you to read all of it but I’m also glad you did and I’ve never been this embarrassed in my life and also you looked really good when I came in and then when you left I went to write something about it and then I saw it and I kind of haven’t stopped thinking about it since.”

It all spills out in a rush.

You watch him. Calm. Patient. Hungry, maybe, in that slow-burning kind of way.

Then you step aside.

“You wanna come in, baby?”

He nods. Fast. Practically trips over his own feet doing it.

You close the door behind him. Then lean close, breath warm at his ear.

“I liked reading it, Bobby. You write about me so pretty.” You brush your fingers along his jaw, feel the way he tenses. “Next time, don’t hide it in a notebook. Just tell me.”

He makes a sound. Something between a whimper and a sigh. His hands twitch like he doesn’t know whether to pull you close or bury his face in them and disappear entirely.

You take his hand instead. Lead him to the couch.

“Let’s talk, golden boy,” you murmur, tugging him down beside you. “Starting with that little ‘ma’am’ fantasy…”

And just like that, Bobby folds again; soft, sweet, and utterly yours.

The couch isn’t even that comfortable, but Bobby doesn’t seem to notice. He’s too busy looking at your mouth like it’s the answer to a question he hasn’t dared to ask out loud.

You’re straddling his lap now. Your fingers trace up under his hoodie, skating along the warm skin of his sides, and the way he shivers? Delicious.

“You sure you’re ready to talk, baby?” you murmur, voice low. “You came all this way blushing like I’d eaten you alive in your sleep.”

His breath hitches. “I—yeah. I just. You said—”

“I know what I said.”

You reach behind you, grab something from the little drawer by the couch. A soft length of black fabric. The moment he sees it, his eyes widen.

“Color?” you ask gently.

He nods. “Green.”

You take his wrists, bring them up above his head, and tie them. Not tight, not mean.. just enough. Enough to make his breath catch and his shoulders roll against the cushions like he’s already overwhelmed. He’s blushing so hard it reaches his ears.

“You think you’re good at begging, huh?” you tease, leaning down until your nose brushes his. “Wanna show me?”

But he can’t answer. Because the second your mouth touches his, everything else disappears.

It starts soft, just lips brushing lips, slow and lazy. But you deepen it fast, pulling a little whimper from his throat as you kiss him harder, as your tongue licks into his mouth like you own it.

His hands are twitching in the restraint, hips shifting beneath you, needy and trembling and utterly lost in the way you’re kissing him like you’ve been starving for this.

You pull back just a breath, barely enough to speak.

“You know what I read in that diary, Bobby?”

He nods, pretty green eyes glassy.

You press a kiss to his jaw. “I know everything you want now.”

Another to his throat. “And I plan to give it to you.”

Then you drag your teeth lightly against his neck, and he gasps; head falling back, wrists straining just a little, mouth parted like he’s waiting for more.

God, he’s beautiful like this. Tied up and melting for you.

Bobby’s wrists are still tied above his head, fabric snug but not cruel. He could pull away if he really wanted to. But he doesn’t. Not even close.

He’s flushed completely. Neck, ears, chest under that hoodie. You’re slowly grinding in his lap, one hand braced on his chest, the other cradling his jaw, keeping him right where you want him.

You murmur against his lips, “Such a good boy… letting me kiss you like this.”

He whimpers, tries to kiss back harder, but you pull away just enough to keep control.

“Ah, ah,” you whisper, pressing your thumb under his jaw to tilt his face up. “Let me lead, baby. That’s what you like, isn’t it?”

His eyes flutter, and he nods, whispering, “Y-Yeah.”

You kiss down his neck, slow and wet, just to hear the sounds he makes when you drag your teeth across his pulse point.

“You’re always so eager,” you murmur against his throat. “So soft for me. You wrote about it like it’s your biggest secret—but it’s written all over you, sweetheart.”

He lets out a shaky breath, tied hands flexing above his head. “I—I didn’t know you’d ever actually…”

“Oh, but I am.” Your voice drops, lips ghosting up to his ear. “And I want to hear you say it. That word you like. Come on, Bobby.”

He freezes. Swallows. Whines.

You kiss the corner of his mouth again, sweet and slow. “Say it, baby. Be good.”

His breath hitches. Then, barely above a whisper:

“…Ma’am.”

You melt.

“Good boy.” You crush your mouth to his again—hotter this time, rougher, your tongue licking deep and slow, like a reward.

He moans into you, every muscle under you trembling. You kiss him until he’s breathless, until all he can do is squirm and gasp against your mouth like he’s about to cum just from the way you’re talking to him.

And when you pull back, finally, you let your thumb trace his spit-slick bottom lip and say softly—

“Next time you say that, I want it with confidence. Understood?”

He nods fast, panting, wide-eyed, completely undone.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Bobby’s wrists are still snug in the soft restraint above his head, and when you guide him down so he’s laying on the couch, you do it slow like you’re tucking something precious into bed. Because you are.

He watches you with wide eyes, breathing ragged, lips kiss-swollen and still trembling from your last command. His chest rises and falls in quick, eager little stutters, and there’s this look on his face like awe.

You kneel over him, hands braced at either side of his head, letting your weight settle onto his stomach first. Testing. Teasing.

“Still with me?” you murmur, leaning in close.

He nods, quick. “Yes. Yes, ma’am.”

Oh, he’s learning.

You smile and kiss the tip of his nose. “Good boy.”

Then you shift. Just enough for him to get the idea.

And when his breath catches, when he finally realizes what’s happening, when his lashes flutter and he tilts his head back like he’s ready to *devour* whatever you give him?

You take your time.

You hover just above his face at first, one hand reaching back to stroke through his hair, the other resting on your own thigh for balance. His hands are still tied. His eyes? Blown wide. Pleading. Desperate.

“You wanna be good for me?” you ask, hips rolling slow and deliberate as you sink down just a little closer.

He gasps. “I do. I—please.”

You hum. “You know what to do.”

You give him what he’s been begging for, lowering yourself onto him until his lips touch your folds.

He moans into you, like he’s overwhelmed just by the taste of you, by your weight on him and the way your thighs frame his face. You keep your grip gentle in his hair, your voice a soothing rhythm of praise between every twitch and cry he lets out.

“Aah.. fuck— That’s it, baby,” you whisper. “So good. So eager. You were made for this, weren’t you?”

He nods into you and you smile. He’s eating you out like it’s his last meal; eyes closed, head tilted slightly back, his hands forming fists and his hips bucking up ever so slightly.

His mouth is a mess against you, so needy, like he’s trying to make up for every second he hasn’t been here. You’re calm. In control. Sitting pretty right over his mouth while your hand reaches down, trailing over his stomach until your hand goes into his boxers and your fingers wrap around his cock.

He moans against you at the first touch. The sound vibrates through you.

“Mm,” you murmur, voice smug. “You like multitasking, huh?”

His hips twitch up and you laugh softly, stroking him once from his base to his tip, slow.

“You’re doing so well down there,” you whisper, thumb teasing at the tip. “But don’t get greedy.”

He whines. You feel it in the way his mouth falters, like he can’t decide where to put all that desperation. It’s thick in his breath, in the tremble of his thighs, in the way his hips roll up into your touch like he needs more.

You stroke him again and again, just enough to push him to the edge and then let go.

He moans, frustrated, panting against you.

“Aww,” you coo, grinding your hips gently back down onto his mouth, “that close already?”

His reply is muffled, frantic. You can feel his tongue working harder, more desperate now, trying to stay useful even while you toy with him like he’s your favorite thing to play with.

“You know you’re not allowed to finish yet,” you say softly, reaching down again, stroking just enough to make him tremble. “You’ll wait. You’ll take care of me first.”

Another edge. Another release. His body arches, breath ragged, and still he keeps going, broken open beneath you with his wrists tied and his pride forgotten.

“Such a good boy,” you whisper, voice like velvet against the haze in his head. “You’ll keep going, won’t you? Even if I make you wait all night.”

And from beneath you, voice wrecked and whiny and so sweet:

“Yes, ma’am.”

You shift off of him slowly, lifting your hips with deliberate care. His lips are slick, his cheeks flushed, eyes wide and already glassy. Bobby’s a wreck beneath you, chest heaving like he’s been sprinting, not worshipping you for the last however many minutes.

You trail your hand along his jaw, tilting his face up so he can look at you.

