#just something i wrote to deal with the pain of existence

[saneabandoned]

You weren’t loyal to me.

Oh, but they were. That’s why they never questioned you, they know how loyal you are, how you pride yourself in that, and never thought you’d actually leave. That’s why they never went after you, they just couldn’t believe you’d really left, left them, they didn’t know how to search for somebody who made it clear he didn’t want to be found. They were loyal, they just never expected you not to be.

I was one of you.

They know. They remember, and how couldn’t they, when they are not the same without you, they don’t see things the way they did with you standing next to them. They lost their balance the day they lost you, there is an empty space now where you once were and it’s just not the same anymore, not without you.

You still are. A brother, a friend. You are standing in front of them, and they’d take you back in a second, you need only ask.

You may have forgotten, but I haven’t.

Believe it, they can’t either. They just can’t wrap their minds around the fact that you’re not there anymore, that you chose to leave them, after everything you’ve been through together. They never looked for you because they didn’t know it was possible you didn’t want them anymore. They thought you’d forgotten, they never could.

And it’s why I’m going to give you what you never gave me: a chance.

They never gave you a chance because they didn’t think you needed it. They would never presume you’d wanted it, that you were ever even thinking of betraying them, that you needed something else other than them, than what you had together. They gave you a chance, don’t ignore it. They’re giving it now too. They’re here, aren’t they?

But you’re too proud, too stubborn, too insecure. How could they want you when you left? You can’t admit the mistake you made because you don’t think they’ll forgive you, and what then? You’d have lost your purpose, you’d be left alone, again. The kind of loneliness you never knew existed, the one you felt for the first time when you left them, only it would be worse because you’d know they don’t want you back this time.

You can’t bear to hear their refusal, which is why you prefer to have this on your own terms, you won’t beg, you want them to beg. Beg to join you, beg for you to come back.

Just a bit more, and maybe you’ll yield.

You want to feel that they’d missed you, and to be able to have someone watch your back again, someone to care enough for you to risk defending you. You weren’t made to be on your own, not like this, and you know it.

But you won’t break, why won’t you break?

[railingsofsorrow]

nothing's gonna hurt you, baby

[jj maybank x reader]

summary: “you don't have to worry about me.” your voice is muffled but he can hear it well. the way his fingertips graze against your back under your shirt almost puts you to sleep right then.  “'course I do.” jj pokes your waist, tone bordering on indignant. “you're my girl, why wouldn't I worry about you?” pairing: jj maybank x f!reader w.c: 1.2k warnings/content: child abuse (implied); description of wounds, blood and violence; hurt/comfort.

A/N: in honor of obx 4, here's a jj maybank hurt/comfort blurb. just fyi, he's alive and happy and he ran off to yucatan in the show, that shitty ending they wrote did not fucking happened. anyways, enjoy my silly writing.

navi

masterpost

obx masterlist

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ 

“ow!” you hissed, leaning away as your forehead stung as soon as the antiseptic made contact with the wound. “it stings.” you provided helplessly, lips tugging downwards. 

watching as jj's mouth quirked up slightly, you glared at him. he looked away to grab another gauze, unaffected by your dramatic behavior. not so dramatic because the cut was fresh so in your defense you had every right to react that way. 

“it's supposed to sting, means it's working.”

you hold back a complaint as he presses the gauze near the cut again. his blue eyes attentively stare back at you, he waits for your whining but it doesn't come.

“so you mean I'm supposed to enjoy pain because it's good for me? it's like we're all condemned to the same fate, aren't we?”

“my pretty little philosopher or whatever,” jj tutted, pressing a kiss to your temple before he stood up to throw the used materials away. the couch was comfortable as you adjusted your body to lay back down, making sure not to turn on your side so jj's job wouldn't go to waste. “should I call pope here? cause I'm not gonna be able to keep up with your existence theories.”

“existencial.”

“yeah, that.” you let out a hum in appreciation as he ran his fingers across your ankles, the coldness of his rings grazing against your skin. that will definitely help you fall asleep. silence stretched on for a few minutes and the room was enveloped with you and jj basking in each other's presence. 

until, well… until he broke it.

“how did you get this?”

“told you, cabinet door.”

“right, which one was it this time? kitchen or bathroom?” 

you felt like a little kid being caught doing what you weren't supposed to be doing. by his tone, you already knew he was onto your lie but you stayed silent, forcing your face to be blank of any emotion. 

jj had caught you with bruises before. the keyword being caught because you'd never willingly show it to him. he already had too much on his plate to deal with, he didn't need you to add to it. 

it wasn't the first time, thus his little gentle jab at your lie.

“cuddle me.” you requested — more like ordered — an outstretched hand in his direction as you ignored his previous question with grace and not all in an unsubtle way. “jayj”

your boyfriend engulfed you in his warmth, arms wrapping around your middle as you settled in his chest, cheek resting against the soft fabric of his jumper.

“you don't have to worry about me.” your voice is muffled but he can hear it well. the way his fingertips graze against your back under your shirt almost puts you to sleep right then. 

“'course I do.” jj pokes your waist, tone bordering on indignant. “you're my girl, why wouldn't I worry about you?”

“your girl?” you placed your chin on the back of your hand, licking your lips contemplatively. “a bit possessive, isn't it?”

something itched in your chest upon noticing the small dimple on his left cheek when he gave you that charming disarming smile of his. “you think so?” he uttered, hands intertwining behind your back as he shrugged when his face twitched in amusement. “but you are, aren't you?”

“am I?” you pretended to be clueless. “not sure... hey.” you squirmed when he threatened to tickle you.

“hey.” he mocked with a slightly annoying voice, warning a slap on his chest. jj let out a deep chuckle. “stop, stop. okay.” he held your hands, lifting your knuckles to his lips so he could kiss them, blue eyes glinting with mischief staring you down. that glint soon tuned down to something serious, it was when you knew he was about to initiate a topic you wanted to run away from.

you were cornered.

jj's thumb touched your cheek, there was also a small yellowish bruise beginning to heal near your cheekbone, besides the cut in your forehead, which was what concerned him more. 

this one is older, he observed the bruise, caressing the spot ever so gently as if you were made of glass. you shouldn't have bruises or cuts or anything that gives you pain. 