“You did good,” you murmur, letting just a hint of sweetness slip into your voice. “Really good.”

He tries to say something; thanks, a plea, your name maybe.. but it comes out breathless and broken. He’s too far gone. Perfect.

You drag your hand down his chest, over his stomach, until your fingers wrap around him again, just a teasing stroke now, but even that makes him jolt. He’s right there. You know it. You’ve kept him teetering on the edge for so long, the tension wound tight in his body like a live wire.

And that’s exactly how you want him.

You rise up over him, straddling his hips and guiding him between your thighs as you sink down on him so he feels every second of it. His mouth falls open, a choked gasp slipping out as his head tips back against the couch pillow.

“Mm-mm,” you warn, your hands pressing gently to his hips to still him, “don’t you dare finish.”

He nods desperately, but you know better than to trust him now. He’s too wound up, too lost in you.

So you lean in, lips brushing his ear as you whisper:

“You don’t cum inside me. Understood?”

He shudders. Whines. Nods again, frantic.

“I mean it,” you murmur, rocking your hips just enough to feel him repeatedly twitch inside you. “You lose control, and we won’t continue. Understood?”

You sit up again, spine straight, thighs tightening around him as you start to move; measured, controlled, every motion designed to ruin him. His eyes roll back, his mouth drops open, and he’s already trembling like he’s going to break.

You know he won’t last long. You’ve got him wound tight, every roll of your hips hitting just right, every soft command dropping like lightning in that overheated head of his. And Bobby? He’s gone.

He’s moaning loud, not even trying to hold back anymore, gasping your name with that helpless, shaky edge. He knows he’s not allowed to finish and can’t do a damn thing about it.

“Please,” he whimpers, eyes glassy, blinking fast, “please, ma’am, I—I can’t, I’m—” His words dissolve into another moan as you move just right, and that’s it.

He’s crying.

Soft, desperate tears slip down his cheeks, frustration and need twisting through every line of his body. He’s still trying so hard to be good for you—tied up, trembling, flushed pink all over—but he’s breaking.

And something melts in you. You lean in, one hand brushing his damp hair back, the other resting over his chest to feel the way it rises like he’s just run a marathon.

“Hey, hey, look at me, baby” you whisper, voice gentling. “You’re doing so good. So damn good.”

His lashes flutter. His breath hitches.

You kiss his cheek, your thumb swiping away a tear as your hips keep moving but slower now, more intimate. “You wanna come, baby?”

He nods hard, almost frantic. “Yes, ma’am—please, I c-can’t hold it—”

You smile against his skin.

“Okay, sweetheart,” you breathe, lips brushing his ear. “You can come. Go ahead. Let go for me.”

The sound he makes isn’t even a moan, it’s a sob punched out of him as he finally, finally tips over the edge. His whole body arches beneath you, hands pulling against the restraints just for something to hold, and he shatters with your name on his tongue.

You ride him through it, tender now, holding him through every twitch and gasp, whispering praises into his ear.

“Good boy… That’s it. You did so good for me. So pretty when you cry, baby…”

He’s still shaking. Not from fear, not from pain but from the way you unraveled him. From how hard he came. From how deep you had him.

You’re already moving gently, even as his chest rises and falls in stuttering waves. You untie his wrists with careful fingers, not saying a word yet, just pressing soft kisses to the skin once it’s free. You bring his hands to your mouth and kiss each one, like you’re thanking them for holding on.

He blinks up at you, eyes still glassy. There’s tear tracks drying on his cheeks and the sweetest kind of vulnerability in the way he’s looking at you, like you’re the sun and he’s not sure if he deserves to be this warm.

“You okay, baby?” you whisper, brushing his hair back from his damp forehead.

He nods. Then hesitates.

“Yeah,” he whispers, voice hoarse. “Just… holy shit.”

You smile, leaning down to kiss the tip of his nose. “Holy shit good?”

A soft laugh bubbles out of him, exhausted and wrecked and full of adoration. “Yeah. So good. I—I think I blacked out a little.”

You laugh too, pressing a longer kiss to his lips this time, slow and soft and full of promise.

You help him sit up, wipe him down gently, every touch a quiet reassurance. And when he starts to shiver, whether from the crash or the vulnerability, you don’t ask. You just wrap him in your arms and pull the blanket around both of you.

He clings. Melts into your chest like he always does, like your body is home and safety and everything good all at once. One of his hands finds your waist. The other tucks under your arm.

You rub slow circles into his back, nuzzling into his hair.

“You did amazing,” you murmur. “Took everything I gave you. So proud of you.”

He buries his face into your neck. “I just wanted to be good.”

“You were,” you say. “You are. Always.”

A beat of silence. Then, quieter:

“I cried.”

You smile into his hair. “I know.”

“You didn’t make fun of me.”

“Why would I?” you murmur. “It just means you trusted me enough to fall apart. That’s everything, Bobby.”

And for a while, you just hold him.

No teasing. No tension. Just skin and warmth and safety wrapped in the sheets between you… Of course, that didn’t last long.

He’s half-asleep when you say it and you’re playing with his hair, light little twirls between your fingers, when you lean down and whisper against his ear:

“So… gonna write about this one in your diary?”

Bobby stiffens. Just slightly.

Then he groans.

You feel it vibrate against your chest. “Oh my God” he mumbles, dragging a hand over his face. “Can we not talk about the diary right now?”

You smirk. “What? I’m just wondering if tonight’s going to get its own page. Maybe two. Little hearts in the corner again?”

“I knew you saw those,” he mutters, face burying deeper into your neck.

You laugh, absolutely delighted. “Bobby, you drew my name in the margins. With a crown on top.”

“I was feeling inspired,” he says defensively, voice muffled by your skin.

“Aww,” you coo, grinning. “You gonna write “she made me cry and then held me like a princess’ orrr…?”

He groans again, but you feel the smile he’s trying to hide against your collarbone. He’s blushing so hard it practically radiates heat.

“You’re evil,” he mutters.

You kiss the top of his head. “Yup. But you love it.”

He doesn’t argue.

He just snuggles closer.

...Which is basically a yes.

So yeah, this one's definitely getting a page.

#final destination x reader #final destination #final destination franchise #the final destination #final destination 6 #final destination bloodlines #bobby campbell #bobby campbell x reader

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stewpidcheescatarinabluu · 1 day ago

Note

yoo can u write a ningning one-shot 🙏🥀

“Sick Day Spoils”

Synopsis: You’re the campus basketball ace, but when your best friend Ningning falls sick, you skip practice to take care of her—spoiling her with food, comfort, and the kind of quiet affection you still can’t bring yourself to say out loud.

Word Count: 2,936

NingNing X Male Reader

It was just another ordinary Friday.

You woke up to the sound of your third alarm buzzing like a wasp under your pillow. The morning sun leaked through the blinds, warm but annoying, casting lines across your face. You groaned, lazily brushing your hand across your phone to silence the noise, rubbing sleep from your eyes as your body protested the start of another day.

Lecture at nine. Training after. Another lecture in the afternoon. Maybe some team review after that. You already knew the drill. You could walk through the day half-asleep and still hit your marks—except for class. That part you were half-asleep for.

After rushing through your morning routine, hair still a bit damp from your two-minute shower, you threw on your jacket and jogged across campus to your lecture hall, toast barely finished in your mouth. The classroom was the same as always: too cold, faint smell of whiteboard markers, and half the class already dozing off five minutes in. You slouched into your seat, chin in hand, pretending to listen.

Your pen hovered over your notes but you didn’t write a thing. Instead, your mind wandered—to tomorrow’s game, to whether your coach would rotate the second-string in, and... to Ningning.

You wondered why she hadn’t texted you good morning. She usually did. Something stupid like “I hope your sleepy jock brain doesn’t forget your quiz today” or “Don’t fall asleep with your eyes open again.” That kind of teasing that only she got away with.

You checked your phone once. Then again. Nothing.

Shrugging it off, you shuffled out of class and made your way to the court.

Basketball. Finally.

The moment your shoes hit the polished wood, it was like the world outside blurred out. This—this was where you belonged. You could screw up a pop quiz, but on this court, you were the answer.

The team was already warming up when you arrived, and a few lazy passes later, the scrimmage began.

You started strong, but your focus didn’t last.