“jayj, it's fine—”

“is it bad?” 

you know what his words mean and that proved he didn't believe in your lies. why would he? he went through the same on a daily basis before his dad took off god knows where. you honestly hope he never comes back because if luke maybank ever thinks of laying a hand on jj again, you'd bury him alive. 

but anyway, you admitted the truth, laying out what truly was going on inside your house.

“just when she gets mad.” you offered, looking back at your hands curling together. “really, it's fine, don't worry about me.”

his forehead creases and you think he's about to order you to shut up but instead he squeezes your hand. anger is never his go-to emotion with you.

“I worry, always. can you tell me how this one happened? it's deeper.” he asked, touching the spot in your forehead beside the cut he had cleaned up. 

your eyes followed his carefully but your body was relaxed as it never had been whenever you talked about that subject. 

“I, um... I dodged her slap. kind of. I ducked down— or tried to.” you winced at your explanation and at the memory. “anyways, the cut was because of her ring.”

his jaw clenched but his touch never shifted to anything other than delicate. 

“i'm sorry.”

“don’t be.” you said, smiling up at him. “it’s not your fault, but thanks.”

“you shouldn't be used to this.” jj said firmly, brushing a stray strand of your hair behind your ear, his gaze far away. “you can come stay at the chateau if you want, you know? we always have space.”

“thank you for caring, but I'll be fine.”

“I know.” he shrugged. “but I mean, when you're not, you have a place to run to. you have me.” 

and yes, you knew that, technically. but your fucked brain thought if you shared your home life with him, this would make you a burden, you never ever wanted that. you didn't want him to get tired of you and realize he was better off with someone else who wasn't so complicated.

“I know I have you.”

“do you?”

“I love you.” you offered as if that was supposed to be a strong argument.

jj raised a brow. “I love you too and that's why I want you to open up to me.” he explained gently, thumb running against your cheek. “call me. find me. I'll be there. I'll find you wherever you are, alright?” 

you hummed, agreeing with him in his request. a smile gracing your lips. “okay.”

he shifted in bed, leaning down to kiss your forehead. “if it depends on me, nothing’s gonna hurt you,” he mumbled against your forehead as you wrapped an arm around his middle and basked in his warmth.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ 

taglist: @hoeshissworld 

[samuelsdean]

Stitch Me Up

pairing: dean winchester x reader

summary: for dean, every scrape, every gash, was a twisted plea for your touch.

genre: angst

word count: 0.5k

author's notes: i wrote this at 3 am on my notes app while simultaneously rewatching spn because i'm insane and i'm a huge advocate of touch-starved!dean.

THE METALLIC TANG OF BLOOD WAS DEAN'S CONSTANT UNPLEASANT FOREWARNING THAT DEAN HAD RETURNED—HE WAS HOME. Sprawled on the floor, another injury marring his flesh, and he sees you right there in front of him. He could see the anger in your eyes, could feel the fury that bubbles in your gut is ceaseless, a familiar dance with the ever-present terror.

For Dean, every scrape, every gash, was a twisted plea for your touch.

Dean loves it when you touch him, when you lay your hands gently on his skin, careful not to cause him more pain than what he is dealing with at the moment. He loves it when you clean his wounds while going off on another tangent as to how he should be more cautious—threatening him that next time, you would not be there to treat him; yet, every time, not one did you miss his homecoming, when he comes home bloodied, the first thing you do is come running and restoring him to full health. He craved your tirades, the harsh scoffs, and thinly veiled threats that were your flimsy shield against worry. Each rant was a desperate battle cry, a plea for him to be careful.

Yet, Dean could not help himself. He reveled in your ministrations, the gentle contrast to the fire of your anger.

Dean loves it when you tend to him because it is proof that you care.

And he craves it—craves you—your presence, your touch—everything. He thinks it is sickening how much he has grown to crave you. Because he thinks he does not deserve you, and he knows that the universe always tries to play a sick joke on him.

It was a warped version of his affection born from a life spent in the shadows. Love, for him, was a dangerous dance, a promise of heartbreak waiting to happen. People he cared about had a knack for disappearing, leaving him with the cold comfort of solitude. Hunting was a drifter's existence. A life with no room for roots or dreams. Letting someone in, and building a family, was a recipe for disaster.

It is a lonely life being a hunter. One could never have the chance to put down roots because there is always a monster to hunt, a demon to exorcise, and a case to solve. Loving someone and having a family is just a foolproof way of getting yourself hurt. Yet, here he was, craving the very thing he swore to avoid. It was a sickness, a yearning that gnawed at his soul.

Because the truth, the terrifying truth, was that Dean could not bear the thought of being truly alone.

The sting of disinfectant was a cruel reminder of his twisted reality. As you patched him up, his eyes, usually alight with mischief, held a touch of vulnerability. At that moment, Dean gave you a glimpse of his plea for something more than just mending—a desperate hope that maybe, just maybe, he could find a place in a world that felt increasingly fragile, right beside you.

But the question remained, a silent echo in the tense air: could you give him what he craved without sacrificing your own heart in the process?

[writingreadinglurkingandsmirking]

Hold Me Down (Is This A New Start?) - Rafe Cameron x Reader

Summary: After a long, hard day of work you just want to go home and go to bed. But, when you get a persistent knock on your door from Rafe fucking Cameron. you know you’re gonna have a long night ahead. Letting him in, after two months of not seeing him, you fully anticipated a screaming match. But, you got something much different than you bargained for—much better too.

CW/TWs: brief angst, brief mentions of Rafe being on house arrest lol, feminine pronouns used, gorgeous/sweet girl/baby/darlin' as nicknames, toxic behavior, canon-adjacent Rafe, mean-ish Rafe, smut, piv sex, oral sex (male receiving), impact play, (not really) lowkey daddy kink, brat reader, dumbification, degradation kink, praise kink, overstimulation, breath play, unprotected sex (be safe I am nawt your mom gn), allusions to a pain kink for sure, mushy gushy sweet ending, not highly edited or reviewed

Words: 8.1k+

Note: 18+ MDNI, really just fucking don’t. I wrote this one in first person because writing in second person irritates my very soul. Uhhhh so this kinda came out of left field and I did nawt plan on writing this but here we are! But such is life! Anyways…back to regularly scheduled programming.

It had been a long day - too long. There was something exceedingly exhausting about living paycheck to paycheck that the average person didn’t understand. There was nothing quite as specific as the exhaustion that you encountered by overworking yourself day after day, week after week, month after month, all for nothing. Because that’s what this all amounted to. Nothing. Nothing extra at the end of the week to take home, nothing to do anything nice with. Just nothing. And nothing sucked the joy out of your day like knowing you’d have to get up the next day and do it all over again.

When I’d finally gotten home from a shift that didn’t end until almost the crack of fucking dawn - a good twelve hours after I was supposed to have gotten off shift - there was not a thing I wanted more than to sleep. Still, even as I sat on my fucking couch, my woes could not end. There was a loud, demanding knock on the door.

The first time I ignored it.

The second time I ignored it.

The third time, an annoyed voice accompanied the knock.

“Baby, open the fucking door,” came the snarl from the other side. I groaned and ran my hands down my face. I really didn’t want to deal with Rafe today. Not like that had ever deterred him before. “Baby, come on. Listen. Please. The cops are fucking trolling around outside. Baby, please open the door.”

I groaned and pulled myself to my feet, opening the apartment door. Standing there, looking at pitiful as ever was Rafe fucking Cameron. The bane of my existence. My more-or-less on-again-off-again boyfriend—though I’d sooner bash my head against the door than admit that. I glared at the ass who had done nothing but make my life harder since he’d entered it. Then, I stepped to the side and let him in. He stepped in and closed the door quickly, locking it behind him. He turned to me and pressed an absent-minded kiss to my forehead before going to sit down on the couch.

“You look like shit, darlin’,” he said. When he even had the decency to look up and notice I was there.

“Thanks,” I said dryly. I looked down at his leg. His ankle monitor looked fucked. “What the fuck did you do this time?”

“Just a little mod,” he said casually. “I needed to get out for a minute.”

“Why did you come here?” I demanded. “Did you stash more fucking coke in my house I swear to fucking God I will kill you. I am not catching a fucking charge for you, asshole.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Why would I leave my coke with you knowing that you’d throw it out, baby? That’s just bad business. Besides, darlin’ the cops aren’t outside for me some loser is probably getting caught selling a few doors down again. And hey? It’s a crime to want to see you now, darlin’?” he asked, winking.

“No. But it is a crime to skip out on house arrest, Rafe,” I said blandly. “And I know damn well that you’re not here because you want to see me. I’m just convenient to you like fucking always.”

He rolled his eyes as if I were being the dramatic one. “What’s wrong now, gorgeous?” he drawled. “Always seems like there’s something these days, hmm?”

I clenched my jaw. “Fuck you, Rafe. Get the hell out,” I snapped.

Rafe frowned. Stood again and walked over to me. He placed his hands on my hips, refusing to leave. I, in turn, refused to look at him. “Look at me, darlin’,” he demanded. Reluctantly I did. “What’s wrong?” I didn’t answer. He brushed my hair back from my face and just kept looking at me. “Come on, sweet girl. Tell me…what’s wrong.” He smiled to himself when I still didn’t answer. “You know better than anyone I’m not going to leave until you tell me, baby…so come on…what’s wrong with my sweet girl?”

“Fuck you,” I repeated weakly, pulling out of his arms. I plopped down on my couch, curling into myself and closing my eyes. “Just fucking leave when you see the cops are gone. I can’t be bothered today.” The asshole had the audacity to laugh at my words. “Shut the fuck up, Rafe.”

Dramatically, Rafe sighed and knelt down on the ground in front of me. I felt him grab my knees and pull me to face him. I had no choice but to unfurl, otherwise, I would’ve fallen into him, which I had no interest in doing. So, I leaned back into the couch, trying to ignore the heat of his hand sinking into my cold legs through worn jeans. It was hard to ignore that. Hard to ignore any of him, really. And he knew that. That’s why he only waited through my stubborn silence for a few minutes.

“Come on, baby,” he hummed. “Tell me what’s wrong. I’m sorry I’m a dick, darlin’…you know I care.”

I laughed weakly, eyes still closed. “No. No, you don’t,” I said flatly.

He ignored my words and kept rubbing my legs. “It’s so fucking cold in here, baby,” he commented. “And your legs are freezing. Your heat not working?”

“No, it's working. It’s just too fucking expensive to heat this shitty goddamn apartment and I’m not forking over more money to the cunt landlord,” I said sharply, glaring at him. “Did you suddenly forget what life is like if—” I cut myself off, shaking my head.

He had the audacity to glare back if you could believe it. Then, he slapped my inner thigh. “I told you to call me if you needed help,” he hissed. He slapped my other thigh. “The fuck are you doing? What game are you playing at, baby?”

I pushed him away from me with my foot. “A game where I don’t need to rely on a man who is a fucking wannabe felon,” I snapped.

He rolled his eyes and got to his feet. “Newsflash, baby, you do need me,” he said, sounding way too smug about it.

“Fuck you, Rafe. I need a bullet to the brain more than I need you,” I sneered.

“That’s cute.” He continued on like I didn’t even speak in the first place. “I could give you that, if you want. But that doesn’t change anything about it, darlin’. You need my money, you need my cock, you need my love. You’ve said it yourself that no one gives it to you as good as I do. And I know you haven’t been looking which means you’re still as invested in this as I am. So.” He grabbed my chin, forcing me to look into his eyes. “When I tell you if you need my fucking money to heat your stupid apartment because your ass is too stubborn to move in with me…then you fucking call me.”

“You are not my fucking father,” I snapped, pulling out of his tough.. “Like I said. Bullet to the fucking brain before this shit anymore. I’m sick of it.”