Your eyes drifted. You found yourself scanning the bleachers during every pause, every whistle, like she might suddenly be sitting there, sipping on some convenience store iced coffee, waving at you with that smug little smile.

Then—“Yo, Ace. Focus, will ya? We’re down by five.”

A nudge pulled you out of it. Your teammate gave you a knowing look, sweat dripping from his temple as he laughed under his breath.

“You looking for Ningning again?”

You blinked, caught.

“What? I’m not—no. Shut up.”

You scoffed and turned away, bouncing the ball once.

“Yeah, right.”

He jogged ahead, still chuckling.

You hated that he could read you so easily.

But Ningning had that effect on people—on you especially.

She wasn’t just some campus celebrity or a president behind a podium. She was your person. From helping each other cram for finals in your first year to late-night walks after council meetings or away games, she had always been there. A constant. Reliable. Bright.

Perfect, in that annoying way that made you feel safe and challenged all at once.

And maybe you’d fallen for her somewhere along the way.

Maybe you were still falling.

But you kept that part quiet. Pressed down. Hidden beneath every joke, every casual text.

The game ended, one point short. Coach didn’t seem to mind—it was just practice. But as you wiped your sweat and slung a towel over your neck, he walked over quietly.

“Y/N, you seem off today. Something wrong?”

You sighed.

“Not really. Just… not in the mood to play.”

You didn’t even try to cover it up. He gave a short nod, hand on your shoulder, and didn’t press any further.

You packed your things slowly, dragging your steps out of the gym as dusk began to color the sky. Campus always had that calm glow in the late afternoon—the kind where the world slowed down just a little. Some students lounged on the grass, chatting quietly. Someone was strumming a guitar near the dorm steps. Lights flickered on across the buildings, one by one.

You found a bench near the courtyard and finally checked your phone.

Still nothing.

You scrolled through your message thread with Ningning, letting your thumb hover over old texts, rereading the ones that made you laugh. Her voice almost echoed in your head—her dry jokes, her unexpected sass, her concern when you were too tired to hide it.

Then, right as your chest started to ache in that dull, quiet way...

“Backreading, dork? Missed me already, huh?”

Your heart jumped.

You sat up a little straighter, tapping out your reply instantly:

“No. Just wondering if you were dead or not.”

Double text.

“What’s up?”

A pause. She was probably curled up under a blanket somewhere, typing slowly with half-lidded eyes and flushed cheeks.

Her reply came a second later:

“Nothing much. Just missed a day. I have a fever.”

“But I’ll be back on campus tomorrow, hopefully.”

Double text. As always.

You didn’t know why it comforted you so much.

Maybe it was the way she never left you hanging.

Maybe it was just her.

You leaned back on the bench, letting the evening breeze cool your skin.

The stars were barely visible yet, but you stared at the sky anyway.

You texted back something like “don’t push yourself” or “get some rest,” but you hovered for a long time before hitting send. You wanted to say more. Wanted to say I missed you or you were the only one I was thinking about on that court today.

But all you managed was:

“please message me about your day next time, so I don’t worry about you.”

The next day came.

Another sunrise, another cup of weak vending machine coffee, another half-hearted class where the professor droned on about topics that felt miles away from where your head was.

Still no sign of Ningning.

You checked the front rows during your lecture—her usual spot by the window, where she'd rest her chin on her palm and type furiously on her laptop, wasn’t filled. Even her water bottle wasn’t there.

That spot felt wrong when she wasn’t in it.

No one else seemed to notice. But you did. Every time.

By noon, you were back on the court again. Sneakers squeaking, the sharp echo of the ball against hardwood filling the air. Your teammates joked around during warm-ups, but you kept glancing toward the gym doors like a ghost of her might walk in mid-laugh, earbuds in and a little bag of snacks in hand.

She never did.

“I’ve seen this look on you before.”

Your teammate’s voice pulled you back.

He jogged up beside you, lightly bouncing the ball. His smirk said everything before the words left his mouth.

“Let me guess. Ningning still not here?”

You didn’t say anything, just grabbed the ball and started walking.

“Yeah, nobody knows why,” he added, nudging you with his elbow. “Maybe you do?”

“Just play defense, you lousy player,” you muttered, hiding the half-smile that pulled at your lips.

“Ouch,” he said, laughing.

Another practice match. Another loss—three points this time.

You weren’t fully there. Again.

As you toweled off and made your way off the court, the same teammate called out to you from behind.

“Hey, Ace—serious question. Is Ningning’s presence your lucky charm or what?”

You threw the towel at him without turning around.

“Shut up, idiot.”

The team’s laughter faded as you stepped out into the open air. It was overcast today, the kind of weather where the clouds felt too heavy and everything moved a little slower.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket.

At first, you thought it might be your coach or another team announcement—but when you pulled it out, your screen was flooded.

Ningning (19)

Nineteen unread messages.

You blinked, stopping in your tracks as you scrolled.

— “Hey. I just ate some porridge. Still tastes like sadness but warm sadness, you know?”

— “Nurse said I should drink more water but she doesn’t know I’m 90% coffee.”

— “I miss bullying you in class. I feel myself becoming... nice. It’s terrifying.”

— “Okay, fine, I miss you. Don’t get a big head.”

— “Wait did you win today’s practice? If not, I’m blaming your weak knees.”

— “Also, I saw a picture of a cat wearing sunglasses and thought of you. Why? Don’t ask.”

Message after message—updates every hour, every small thought that passed through her head, like a quiet thread tying her day to yours.

She told you what she was eating (“boiled egg, blegh”), what she was watching (“some random documentary on snails, 10/10 would recommend”), how she was feeling (“slightly more alive than a ghost, yay me”), and even what socks she was wearing (“don’t judge me but they don’t match”).

It was her version of a presence.

A digital trail of breadcrumbs leading back to her, letting you know: I’m still here, even if I’m not right beside you.

You sat down on the steps outside the gym, heart a little fuller than before.

You typed back:

“You seriously sent me play-by-plays of your entire day like it’s a K-drama.”

Pause.

“...but thanks.”

And then another message, after a second.

“I kinda missed you too. Don’t get a big head.”

You hesitated.

Then added:

“Campus’s boring without you.”

You stared at the screen for a moment before hitting send.

She didn’t reply right away. Maybe she was asleep. Maybe she was waiting for you to say something more.

But it didn’t matter. She was still here.

But then… you had enough.

All her messages—every cute, dumb little update she sent—had slowly shifted in tone. Her jokes were getting shorter. Her replies more spaced out. Her last message?

“Think my fever’s going up again lol... I feel like a soggy tissue”

That was it.

No more waiting around.

You opened the chat and typed without thinking:

“I’m going there. What do you want?”

No context. No teasing. No pretending this was casual anymore.

A full minute passed before she replied.

“what do you mean you’re going here?”

“you don’t have to—i’m fine. i think i’ll sleep it off.”

You were already halfway out your door by the time her second message came in.

“don’t be dramatic, Y/N.”

You scoffed to yourself as you zipped up your jacket.

If she was saying you were dramatic, then yeah, she was definitely worse than she was letting on.

You stopped by the convenience store—ramyeon, banana milk, a cold pack, a fever pad, and that vitamin drink in the ugly yellow bottle she always whined about but still drank.

By the time you arrived at her dorm building, the sky had turned an overcast blue, and the wind was sharp enough to sting your fingers. You buzzed up, but she didn’t answer. So you texted:

“I’m here. Open your damn door before I climb the building.”

It took a minute, but finally you heard the door unlock, slowly creaking open.

There she was.

Her hoodie practically swallowed her whole, sleeves drooping over her hands. Her hair was messy—pillow-creased and falling into her face. Her cheeks were flushed with fever, eyes half-lidded and dull, but she still tried to smile.

“You’re such an idiot.”

You stepped inside without a word and closed the door behind you.

“Sit down,” you said. Your voice was firm, maybe more than you intended. She blinked at you, surprised.

“I’m not—”

“Don’t argue.”

She blinked again but obeyed, slowly dragging herself to the bed like a deflating balloon.

You unpacked the bag, setting the food aside for later. You took out the cold pack, the fever pad, and the yellow vitamin drink. Popped the cap, walked over, and handed it to her.

“Drink.”

“Bossy,” she murmured, but took it from your hand anyway.

She made a face when she swallowed.