“I don’t know. You do call me daddy a lot,” he mocked. He smiled down at me, but there was hardly any warmth to it. “But, oh? You’re so sick of it, hmm? You want to be brainless?” He laughed. “Well, I can make you brainless without having to put a hole in your pretty little head.” He wound his hand tightly in my hair, pulling my face towards his while I sharply inhaled. “And you’ll remember exactly why you’re not done with me, gorgeous.”

I glared at him. “I haven’t seen you in two months. The last time I did see you, you called me a stupid, worthless cunt and told me that you never wanted to see me again. And you think you can just show up here and get me to listen to you?” I demanded. I felt my face heating with my frustration. “Just like that? You think you’re…you think you’re worth me listening to?” I laughed. “Like I said. Fuck you, Rafe. I deserve…I deserve so much better than this. Than you.”

There was a mocking pout on his face. He reached out and grabbed my face again, squeezing my chin. “You think you’re going to find someone better than me?” he asked incredulously. He let out a laugh. “And where do you think you’ll find someone like that?” I didn’t answer. I refused to give him the satisfaction. He chuckled, but then his face went serious. “I’m sorry that I haven’t seen you in months, darlin’. I’m sorry that I said I never wanted to see you again. I was pissed, sweet girl. I didn’t mean it.”

“Oh you never mean it,” I said, the sarcasm’s impact dampened by the tearful sound of my voice.

He moved his hand from my chin to cup my face. I hated myself for it, but I did lean into the touch. “Come on, sweet girl…don’t be like that, baby,” he said. He leaned forward and dropped a kiss to the side of my neck. “You know that I love you.” Another kiss, followed by a short nip. “I’ve been busy, darlin’. That’s all. I’m sorry. I should’ve called, sweet girl. I know that. I’m not mad.”

“You were mad,” I accused, glaring at him.

“I was mad, baby,” he said, deceptively calm. “I was…frustrated that you wouldn’t let me take care of you. I just want what’s best for you. But I’m not mad anymore.”

“Well maybe I’m mad at you,” I retorted, harshness still lessened by the teary voice and the way I leaned into him.

“That’s okay,” he practically cooed. He pressed another kiss to my neck then moved so we were face to face, just a breath between us. He smirked, eyes drifting down to my lips and then back up. “You can be mad at me as long as you want, sweet girl. Just as long as you tell me that you love me.”

I sighed and closed my eyes. “No,” I said stubbornly.

“Come on, sweet girl, please,” Rafe purred, stroking my neck with his hand lazily. “I love you, darlin’.”

“I love you,” I said, voice breaking. My eyes popped open and I felt the tears in them.

Rafe’s smirk didn’t waver, but his eyes did soften. He let out a hum and wiped a tear that slipped. “There’s my sweet girl,” he cooed. He leaned forward and pressed a long, languid kiss to my lips. “Let me make it up to you, baby.” Another long kiss—lazier this time. “Let me apologize for calling you names, baby.” Another kiss. “Remind you that you’re my special, sweet girl.”

I huffed. “Oh so you wanna fuck me and suddenly I’m not a stupid, worthless cunt then?” I spat, voice dripping insecurity.

Rafe rolled his eyes so hard I was shocked that his eyes didn’t stick in the back of his head. “You’re not a stupid, worthless cunt. You’re my sweet girl and you know it,” he drawled. “I was a little fucking high when I said that. I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry.”

I gave him a withering glare. “Oh and you’re not high now?” I asked even though I could already tell he wasn’t. He gave me a flat look and I deflated, leaning back, covering my face as I leaned against the arm of the couch. I sniffled. “Okay, I’m sorry. That wasn’t fair. I didn’t mean it.”

He chuckled dryly and rubbed my leg gently. “It’d be fair if you did,” he drawled. He squeezed my leg. “And it’s fine that it’s not fair, sweet girl. I wasn’t fair. So.” He grabbed my legs and lowered them both to the floor. He gently pried my legs open leaning further into my space, hands dancing up both my thighs now. “How about I be real nice and make it up to you?”

“No,” I said stubbornly, glaring half-heartedly down at him. I felt his hand toy with the waist of my jeans, dancing just over the button. “I don’t want you to.”

Rafe raised an eyebrow, unconvinced considering I’d begun to lean into his space more, opening my legs to give him more space to occupy, more space to get closer. “Oh?” he posed, tone almost mocking. “You don’t want to?”

“No,” I corrected, grabbing his hand, putting it back on my hair to silently prompt him to grab it just as he did before. “I don’t want you to be nice.” I glowered at him .”It’s been two months, Rafe. I need…”

He let out a low chuckle, eyes dark with quickly emerging lust. “Fuck, darlin’, tell me…what do you need?” he asked.

I blinked slowly, still looking right into his eyes, intoxicated by him already from such a short time together. “I need you to take care of me like you always do,” I said quietly.

Immediately, his hand wound tightly through my hair and he rose to his feet, forcing me to tilt my head up. I felt my breath hitch in my throat as I looked up at him, my eyes wide and wanting. I bit my lip, eyes trailing slowly down his body, to his belt at my eye level, and then back up. He chuckled again, grinning down at me. He wound his hand a bit tighter in my hair making me let out a squeak as he dragged me just a bit closer to his body.

“You need me to take care of you?” he posed, tone just shy of mocking. “Need me to help turn off that gorgeous fucking brain of yours, baby?” He used his free hand to trail down my cheek, fingers briefly touching my neck and stopping there. “Need me to fuck you stupid, sweet girl?”

Taking a shaky breath, I reached out, hand loosely holding his belt buckle. “Yes,” I said breathlessly.

I reveled in the sudden, sharp sting in my cheek. “Try again,” he warned, voice raspy.

“Yes…please fuck me stupid, daddy,” I said, batting my eyes up at him. “I don’t wanna think anymore.”

“Fuck,” Rafe muttered, his voice raspier still, thick with lust. He chuckled and loosened his hand in my hair before dropping it. He took his shirt off and then knotted a hand back in my hair. “Okay, baby. I’ll take care of you. I’ll take care of my sweet girl.” He stroked my cheek gently with his free hand before moving it to his belt buckle and undoing it with ease. He then smirked down at me, inclining his head. “Well? Take me out, darlin’.” I glanced down at his open belt but he tutted, tilting my chin back up. “No, baby. Keep your eyes on me.” His request was one that was most easy for me to accommodate considering I felt like I’d die if I looked away from him.