“Ugh. Still gross.”

“Still better than you fainting in your dorm alone.”

Her smile faded a little. You didn’t mean for it to come out like that, but the silence after made you realize: you really were scared. Even if you never said it.

You sat next to her as she lay back down. You didn’t say anything at first. Just carefully placed the cold pack against her forehead and peeled the fever pad, sticking it gently to the side of her temple.

Your hand hovered for a second—just a second—before brushing a stray strand of hair from her cheek.

“I would’ve come sooner if I knew it was this bad,” you said quietly.

She closed her eyes.

“I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

“Like what?”

“Gross. Weak. Pathetic.”

You shook your head. “You look like a tired bunny. That’s all.”

She huffed a laugh, the sound barely there.

“Thanks… for coming.”

You leaned back in the chair beside her bed, arms crossed, your voice quieter now.

“Next time, just tell me when it’s bad.”

“But you’d worry.”

You looked at her, eyes soft. “I already do.”

She blinked slowly at that, her gaze resting on you for a long time before she finally let sleep pull her under.

You stayed.

Even after she dozed off, cheeks still red and chest rising slowly.

You stayed in the chair, scrolling your phone idly, glancing at her every few minutes, just making sure she was still breathing fine.

And for the first time in two days… you weren’t checking your messages waiting for her to text.

Because she was right there.

And you weren’t leaving.

You didn’t leave her side after she fell asleep.

Not even when your phone buzzed with your teammates' messages asking where the hell you were. Not even when your stomach growled or when your hoodie got too warm. You stayed, right there on the chair next to her bed, head tilted back, eyes flicking between her sleeping face and the plastic bag of groceries you'd brought.

After maybe an hour, she stirred.

"You're still here?" she mumbled, voice thick and groggy.

You stood up and leaned over her. "Obviously. Who else is gonna feed you your overpriced banana milk?"

She blinked up at you, confused, then reached a hand out with zero strength in her wrist. You caught it halfway and placed the straw to her lips.

"There. Royal service. All-inclusive."

She sipped it slowly, looking up at you with glassy eyes.

"You’re being suspiciously nice," she murmured between sips. "You trying to kill me with kindness?"

"You wish."

When she finished the drink, you wiped her mouth with the corner of your sleeve—gently, carefully. She didn't even flinch. Just watched you with tired eyes, expression unreadable.

Later, after she drifted back to sleep, you snuck out for a bit—just to the store down the street.

You came back with another bag full of things: cut fruit, fresh soup from the deli counter, two kinds of bread rolls, another banana milk just in case, and—maybe a little overkill—a soft, tan-colored stuffed bunny with a stitched ribbon around its neck.

You placed everything on her small desk and walked back to her side.

"Hey."

You nudged her shoulder lightly. "Wake up. I brought you the entire damn grocery store."

She opened one eye, then both, blinking rapidly.

"Y/N... you didn’t need to—"

"I know. That’s why I did it." You grinned, offering the bunny first. "Here. For when I'm not around to baby you."

She stared at it.

"Is this… a guilt gift?"

"Nah. This is a ‘you better hug this and think of me’ gift."

She took it, and to your surprise, she hugged it immediately to her chest.

"It’s stupid soft."

"Like me."

She snorted. "You’re so annoying."

But she smiled. And you could see it—the way her fingers stayed curled in the bunny’s ear, how she leaned into her pillow a bit more like her body was relaxing for the first time all day.

As the sky darkened outside, you helped her sit up properly to eat. You even blew on the soup before handing her a spoon.

"Okay, say ahh."

"I’m not five."

"You’re acting like it."

"Shut up."

Still, she let you feed her a couple bites. Then insisted on feeding herself. But every now and then, she’d lean her head on your shoulder between bites, mumbling nonsense.

"You know..." she mumbled, "if you keep spoiling me like this, I’ll expect it every time I get sick."

"Good."

"Then I’ll get sick on purpose."

"Please don’t. You look like a sleepy ferret."

She giggled weakly. "You’re lucky I’m too tired to punch you."

After dinner, she slid back down into bed, clutching the bunny and curling into herself.

You sat beside her again, this time on the bed’s edge.

She peeked at you through half-lidded eyes.

"Hey..."

"Hm?"

"Thanks for coming."

She blinked slowly. "Even if you act like a jerk sometimes."

You looked down at her—blanket tangled around her legs, the bunny squished against her chest, her cheeks flushed and warm.

And maybe it was selfish, but you didn’t want to leave.

So you said softly, more to yourself than to her—

"I’ll always come."

She didn’t respond. Maybe she was already asleep.

But her hand reached out under the blanket. And without a word, she found your fingers and held them.

Weak, soft, like she just needed to feel that you were there.

You stayed until the morning.

And probably would’ve stayed longer if she hadn’t kicked you awake for snoring too close to her ear.

But even then, when she was back to calling you an idiot with soup stains on her shirt—

You didn’t mind

#spotify #kpop #aespa #aespa ningning #ning yizhuo #ning yizhou x reader #male reader #ningning aespa #aespa ning yizhuo #aespa x reader #aespa x male reader #ningning

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galaxy-stardust · 3 days ago

Text

"He’s thunder and laughter, scars and heart - Soap burns bright, and he’ll burn for you."

Name: John MacTavish

Codename: Soap – Born from his pristine weapons maintenance in training. He earned it young and made it legendary. Now it fits his duality - clean kills, messy heart.

Date of Birth: September 17th 1996

Zodiac Sign: Virgo – Loyal, chaotic in motion but precise in heart. Full of heat and heart, hidden under jokes and tattoos.

Height: 6'0" (1.83m)

Build: Muscular, broad shoulders, strong thighs, defined arms. Built like a fighter -he looks like he could throw you over his shoulder (and has).

Eye Color: Icy blue - intense and electric. They laugh with you, but they turn deadly in a blink.

Voice: Rough Scots brogue, raspy and strong. It teases like a spark and hits like a flame.

How he smells: Leather, gunpowder, a hint of pine and something citrusy that clings to his clothes. Pure man, danger, and comfort.

How he tastes: Whiskey, fire, and adrenaline. Kissing him feels like leaning into the edge of a storm.

Favorite season: Autumn. The burn of the air, the color of the leaves, the call to move. It’s the closest the world ever gets to matching his soul.

Favorite food: Bacon cheeseburger with everything on it. Messy, greasy, satisfying.

Favorite dessert: Sticky toffee pudding. Will absolutely steal a bite from your plate first.

Food he hates: Tofu. "Not real food. That’s a sponge pretending to be dinner."

Favorite drink: Neat scotch. Or a dark beer when he wants to unwind.

Favorite spot for vacation: The Scottish Highlands. Remote, wild, peaceful. He lights up when he can show you his roots.

Favorite weapon: His custom combat knife. It’s an extension of him.

Favorite pet: A rescued mutt. A big-eared, scrappy thing with no pedigree but all heart. He says the weirder it looks, the better. Something loyal, goofy, a bit too loud - just like him. He’s the type to let the dog sleep on the bed and talk to it like it understands every word.

Skill on the battlefield: Explosives and CQB. He’s the guy who kicks the door in and makes sure it stays open. Chaos under control.

Nervous habits: Bounces his knee. Taps his fingers in rhythm. Talks too fast when he’s trying not to feel.

Bad habits: Bottles up grief with a joke. Doesn’t know when to stop pushing himself. Gets reckless when protecting others.

Cute habits: Winks at you constantly. Draws little hearts next to your name when he writes it down (and then crosses them out).

What he does in private: Works out with music blasting. Dances terribly. Falls asleep half-dressed with a hand resting on the spot where you usually lie.

What makes him soft inside: When you worry about him. When you see past the chaos and call him Johnny. That word in your voice? He’ll melt.

Worst Nightmare: Being forgotten. Being lost in the rubble of war - unnamed, faceless. A chalk outline in some anonymous field. His brothers moving on without him, laughing like he was never there. Not because they didn’t care, but because they couldn’t carry him forever. He hides it behind grins, but in the dark, the thought of fading out without mattering... rips him open.

Worst nightmare, when it comes to you: Watching you die while he’s powerless to stop it. He dreams it often, wakes up breathless and covered in sweat.

What he does without realizing it: Paces when thinking about you. Says “she’s not like anyone else” under his breath when drunk.

Unexpected skills: Incredibly good cook. Could run a restaurant if he ever put the guns down.

Thoughts about having kids: Surprisingly ready. Wants to be the dad he never had. Would teach them to fight, laugh, and never hide their heart.

Favorite spot to be teased at: His hips. You touch him there, he growls. The kind that means trouble.

Breaking point – when does he snap?: The first time he saw you cry because of something someone said. He kissed your tears away, then made you forget every name but his.

How he calls you:

In public: “Lass,” “Love,” or “My girl.” Loud and proud.

During teasing: “Sweetheart,” “Troublemaker,” “Mine.” With that low voice that makes you forget how to breathe.

Something that would make him imperfect: He feels too much, and he runs from it. Sometimes his jokes are shields. Sometimes he shuts down when he should open up. But when he does open? There’s no going back.

Summary:

Soap is heat, chaos, and soul. He’s the laugh that breaks the silence and the arms that catch you when you fall. He’s loud, loyal, and achingly tender underneath all the noise. He’d go to war for you without question - and then sing your praises, covered in blood and grinning like a fool. He’s fire that never dies, and if you let him, he’ll burn for you forever.

#cod #john soap mactavish #johnny soap mactavish #cod soap #cod fandom

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hermesserpent-stuff · 3 days ago

Text

hmmmm creeping darkness au

tw: underage smoking?? i dont recall what legal smoking age and wont look up rn

Remy listens to the radio as smoke trickles up into the sky from his cigarette. His papa would kill him if he found out Remy had started smoking any kind of cigarette, much less the ones that were hidden in loose floorboards in the kitchen. The herbal cigarettes had been left behind by omar and remy had not intended to smoke them when he first found them.

But... the idea of feeling warmth in his lungs had been an addictive idea that swirled about his brain for a solid week. And today he had felt so so lonely. Todd had not shown up and Remy feels stupid for relying on someone coming to him to bring any relief from the oppressive weight of his sin. Now as he stares at the roof, staring into the sky after the trails, he is glad for the warmth, but knows that he shouldn't be taking slow even drags, holding in the heat as long as he can stand. He should be stronger than this. He used to be.

He had not been able to find a lighter earlier. he had searched the house top to bottom, desperate not to have to use his powers for a task that would have been easy to do. In the end he had let a tiny spark escape, the first intentional use since he had murdered a man. it had terrified him. though, in equal parts, it soothed a part of his soul to see he could control it, even in a small burst.

Remy flicks the ash like he had seen his papa do a million times before the man had quit cold turkey. He curls a little and lets the smoke slip past his lips, warm and something. some sort of feeling in the face of the pit of cold nothing that sits in his chest. He closes his eyes with the next drag, tasting the smoke of different plants buring. a rose's petals. lavender. and a few other things. the heat curls over his tongue, inviting and warm. he opens his eyes and breathes upwards, letting the heat leave him.

Remy smokes it all the way down to the filter, weary, he has to go to bed soon. Saturdays were not a day off after all.

Remy rubs at his eyes as he walks over to unlock the front door. he blinks as he sees Todd there. Oh! The teen came early. Makes sense, given that there is no school on Saturday. Remy opens the door and todd immediately crickles his nose.

"You smell like smoke dude."

Remy flushes. He had not washed his hair the night before after the roof. What kind of example is he setting? He swallows and runs a hand through his hair.

"Moment of weakness. Ill throw out the pack today.”

He had only smoked one, and there were three left in the mostly empty carton. Todd scrunches his nose further.

"Cigarettes stink.”

Todd says and Remy dips his head a little.

"Desole mon ami. Want a muffin?"

He steers the conversation away from his own failure. Todd bounces a little.

"Yes!! Gimme!"

"A please would pair well with that sentence.”

Remy teases as he walks back to the counter. He is happy to see Todd.

Really happy. he wants to ask why todd had not shown up yesterday, wants to admit to staying open late and waiting for the other teen. wants to admit that his heart had clenched with thoguhts of being abandoned and thinkning that he probaly desererved it.

He wants to.

But he doesnt.

Dumping all of that onto Todd would be cruel and unfair. Instead he grabs the freshest muffins and passes them over. Though... Remy will admit one thing.

"missed you yesterday. Had no one to take my muffins."

He says with the strongest smile he can manage after yet another night of persistent nightmares. Todd groans.

"i had afterschool detention. then we got a stupid mission. Which sucked 'cause those x-nerds showed. Buncha jerks.”

Todd huffs, shoving a muffin in his face. Remy feels a rush of relief. so nothing to do with him. of course its nothing to do with him. He is just being...

Whatever.

#creeping darkness au #gambit #remy lebeau #todd tolansky #toad #x men evolution #hermes speaks

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xoqox · 3 days ago

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・┆✦ʚ ꜱʜᴇ ɢᴏᴛ ᴀ(-)ᴡᴀʏ ɞ✦ ┆・

𖹭.ᐟ Chapter 05 ── just in cace

𓍼cw: soft themes, mutual pining, bokuaka implication, yearning, sex jokes, cursing, suggestive implications (no smut) 𓍼wc: 3k

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The car rolls to a quiet stop in front of the shop, and you let the engine idle for a moment longer than necessary.

“You good?” Akaashi asks from the passenger seat, glancing at you through his glasses. He's been calm the whole ride, scrolling aimlessly on his phone, only occasionally chiming in with reminders to breathe.

“Yeah,” you say, then after a pause, “No.”

He huffs a laugh. “Figured.”

The shop sits between a shuttered dry cleaner and a 24-hour ramen bar, wooden sign still glossy with fresh paint. Condensation fogs the windows—so Osamu, it hurts.

“It's so stupid,” you mutter, “It's just a shop. I’ve known he wanted to do this since high school.”

“You didn't know he actually did it until last night,” Akaashi reminds gently. “That changes things.”

You nod slowly, trying to swallow the nerves as you finally turn off the engine. It’s been four years. You’d think it would feel like less. Or more.

“How come...” Akaashi pauses, debating whether or not it's worth asking, worth risking his friend spiraling again just a breath away from the source of her stress.

He turns to you, and you tilt your head in question, encouraging him to continue. Akaashi sighs softly, “How come you didn't ask Suna about the girlfriend thing? He'd know about his best friend's relationship status, no?”

“Oh...” Your eyes widen slightly, caught off guard by his — no-brainer — suggestion, “I didn't tell him about it... Didn't feel right. Especially since we...” You trail off with your gaze, slowly turning away from his eyes.

“Okay, that's valid,” he says gently as he unbuckles his seatbelt.

“Okay,” you exhale, moving to catch up with him. “I'm ready; let's head inside.”

You step out, tugging your jacket closed. This place used to live in Osamu's daydreams. Now it's real.

You reach for the door, but Akaashi opens it first. You chuckle, shooting him a glance before stepping in.

The shop smells like grilled rice and the warmth of a memory.

It's indeed cozy, warmer than you expected, with the late afternoon sun filtering through the front windows. Osamu had pulled a few tables together near the back for everyone, a spot away from the customers still trickling in, but close enough to the kitchen that he could pop in and out.

Laughter ripples from that corner. Bokuto is halfway through a retelling of something dramatic, hands moving wildly in the air, his grin wide enough to take up the whole table. Next to him, Atsumu sighs and drags a hand down his face in exasperation, though he's clearly trying not to smile.

Suna is quietly seated at the end of the table, nursing a drink, scrolling through his phone like he doesn't want anyone to know he's paying attention.

But none of them catches your gaze first.

Your eyes find him.

Behind the counter, sleeves rolled up, apron dusted in rice flour. He's already looking at you, like he knew it was you the second the bell rang.

A faint smile curls on Osamu's lips, like he's trying to hold it back, but you catch it. And for a second, the clatter of chopsticks dies; nothing exists but his half-hidden smile.

Your lips part, but you don't speak.

You don't need to.

Then—

“Yn! Akaashi!” Bokuto's voice booms across the room like a cymbal crash, shattering whatever quiet current was building between you and Osamu. He waves an arm so enthusiastically that his chopsticks nearly fly out of his hand. “You guys made it!”

You blink, startled back into the moment.

The tension breaks. Osamu clears his throat, returning to his task like the glance hadn't meant anything at all.

You feel the loss of it more than you mean to.