My hands trembled as I reached forward, taking the belt off of him. I was ready to throw it to the side but Rafe held out a hand. Without even questioning it, I placed it in his hand. He then set it to the side and gestured with his head at me to continue. Which, I happily did. I heard him let out a quiet chuckle as I undid the button on his pants and brought down the zipper without breaking eye contact. I almost hastily pulled down the fabric until it sagged the rest of the way down. I raised my eyebrows at Rafe in a silent plea.

“What, baby?” he asked, amused, tightening his grip on my hair. I let out a weak whine and pouted. “What? You gotta tell me what you want, sweet girl. Use your words.”

“I wanna see your cock,” I responded, hooking my hand on the hem of the waistband of his boxers. I tilted my head to the side, jutting my bottom lip out further. “Please, daddy.”

He let out a dark chuckle. “Okay, baby,” he drawled. I hummed, pleased with myself, and looked down, prepared to take his boxers off. But, he tutted, turning my head up with his grip on my hair so I’d meet his eyes again. “Nuh, uh, darlin’. Keep those gorgeous eyes on me still. Don’t you dare even think about looking at my cock yet, baby. Just get it out.”

“But—” I began to complain before being silenced with another warning slap on the cheek making me whine and pull back slightly; not that Rafe let me get very far.

“No but, baby. You listen to me. Be a good girl,” Rafe warned, tone darkening. “You know I want what’s best for you, right, sweet girl?” I nodded through teary eyes, looking back up at him. He cursed under his breath at the sight, tightening and then loosening his hand in my hair once more. “Good girl, baby. Such a good fucking girl. Now, get my cock out. And don’t even look at it.”

I shivered at the order but complied. I reached and used two fingers to gently drag the fabric of the boxers down until they too gave way, falling down past his knees. Using every bit of restraint I had, I kept my eyes locked on his, refusing to look at his dick even as it hung directly in front of my face. Rafe hummed, his free hand moving from his side to wrap around himself, pumping lazily. I swallowed, biting my tongue as a reminder to keep my eyes up. A mocking laugh fell from Rafe’s mouth at the sight and I felt my stomach tighten.

“Oh there’s my good girl,” he cooed. “She can finally fucking listen, huh? So proud of you baby. Little slut that you are, I didn't think you’d be able to do it.” I let out a tiny whimper at his words, feeling a growing, heated pit of arousal low in my stomach. I shifted slightly, just barely able to keep my eyes from falling down. He chuckled again and pursed his lips. “How about you take your clothes off for me baby? Then I’ll let you look all you want at your favorite part of me.”

“All my clothes, daddy?” I checked. He nodded. I all but raced myself to do so. I whipped off the shirt I had on with ease and shimmied out of my jeans easily enough. Sitting there in my bra and panties, Rafe told me to stop and so I paused, looking up at him. “Yes, daddy?”

“Nothing, darlin’…just wanna look at you a minute,” he said, eyes dark with lust. “So fucking pretty, baby. God on fucking high, can’t imagine what I did to deserve such a blessing.”

“Stop,” I dismissed, blushing.

“Nah, baby. You’re a fucking twelve-course meal and I plan to have all of ‘em,” he dismissed, stepping closer and grabbing my chin. “And you aren’t gonna say some dumb shit like that again. We clear, baby?”

“Yes, daddy,” I murmured, feeling his thumb ghost up to trace my bottom lip. My breath hitched in my throat and he seemed to remember himself.

He pulled away and smirked down at me. “Bra and panties off. Let me see that pretty pussy, darlin’. Been missing it so much while I was gone,” he purred. I shivered at his words but peeled them off, shivering at the cold feeling of the air against my nipples and the cool fabric of the couch against my exposed core, quickly growing wet. “Fuck you’re so pretty. Look at you…all this…just for me.” He came closer again—even more this time—and his hand loosely went around my jaw, jerking my head up. “You are just for me, aren’t you baby?” I nodded immediately. He glared, his voice gruffer. “Words, darlin’. Or I might not be inclined to be too nice to you.”

“Yes, daddy,” I said breathlessly, wide-eyed. “All yours. Just for you.” I felt my heart beating rapidly in anticipation of seeing Rafe smile down at me. “Daddy?”

“Yes, baby?” he asked, hand still hooked around my jaw.

“Can I look please?” I asked sweetly, pouting up at him.

His lips quirked into a smirk and he narrowed his eyes looking at me, appraising. “I don’t know, baby. You think I should let you?” he asked.

“Please,” I said, pouting. “I just wan’ you. Want to see you. Wanna have you.”

“Awe with my sweet girl saying all that, well how could I say no?” he drawled, removing his hand from my neck to trail back and join the other in my hair. “Go ahead and look, darlin’. Take as long as you’d like.”

Ever so slowly, I broke my eye contact with Rafe, trailing my gaze down to his dick. Rafe’s confidence even as he stood bare as the day he was born was one of the things that had initially attracted me to him. But, looking at him now, lazily pumping his hand over his cock while he smirked down at me? I don’t think that I’d ever been quite so down bad for him. Which was…concerning, maybe? Pathetic, perhaps? But I didn’t care. At that moment, with his long, thick dick just hovering right in front of me, all I could think about was how badly I wanted him. Of how long I’d wanted him…of how long I’d waited.

“What? I don’t even gotta fuck you to turn that pretty brain off anymore?” he said, voice an alluring growl as he let out a dark sort of chuckle. “Got you so trained to take my dick you don’t even try to fight it, do you sweet girl?”

I shifted at his words, suddenly feeling my core flutter at his words, clenching regrettably—miserably—around nothing. His smirk increased tenfold at that and he stepped closer so that there was practically no space between us, not that there had been much before. Now, his cock stood proudly just next to my face. Again, ever so slowly I raised my eyes to meet his again. And the desperation must’ve been clear in my gaze if the smug, self-satisfied look in his were anything to go by.