You weave through the narrow aisle between tables, your steps slow and measured, like you're trying not to disturb something fragile. Akaashi walks beside you, his presence calm as always, a quiet anchor in the noisy room.

The sounds of the shop swell back into your ears. Soft conversations, the crackle of the grill, the low, almost imperceptible hum of something unfinished.

Atsumu looks up towards you with a grin. “The boss-lady herself's gracin' us with her presence! Miracles do happen, huh?”

You huff with a roll of your eyes as you take the seat across from him. “Is it really that surprising?”

"It sure is, seein' how hard we had ta twist yer arm just ta drag ya out last night."

“Yn!” Bokuto beams a smile at you as he moves over to the seat at the bottom of the table, obviously to sit closer to Akaashi. “Long time no see!”

You exchange greetings with everyone, easy and warm, trying not to fumble when your eyes land on Suna sitting by the head of the table to your left.

He nods in acknowledgment, eyes unreadable as always, and you feel it again, that offbeat rhythm in your chest that you've been trying to suppress all day.

“I see we're all here now.”

Your head snaps to the side; a not-so-unfamiliar figure emerges from the bathroom. Dark curls frame his face, his posture straighter than the rest, composed but not stiff. His eyes, sharp, dark, and far too perceptive, meet yours. There's a cool assessment in them that doesn't feel unkind, just observant.

Sakusa Kiyoomi. You've never met him in person, but you know of him. His reputation precedes him, even without Bokuto's endless commentary.

You note the look he gave Bokuto for a split second, visibly unpleased by the small change of their seats, yet he takes the one by Atsumu's side anyway.

“This is Sakusa,” Akaashi murmurs next to you, as if reading your mind. “Guess he decided to come after all.”

Sakusa gives you a small nod with his head, which you return. “Yn,” he says, his voice low and crisp. “Heard a lot about you.”

“Likewise,” you reply with a faint smile, surprised by how easily it comes out.

Atsumu grins, nudging Sakusa with his elbow. “Don't worry, he ain't gonna bite. Just judges quietly.”

Sakusa hums. “I wouldn't say quietly.” That earns a snort from Suna, who still hasn't looked up from his phone.

Osamu appears at the edge of the table, towel slung over one shoulder. A small piece of his hair escaping his cap is slightly damp, stuck to his forehead like he’d been sweating over the grill. There's a flush high on his cheekbones that might be from the heat. Probably.

He places a tray down; two onigiri plates, hot and steaming. One slides in front of Akaashi and the other in front of you without a word, but the look he gives you says more than anything could.

“You good?” Osamu asks, quiet enough that only you hear.

You nod, plate warming your palms, “Thanks. This looks amazing.”

He gives you a half-smile. “Don't be a stranger.”

And then he disappears again, back to the rhythm of the kitchen.

God, he always knew how to say too much with too little.

Conversation swells around you. Atsumu teases Bokuto about his latest gym obsession, something involving weighted vests and an ill-advised trend on tiktok. Bokuto denies nothing. Sakusa quietly sips his tea, offering dry one-liners that somehow land harder than Atsumu's dramatic punchlines.

Every now and then, you catch Suna watching you. Just brief glances, casual, like he's checking the air. Your foot brushes his under the table once, but he doesn't move it away.

Halfway through your onigiri, Atsumu leans in. “So, yn...”

You pause mid-chew. “Yes?”

He wiggles his eyebrows. “How's the food?”

“…Great?”

“I mean, you've tasted Samu's cookin' before, right? Like, real up close n' personal?”

There's a beat of silence. Bokuto nearly chokes on his food. Akaashi coughs behind his fist. Suna's eyes widen, a smirk threatening to rise on his lips. Sakusa just stares into the void with a look of disappointment.

You glare at Atsumu, deadpan. “Are you asking if I've made out with rice?”

Atsumu bursts out laughing, pointing at you as he turns to Sakusa. “See? That's why I like her.”

“Oi! Stop messin' with the guests already,” Osamu calls over from the grill.

“She ain't a guest,” Atsumu fires back, “she's family.” You can't decide if that warms you or makes your stomach twist.

“She's also right,” Sakusa says quietly, flicking an invisible crumb off his sleeve. “That was a terrible question.”

Bokuto leans closer, whispering loudly, “Don't worry; we don't let him out in public much.”

Akaashi sighs, but the corners of his mouth twitch.

Eventually, conversation drifts to lighter topics: Komori's messages from Shizuoka, a personal trainer Sakusa dealt with at the gym who tried to flirt with him mid-workout, Atsumu's apparent feud with a convenience store worker who won’t stock his favorite energy drink.

Meanwhile, Suna silently listens most of the time, only adding a few sarcastic comments here and there, earning at least two laughs from the table.

“You should go now.”

Akaashi's whisper forces your attention back to him, “It's pretty slow now. If you want to get a word from him, that's your chance,” he says lowly once more as he subtly points his eyes towards the kitchen.

You instinctively bite down on your lip, and your gaze flicks towards the man in question. Slightly tilting your head, you observe him carefully, his back to you as he methodically wipes down the glasses. Even though his focus is on the task, you notice the faint tension in his shoulders, and your eyes linger on the way his hands move with practiced ease.

Your heart flutters. Silly, but not untrue.

You slip away from the table without announcing it, walking back toward the counter like your feet are moving before your mind decides. You take a seat on the stool right across Osamu.

The surface of the counter is smooth beneath your fingertips, and the air here smells like toasted soy sauce and the crisp char from a pan still warm. You fold your hands in front of you and wait until he turns around.

A moment later, Osamu emerges, wiping his hands on a rug. He doesn't look surprised to see you sitting there.

“Y'alright?” he asks, tone even, but his eyes are careful when they meet yours, like he's checking for signs of a storm.

You nod. “Yeah, just… needed a second.”

He leans on the counter, towel in hand. But his shoulders are tense, fingers fidgeting with the cloth.

“Food was good,” you say, quieter now. “Like really good. You weren't lying all those years ago.”

He snorts, a low sound, and shakes his head. “Told ya I'd make somethin' of it.”

“You did,” you murmur, smiling faintly. “This place is beautiful, Osamu.”

His name slips out before you can think twice. He doesn't flinch, but you see the way his gaze sharpens just slightly. He leans closer, elbows on the counter now, eyes on yours.

“Always wondered if ya'd come see it,” he says, voice low. “Someday, maybe.”

You blink. “Really?”

He nods. “Told myself I'd save ya a seat, just in case ya ever walked in.”

You look at your hands before your heart can give you away.

Down the counter, Atsumu appears with two empty bottles of soda and a mischievous gleam in his eye. He slides them onto the surface with a loud clink and props his chin on his hand, looking between you and his twin like he's watching a scene unfold on a stage.

“Well, don't stop talkin' on my account,” he teases. “Didn't mean ta interrupt this very serious moment.”

Osamu rolls his eyes. “Yer always interruptin'.”

“Only when things're lookin' juicy,” Atsumu grins, eyes cutting to you. “So… are they?”

You raise a brow, not taking the bait. “What are you, twelve?”

Atsumu gasps, hand to his chest. “Wounded.”

“You'll live,” Osamu mutters.

Atsumu leans a little closer to you. “Y'know, if yer feelin' shy, I could always pass messages between you two, like ol' school notes in class. Circle yes or no.”

You sigh, but it’s amused, and Osamu tosses a dish towel at him. “Go bother someone else.”

“I am!” he protests, catching the towel with a grin and tossing it over his shoulder. “I'm botherin' everyone equally.”

He turns and wanders back toward the table, where Bokuto is now dramatically reenacting his greatest spike, arms flailing, chair dangerously tilted. Akaashi grabs the edge of his hoodie to pull him down before he knocks something over.

You glance back at Osamu. “He hasn't changed.”

“Don't think he ever will,” Osamu says, but there's fondness in it.

You study him in the soft overhead light. His face is more defined now. Jaw sharper, lines a little deeper from years of work and sun. But his eyes are the same. That quiet steadiness. That pull.

There's a silence. A soft one.

“So…” you start, voice quieter than you meant. “Last night, when we talked. You mentioned—”

He tilts his head. “Yeah?”

You pause, chewing on the inside of your cheek. He looks genuinely curious. Not guarded. Not worried. Just… blank, in that effortless Osamu way that used to frustrate you, because it always made it harder to guess what was really going on behind those steady eyes.