“And this was supposed to be for you,” he hummed. “My dumb little baby won’t be able to think for herself and tell me what she wants when I get started, will she?” I let out a pathetic little whimper. “You just need something in that sweet little pussy and your perfect mouth, huh?” His eyes trailed down to my lips, briefly displaying the heated desire he was feeling before moving to meet mine again. “Tell me one thing, darlin’, okay? Think your cute lil’ brain can take that?”

“Yes, daddy,” I said, voice coming out breathy. I squirmed slightly, squeezing my thighs together to avoid doing something like grinding on the couch and making him stop this before it even started.

“I don’t have too much patience before I gotta get in that tight fucking cunt, gorgeous,” he drawled. “So…tell me. You want me to eat that pretty pussy? Or do you want to choke on my cock?” He grinned, sharp-edged and shark-like. “It’s up to you.” An aborted moan came out of me at his words. The answer for me, right now, at least, was obvious. I glanced down at his dick and then back up. “Nuh uh, darlin’. You tell me which one you want.”

“I want you to fuck my throat,” I whined, looking up at him wide-eyed.

Rafe chuckled, hands tightening in my hair. “I’ll give you a pass on not addressing me properly this once because you said something so sweet, darlin’. But don’t do it again,” he said, half-mocking, half-warning. I nodded eagerly. One hand released my hair. He pat my cheek and then held my jaw tightly between two fingers. “That’s my girl.” The possessiveness dripped off his tone. “Now be good for daddy and open that fucking mouth.”

My mouth fell open without much thought after that. He grinned as I left it open, tongue sticking out just the way he liked it. His thumb pressed down on my tongue, head tilting slightly to the side as he looked at me. I moaned at even that simple feeling, my body practically trembling with want for him. But, for a good few long moments, that’s all he did, slowly pressing his thumb more against my tongue. But, after a few moments, he drew it away, using his free hand to lazily pump his cock—still only half-hard—in his hand. I inhaled shakily, eyes looking at his heavy cock, knowing the weight and feel of it without even touching it.

“Mmm,” Rafe said, letting out a leisurely sigh as he jerked himself off in front of me. “You want my dick, sweet girl?” I nodded eagerly, tongue still shamelessly hanging out of my mouth. “You want me to make you choke on my fucking cock, baby?” Again, I nodded and he groaned. “You’re so fucking sexy, darlin’, fuck.” I watched with rapt attention as a bead of pre-cum leaked from the tip of his dick. I heard Rafe chuckle not a moment later. “Holy shit are you drooling, baby? Fuck, you really want this dick, huh? Well, I don’t wanna leave you wanting.”

Rafe used the hand in my hair to bring my head closer and anchor it in place. His other hand still held his dick that he was bringing towards my awaiting mouth. The second I felt the tip of his dick touch my tongue I groaned in appreciation at finally having something, feeling myself growing wetter and wanting. Already, with him not even having touched me yet, I was a mess. Rafe knew it damn well too. He chuckled, slapping his dick against my tongue making me inhale sharply then let out a tiny little whimper.

“Should I stop teasing you baby?” he said, voice measured, even, and entirely unaffected—as if he were in a business meeting and not getting ready to ruin my throat. “Should I make sure you lose your voice tomorrow now?” I nodded as best I could while ensuring that his dick did not fall from my tongue which just made him let out another low groan. “Alright, then, baby. You asked for it. Time for you to put that fucking mouth to work.”

I barely had the time to inhale before I felt Rafe’s heavy member settling against my tongue. I let out a breathy moan, reflexively hollowing out my cheeks and bobbing my head to take him further into my mouth. I moved my hands to touch him and he slapped them away.

“No fucking hands,” he grunted, pulling my hair so I’d look up at him before pushing me down to the hilt of him, nose settling against his pelvis. He cursed and I felt his dick pulse in my mouth as he looked down at me, eyes dark and wanting. “So fucking pretty when I’m stretching your fucking mouth open, baby. Look at you. So fucking good.” My core fluttered again at his words, clenching and unclenching while I felt myself starting to dampen the couch slightly the wetter I got. “Gonna fuck your throat now, darlin’.”

With the minimal warning issued, he thrust heavily, pulling out of my mouth almost entirely before thrusting entirely back in. I forced myself to breathe through my nose, relaxing before something unfortunate could happen like my gag reflex being triggered. I moaned around him, using my tongue as little as I could find myself able to when he started to consistently, aggressively thrust himself to the back of my throat. I whimpered at the feeling, grinding absent-mindedly against the rough fabric of the couch, letting my tongue trace along the vein on the underside of his dick.

Rafe caught sight of my desperate rutting against the couch and he let out a dark, slightly breathless chuckle without interrupting the pace of his thrusting. “God, look at my desperate fucking baby. What, is daddy not taking care of you fast enough? Fuck,” he grunted. “You wanna grind like a desperate, needy, brainless little toy? I should make you fucking get off of my thigh without me touching you?” My choked whine of displeasure at the threat made him let out another mean sort of laugh. “Don’t worry, darlin’. That’s gonna be for later.” I let out another whine at the promise then. “Yeah, baby. Gonna make you get yourself off on my leg and then I’m gonna eat your pussy so good. Gonna make you cum for me at least five times before I stop. I’ll fucking tie you up if I gotta, gorgeous. Gonna make my sweet girl so overstimulated she’s not gonna think ‘bout anything but my fucking cock…my fucking mouth…my fucking hands.” Each word was punctuated by a pointed thrust down my throat. “As if you think about anything else, my dumb little fuckin’ baby, yeah?”

When he pulled out of my mouth entirely, releasing my hair, I reflexively gasped in a breath of air, eyes wide and watering. I looked up at him. But, Rafe was still non-plussed by how fucked out I already was. He wasn’t even pausing, barely breaking even a bead of sweat across his gorgeous, obscenely perfect body. No, instead, he knelt down in front of me, one hand making its way immediately to my pussy and finding my clit like two ends of a magnet attracting to each other. He let out a low tutting sound, shaking his head at me as I bucked my hips against his hand before I could stop myself.