Your words die on your throat.

You shake your head, barely. “Never mind.”

He doesn't press. Just watches you for a beat longer. His expression flickers like he's about to say something, but thinks better of it.

The silence that follows isn't awkward, not exactly. It’s careful, like both of you are too aware of the thin line between old comfort and new distance.

Chairs scrape softly against the wooden floor as everyone begins to move, the hum of conversation thinning into stretches of quiet. Plates are empty. Drinks long gone. The air inside Onigiri Miya is thick with the kind of warmth that lingers after a good evening — full bellies, tired laughs, and the slow crawl toward goodbye.

“I'll close up,” Osamu says, already moving behind the counter. “Don't worry 'bout cleanin'.”

“You sure?” Bokuto asks, stretching his arms over his head with a groan. “I can stay.”

“Yeah, yeah, ya say that now,” Osamu says, deadpan, “but last time ya 'accidentally' turned off the damn freezer.”

Bokuto gasps. “That was an honest mistake!”

“Ya unplugged it ta charge your damn phone.”

“Still counts,” Bokuto mumbles with a pout.

Sakusa is already at the door, arms crossed, pointedly ignoring them. Atsumu's mid-rant about how Google Maps lies. They both bid you farewell as you gather your things.

You pause at the doorway, glancing back. Osamu's stacking bowls that don't need stacking. He looks up when he senses you watching.

“I'm heading out,” you say quietly.

He gives a small nod. “Alright, thanks for comin'.”

You hesitate. “You take care, okay?”

His mouth twitches like he might smile, but doesn't. “You too.”

For a second, neither of you moves. The air between you feels thick with everything unspoken.

Then you nod, just once, and turn toward the door.

“Night, Osamu.”

His voice follows you out. “Night, yn.”

You step outside the shop, the door shutting behind you with a soft click. You watch Akaashi tugging Bokuto toward the street, giving you only the brief explanation of “We're walking home together, don't ask.”

You stand there for a moment. Atsumu has already driven off with Sakusa while Akaashi and Bokuto are now barely within your field of vision as they keep walking.

Yet someone is missing.

You glance back over your shoulder and pause. Suna is still inside.

He's standing by the counter, one hand lazily tucked into his pocket. He's saying something low, casual, his tone unreadable through the glass. Osamu listens, towel in hand, eyes on Suna. Then, just before he responds, he hesitates.

Whatever he says next isn't much. It's short, probably just a few words.

Yet it makes Suna's posture shift slightly, barely noticeable. His mouth presses into a thin line, and his eyes drop. Then he nods once, almost imperceptibly, before turning away.

You step back, suddenly aware you've seen something you shouldn't.

A second later, the door swings open, and Suna steps out. The light from the shop spills briefly across the sidewalk behind him before the door closes with a soft click.

He notices you almost immediately, sliding his phone into his pocket. “You ghosting me out here?”

“I prefer the term 'patiently waiting.'” You straighten, offering a small smile.

He huffs a quiet laugh and falls in step beside you as you walk towards your car. “Need a ride?” you offer, already unlocking the doors.

“If you’re offering.”

You both climb in. The car smells faintly of jasmine from the air freshener you'd forgotten about. Seat belts click, the engine purrs to life, and the car hums down half-lit streets.

Silence sits easy until Suna deadpans, “Atsumu called Bokuto a 'protein hound.'”

You laugh. “Yeah, and then Bokuto flexed like it was a compliment.”

Suna shakes his head. “I thought Sakusa was gonna walk out.”

“He was probably texting Komori an SOS.”

Suna smirks. “And Akaashi? That man’s got the patience of a saint.”

You glance sideways at him. “He did leave with Bokuto though.”

“Did he now?”

“Mmhmm.” He gives you a look that's equal parts unimpressed and amused, but says nothing.

The hotel’s neon hum rises sooner than expected.

Suna unbuckles but doesn't open the door. “You wanna come up?” His voice is low, not flirty — just simple — open. Like he's asking you to step into a moment you're both already on the edge of.

You look over, fingers still curled around the keys. “Is that a serious invite?”

He looks at you like he's weighing something behind those half-lidded eyes. “Yeah, it is.”

There's a second, one clean, simple second, where you could say no.

“We're still within the 24-hour range.”

A soft laugh escapes your lips. It comes naturally, always does with him. “We are indeed.”

“So?”

And you feel it again. That easy calm that surrounds you when you're close to him. No second thoughts, no spirals. A soft peace Suna grants you with ease with a few words. Sometimes with just a gaze.

Has it always been like this with Rin?

You don't give yourself the time to think about it more.

You pull the keys free from the ignition. “Lead the way.”

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#haikyuu smau #osamu smau #suna smau #osamu x reader #suna x reader #haikyuu x reader #osamu x you #miya osamu x reader #osamu miya x reader #suna rintaro x reader #suna x you #suna x y/n #haikyuu fanfiction #haikyuu fluff #haikyu x reader #haikyu x you

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xmultimusesx · 3 days ago

Text

Another hour passed before there was a knock on the door, two men with light colored skin waited outside for her to open the door - both removing their hats out of politeness and giving shy smiles "Sorry ma'am, don't mean to intrude but the gentleman you were at the bar with dropped this" One spoke holding up the golden coin

"We were trying to find you both, didn't notice till ya'll were already gone - our ma'ma taught us to always be kind" the other spoke smiling and glanced around past Azha into the house, as if examining it quietly. Motion was heard from the other room, but it sounded like something heavy had hit the ground hard followed by a groan that clearly came from the vampire, as if he was struggling. Something had felt off, and it had taken it awhile to effect a vampire as old as Remmick but it still worked just the same given it had been given to the vampire in very small amounts - they had to avoid him noticing the taste and smell of it within the whiskey he had been served at the bar.

He had let his guard down too much to notice someone had ben watching him, someone behind the bar posing as a bartender had slipped Vervain into his drinks - that they had been watching the pair quietly for the past week, had noticed things about him. The two men knew they wouldn't win while stack and mary were there - so they waited to see if the other two left, and they did luckily. Remmick felt weak, he felt sluggish, and he felt exposed as he struggled to pick himself off the floor he'd fallen onto when trying to get up, trying to find the strength to open his eyes and move his body.

The smiles and gentleness from the two men though quickly faded into serious expressions, one moving quick before she could close the door to push her out the way while the other hurried inside and closed the front door - pulling out a wooden stake hidden in his coat and walking directly towards the room where the sound came from "Don't worry ma'am we'll handle the demon" the other spoke keeping an eye on Azha and keeping himself between the hallway and her

Starter: The Joint and Jackal

@xmultimusesx

It had been two days since the blood. Since the screams. Since the moon lit Remmick like something out of an old warning tale— and she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him since.

Azha hadn’t meant to end up near the joint. Not really.

She’d left barefoot, told herself she was just walking to walk— letting the dirt cool her soles, trying to quiet the thing inside her that hadn’t rested since that night. But the air felt different again. Heavy. Expectant. And when the low thrum of music drifted to her from down the hill—gritty, sweet, sinful— it curled its fingers into her and pulled.

Then she saw him.

Remmick.

[Azha ducked back, slipping behind a splintered porch post wrapped in rusted wire. She watched from the dark.]

[The bouncer squinted at him, unimpressed.]

“You ain’t on the list, stranger,” [the man grunted, arms crossed like a wall. His jaw looked carved from stone, his eyes sharp with suspicion.] “This place don’t just let any drifter in ‘cause he’s got a silver tongue.

#twinklefairy-dust #the joint and jackal (closed rp)

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thatgayunoriginalbastard · 1 day ago

Text

Sharpwolf Vampire AU Fic Idea

When Telemachus was young, a few years old (so after Ody left) there was a vampire attempting to assassinate him, Tele only surviving due to divine intervention (probably Hermes since he wants to keep his great-great-grandson alive while his great-grandson is off at war), but since his neck was bitten he turned into a vampire

Penelope was horrified when she found out what happened but would never kill her son even if he has become a monster and so she keeps him hidden away in the castle and finds ways to procure blood for him, mostly animal blood that she collects when making sacrifices to the gods but occasionally if he's getting particularly hungry she'll let him drink some of hers (she wears long sleeves or cuffs around her arms as he only drinks from her arms so that doesn't accidentally turn her by going for her neck)

Telemachus has grown up isolated, hating himself, and barely getting any socialization because Penelope wants to minimize the amount of people who know him and because when he was a young teen he decided he was probably in control enough to be allowed to roam the palace at night...only for him to come across a new maid being harassed by a guard and he killed the guard right in front of the maid which freaked her out so much she tried to attack him, making him to kill her too out of predatory instinct

When the suitors started showing up his cravings just kept getting stronger due to all of his anger, being able to hear and smell the suitors very well even where he's locked away, also hearing how awful they are from how Penelope talks about them when she visits (he has offered to kill them for her several times and she refuses every time)

One nights he ends up sneaking into the palace just so he can see just how many men there are while he assumes they're all asleep...but it turns out Antinous is very much so still awake and fascinated when he finds out that the rumored prince is real and still alive

When he starts to make some comments about Penelope, Telemachus can't help himself and goes to attack him but Antinous is able to block him from his neck, Telemachus biting into his arm instead and *instantly* Antinous is into it

Telemachus, after pulling himself off of Antinous' arm, is readying himself to kill Antinous only to be shocked when the suitor isn't scared of him at all and is actually...nice to him?

Antinous offers him more of his blood in exchange for conversation and when Telemachus points out that he could just take it Antinous tells him that he won't do that, which is very true

Telemachus accepts the offer and Antinous lets him drink more of his blood then answers a few questions before he hears someone coming and leaves

Antinous, to Telemachus' surprise, doesn't tell anyone about his secret and a while later Tele seeks him out to ask him why, Antinous explaining that Tele's existence is already just a rumor and most think he's dead and for him to try to convince anyone that he's alive and is just hidden away because he's a vampire would be an impossible task, then gives him more blood in exchange for more questions and casual conversation

This goes on for a while until Penelope notices that his cravings for human blood has been going down and puts together that he has been feeding, which makes her very nervous after the last time she knew about him feeding on someone other than her and he has to explain what's going on

Penelope, who has dealt with Antinous during the daytime, is very suspicious but has no reason not to believe Tele and also knows that she can't really stop him in any way that matters without basically chaining him up and hoping he isn't strong enough to escape, so the next day she basically interrogates Antinous and reluctantly agrees to allow the whole arrangement to continue, telling Antinous where Telemachus is hidden so that the two of them don't risk being caught

Things get better for Telemachus as being able to have human blood so consistently has helped him physically and mentally and he gets closer to Antinous who eventually offers to teach him how to fight since Antinous uses their first encounter as an example that just because Telemachus is an unnatural predator, he isn't perfect and should know how to fight just in case he needs to defend himself and while Telemachus is nervous because he doesn't really want to be better at killing people Antinous convinces him by saying that maybe if he knows what he's doing then he'll be able to stop himself from doing anything bad

Telemachus gets better at fighting, he and Antinous get closer and closer, and eventually Tele catches feelings

One day the two of them decide to practice in the castle training grounds so Tele can have more space since nobody else should be up that late but they end up staying up so late that they're still out when morning comes and are found by another suitor who is able to put together who Tele is and, thanks to the sunrise coming, figures out that Tele is a vampire

The suitor is staying out in the sun so Telemachus can't do anything about them so Antinous tries to protect him, talking to the other suitor, but the two end up fighting and Antinous gets hurt in a way that makes Tele think he's fatally injured which makes Telemachus so scared and angry he runs out into the light, bites the suitor, starts drinking his blood despite the fact that his skin is actively burning, realizes that Antinous is still alive, lets the suitor go, and takes Antinous away with him so they can both heal up

Antinous questions his very dumb choice which leads to Telemachus confessing his feelings, expecting Antinous to reject him, only for Antinous to say that he's loved him ever since he first tried to kill him

[insert sex scene with lots of biting here]

The suitor who Telemachus attacked tries to tell the other suitors about what happened with Antinous and Telemachus but they just assume he's either crazy or just pissed off Antinous, lost to him in a fight, and is trying to come up with an excuse, which makes the suitor dedicated to exposing Antinous and Telemachus

Penelope learns about the rumors the suitor is trying to start, goes to Telemachus, finds out that not only did he attack the suitor in literal broad daylight but she also finds out about Antinous and Telemachus kinda sorta getting together (maybe she sees them in a state that's clearly post-sex cuddles or maybe the two of them are just really damn obvious) and has a whole lot of feelings about the situation mostly because of how dangerous it is and she and Tele get into an argument that ends with Penelope forcing Antinous to leave the palace since, as he clearly isn't pursing her anymore, he has no reason to stay

Telemachus is reasonably upset but Antinous figures that it's probably for the best, promising to visit when the whole suitor situation blows over, even though they both know he probably won't be able to

Antinous is, however, able to negotiate staying one more week so he can have any arrangements for his return home made which is able to be a small comfort for Telemachus, at least until Penelope moves Telemachus to her room, locking him in there so she can know where he is at all times

Near the end of the week time limit the big storm happens, Penelope is confident that Odysseus will return soon, and she gives the challenge to the suitors

Antinous actually does his damn best to win the challenge, giving the impression that he does actually want the queen, because he figures that if he can win the challenge he can prove that he is worthy of Telemachus

The whole "Hold Them Down" thing happens led by the suitor who Telemachus attacked, determined to use the strength and anger within all the suitors to manage to get the queen and use her as bait to prove that Telemachus is real and a vampire, only to be shot through the throat by Odysseus

"Odysseus" happens but Antinous is just doing everything he can to look for Telemachus without getting killed, going to Penelope's room to warn her only to discover that she let Telemachus go because Tele was able to hear the plans and already warned her and she let him go to keep him safe which just makes Antinous freak out because he knows that that means Telemachus isn't safe because even if the suitor who hates Tele got shot, with all the bloodshed from Odysseus' return happening then there's no way he won't expose what he is and probably get himself killed

Antinous comes across the weapons room, breaks the door open, and starts looking for something to protect himself and Telemachus, but is found by Odysseus

Things go from bad to worse when, before Odysseus can kill him, the angry suitor pulls out the whole draft version of the song and with the help of the other suitors starts to kick Odysseus' ass despite being shot through the throat, yelling out to Telemachus to come and try to kill him for real if he really loves his father

Homeboy gets instant karma when Telemachus does show up, the suitor and Tele fight, but since Tele has gotten fight training (which the suitor didn't know), he kills him, draining him of all his blood

On the high of murder and seeing all the threats around, he goes on his own little bloodthirsty rampage to protect his father, murdering suitor after suitor all in front of Antinous and Odysseus, who is seeing his son for the first time in 20 years and learning that that son is a vampire (for extra drama points Ody is actually be a monster hunter on the side, a fact made ironic by him becoming a metaphorical monster to get back to his son who became a literal monster just a few years after he left)

After all the suitors are dead but Telemachus is still high on bloodlust, smells the blood from Odysseus' injuries, and goes to attack because he's just in hunting mode having drank more blood that he ever has before and being surrounded by so much death that he doesn't recognize his dear injured father but Antinous gets in the way, losing a decent amount of blood before finally snapping Telemachus out of it

Telemachus stops, Antinous doesn't die thanks to Odysseus' help, Telemachus and Odysseus have their reunion, Odysseus goes off to see Penelope, and Telemachus and Antinous are left alone and surrounded by the carnage

Telemachus feels awful for nearly killing Antinous and apologizes, Antinous calls his bloodthirsty rage hot, they laugh, they kiss, they talk, (maybe they have sex surrounded by corpses because they kinky like that) and the chaos is finally over

Thanks to Ody's monster hunting knowledge he figures out ways to let Telemachus actually live a semi-normal princely life, Antinous sticks around as a lover/blood supply bag, and all is well that ends well

...so how obvious is it that I'm still not normal about the end of Castlevania Notcturne season 2 and all the shit with Olrox and Mizrak and am coping by projecting onto Sharpwolf?

I don't know if anything will come of this but I might make it a fic? I mean, this post is basically a fic outline so...who knows. Depends how I feel and if literally anyone but me finds the idea interesting. But yeah.

I am incredibly tired and stayed up far too long writing this thing I hope to god this is at all coherent

#epic the musical #epic the musical au #vampire au #telemachus #antinous #odysseus #penelope #sharpwolf #telemachus x antinous #antinous x telemachus #antimachus #fanfiction #fanfic ideas

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