“So fucking sloppy, pretty girl. Is this all for me?” he asked, his voice both teasing and harsh. “Barely even done anything to you, baby. You’re just that much of a needy little fuckin’ slut for me, huh?” I let out a high-pitched keening noise and he hummed, wrapping his hand around my throat to make me focus on him even as he slipped two thick digits inside of me. “You want me, baby?” His voice was husky, rasping and his alluring eyes were locked intently on me.

“Yes, daddy,” I whined, voice weak around the whining and moans that I couldn’t help but release as he finger fucked me into oblivion. Even with so little direct stimulation, I felt my legs starting to tremble and my stomach starting to tighten, coiling and ready to barrel quickly towards release. Rafe could tell too based on the way my pussy was practically trying to swallow his fingers whole. “Please.”

“Please what, sweet girl?” he cooed, pretending like he didn’t already know damn well what I wanted.

“Fuck me,” I begged.

“Oh but you sound so pretty when you’re whining, gorgeous,” he groaned. “And I need you to be nice and fuckin’ ready for me. So I need you to cum for me before I fuck you.” My stomach tightened further just on the edge of sweet, sweet release that I’d been missing the past two months while he was missing on fucking house arrest. “Okay, baby?”

“Okay,” I sobbed, hips trying to buck even as he used his massive hand to direct my hips to keep the rhythm he wanted, the other tightening around the outside of my throat, making my eyes roll.

“Good girl,” he huffed. He paused his speech a moment, his fingers moving even faster, making me choke out a sobbing moan, head falling back until he squeezed my throat again in warning, making me lift my head. He then issued a command. A single word. “Cum.”

And who was I to disobey?

The coil in my stomach exploded into a mirage of light behind my eyes as they rolled back. I felt a slightly shrill shriek erupt from my mouth more than I actually heard myself. And all that I could think of beyond the veil and haze of pleasure was the feeling of Rafe’s hands, his skin so close to me. He supported my body as I slumped against him, both of his hands moving to rest low on my hips.

“Good job, gorgeous. You look so fucking pretty falling apart for me,” he encouraged, his voice an appreciative, warm grumble of affection. His hands ghosted up and down my sides. “You ready for me to fuck you, pretty little thing?”

“Yes, daddy,” I said, letting out a long, shaky sigh. I reached out, hands trailing up the planes of his solid chest, leaning my head on him to listen to his steady, calm heartbeat. “Thank you, daddy.”

“Of course, baby,” he said. I could hear the smugness in his voice but I didn’t care. He leaned me back on the couch and moved to get up. I let out a whine of dissatisfaction and grabbed his hand tightly, pulling him back towards me. He looked amused as he raised a brow. “I have to go get a condom, sweet girl.”

“No,” I said stubbornly.

“No?” he asked.

“Have you been fucking bitches on house arrest?” I asked, bottom lip jutting out.

He reached out, pulling my lip down and looking at it in undisguised intrigue. “No,” he admitted.

“Well, then you haven’t worn a condom with me before. So fuck’s sake, Rafe just fuck me,” I demanded.

Rafe’s eyes had a hardened sort of glee to them. His hand moved before I registered it and my head turned as his palm made contact with my cheek. Again, my core clenched around nothing. This time, I bit back the moan that threatened to escape.

“Who?” he warned, sounding all too happy to remind me of my place.

“Fuck me, daddy,” I reiterated, still with an extreme attitude. “Fuck me, don’t pull out cum in me, I don’t care. Just fuck me, daddy.”

“Drop the attitude,” Rafe said, a final warning.

“No,” I spat, knowing exactly where it would get me. You know, right where I wanted.

Instead of slapping me again as I’d first expected, Rafe tilted my head up with just his pointer finger under my chin, his shark-like smile back again. “Do you want to be punished, baby?” he asked, sounding all too eager. I offered no answer. He used his free hand and slapped me, harder this time. I couldn’t bite back the moan this time, or the way that my hand tried to drift between my legs. He caught my wrist easily to stop me. “Answer me or I’m gonna stop. I’ll walk out the fucking door, darlin’.” My bottom lip quivered at the thought, chest heaving. “Do you want a punishment, baby?”

“Y-yes, daddy,” I admitted after another stubborn moment.

“Well why didn’t you say so, darlin’,” he cooed sarcastically.

In a flurry of movement, Rafe sat on the couch and had me over his knee. My bare, soaked cunt made contact with his hard knee and I choked on a moan at that feeling. I barely had time to register the change in position before he landed his first hit on my ass. I yelped at the feeling, reflexively trying to squirm away from the pain, even as I felt a jolt of pleasure at the feeling. Rafe held my hips in place easily with one hand, keeping me firmly on his lap, and used the other to lay a hard slap against my ass, making me yelp again.

“That feel fucking good baby?” he grunted, slapping me again. I didn’t answer, a sharp, hissing inhale coming from my mouth. Another slap. Another whimper. “You should be fucking thanking me for this, darlin’. Disciplining your unruly fucking ass. Making you my good girl.”

“Thank you, daddy. Thank you, thank you. Please,” I whimpered, reflexively trying to squirm once more when his hand made contact with my ass yet again.

“Please, what, sweet girl? Remind you that you’re fucking mine? Oh, I am gonna, darlin’. This is just part of it,” he ground out. I could feel his rock-hard cock pressed against my side and I was torn between wanting it stuffed in my mouth and my pussy. Both thoughts escaped from my mind entirely as he landed another slap against my ass.

“More,” I ground out through clenched teeth, barely able to resist the urge to grind against his thigh and knee with the desperation that I was feeling.

“Needy little slut, you are, huh?” he asked, amused. His hands stopped their cyclical pattern of slapping my ass to rub the abused flesh for a moment. I felt his hand move between my legs more, teasing my entrance with his fingers. Naturally, I opened my legs for him. He chuckled at that. “Can’t wait to be stuffed with me, can you? Already brain dead to everything but me, aren’t you, sweet girl? You’re just my little plaything right now, aren’t you?” I buried my face in the couch and let out a groan, feeling his hand circling my clit again, lazily, not creating enough friction to do anything.

“Daddy, please,” I whined.

“Don’t worry, pretty little thing. I know just what you need to cum again. I decided I need two from you before I fuck this sweet little fucking pussy,” he grunted. With sudden and almost startling accuracy, Rafe slapped me again. This time, his hand made contact not with my ass but with my pussy, the sharp slap making me gasp and jerk from the pain. I let out a half-aborted scream and rocked back into his palm, panting from surprise. He openly laughed. “You didn’t think I forgot how much you liked that, did you, darlin’? Remember that real fucking well? So I’m gonna take care of this pussy just the way I know you need it.” I let out a breathy moan mixed with a cry as he spanked my clit once more. Again and again and again he did it until I felt like I was dripping sweat on my whole body and my pussy was soaked with my juices—the couch too for that matter. “Fuck me, baby, your pussy is so pretty all puffy like this. She’s just crying for me. You want me so bad your poor fucking brain can’t handle it, can it?” I let out a pathetic little whimper, unable to muster much more. “I tell you what, darlin’. You cum from me slapping this pussy and I’ll fuck you til you pass out if that’s what you want. You wanna do that for me?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” I gasped immediately, hardly even grasping the words just knowing that I wanted the pleasure that had been slowly building to finally reach its fucking crescendo.

“Good girl,” he said before unleashing a series of slaps to my pussy in a pattern that I couldn’t have anticipated if I were in his damn brain myself.

This time, as I tumbled over the edge of pleasure, I wailed, jerking against his hand. I collapsed against Rafe’s leg as the aftershock of the second orgasm washed over me. I gasped for air like I’d been drowning and I felt Rafe’s hand tracing up and down my back lazily. As I caught my breath, he placed a final sharp slap to my pussy making me let out a weak yelp of complaint. Without being too gentle, Rafe maneuvered me off of his lap and over the arm of the couch. He let out an appreciative groan and I lifted my head to look back at him. I was startled to see him lifting the belt. My eyes widened as I felt him wrap it around my wrists, quickly binding me.

“You’re not getting away from me, gorgeous. Not when I finally get to fuck my pussy again. You’re nice and ready for me,” he said, sounding almost absent-minded as he spoke to me. He grunted as he slid into me with a single thrust. When he bottomed out we both let out moans—his low and mine high and keening—and I felt my body shake. “Fuck. When you can feel your legs I’m gonna fuck you so hard in doggy you’re gonna not walk the day after. But right now I just gotta finish the job, baby. Gotta turn your fuckin’ brain off forever.”

With that, he started to purposefully piston his hips, holding my bound wrists behind my back for better leverage. I was nearly boneless, shrieking in pleasure as his hot, throbbing cock stretched me open and brushed against each and every nerve ending just right—at least that was how it felt. How he felt. His thrusts were deep and slow and pointed. I sobbed against the feeling, wanting to rut back into him to make him speed up. But, I couldn’t muster the strength. So I just let him fuck into me at his own pace and I felt myself starting to build towards another bout of pleasure—this bound to be even stronger than before if the stars already behind my eyes were anything to go by.

“Daddy, please,” I sobbed, not knowing if I wanted more or less stimulation, more or less pleasure, from him.

Regardless of what I wanted, Rafe didn’t say anything. He grunted out a noise of acknowledgment that I’d spoken then doubled down in his efforts to make me cum again. And when he wrapped his arm around my throat again, tightening quickly and entirely, it was over. This time, as he forced me to a third orgasm, I was actually sobbing, tears running down my face from the fucked up amount of pain and pleasure entwined in being so overstimulated in such a short period of time—especially after so long away from him.

“There’s my good fucking girl,” Rafe said, voice slightly hoarse as he slowed his thrusts to a stop.

He still hadn’t cum himself, his dick fully pulsing inside of me with how hard he was. I dreaded what that meant, even though I also fully anticipated what I knew would come. He gently undid the belt from around my wrists, releasing me, and then eased himself out of me. He flipped me around on the couch and I looked at him with big watery eyes.

“Please no more,” I said, tears slipping down my cheeks. “It’s too much, please.”

“Come on, darlin’,” he cooed, pressing kisses to my cheeks. “Come on, sweet girl. You can give me one more. Been missing my pussy so much. You know I need one more from her.” Another series of kisses, the last one a long and lingering, filthy one to my lips where his tongue entwined with mine and we both pulled back needing air. “Please, baby. One more for me.”

His hand moved down, gently tracing my clit, making me jolt. Already I was so sensitive, so overstimulated. But, the impossibly sweet and imploring look on his face? The hunger he had for me? It was impossible to deny.

“Okay, daddy,” I agreed, sniffling.

He leaned his forehead against mine, grinning. “That’s my girl,” he said softly.

He hitched my leg up over his hip, settling between my legs on the couch. He used his free hand to grip his cock, looking down at us. He gently slapped the head of his dick against my clit once, twice, a third time until I whined and he chuckled, reaching over to press a short kiss to my lips to shut me up. He ran himself up and down my slit over and over until I was shivering and he saw a tiny dribble of new arousal dripping from me. He let out a low moan of his own and then sank into me in one, hitching my leg up again so he could thrust as deep as humanly possible.

“There you are, gorgeous. There’s my beautiful fucking girl,” Rafe praised, pressing a kiss to each cheek, to my lips, and to my forehead as he steadily thrust into me. “So fucking perfect for me. So fucking good for me, baby.”

“You feel so good, daddy,” I said, eyes rolling back and then curling as he pressed down on the slight bulge in my stomach only present because of him. “Thank you, daddy.”

“Anything for you, baby. Fucking anything,” he grunted. He ground slower against me instead of thrusting for a few moments. “You don’t get to keep me from my pussy anymore, baby. I gotta fucking be with you.”

“Wanna be with you, daddy,” I babbled in agreement.

“Good fucking girl,” he huffed, pressing down on the bulge again making me whimper. I felt his dick pulsate again and I tightened around him habitually making his breath hitch. “You gonna cum for me one more time, baby? I’m so fucking close.”

“Yeah, daddy, I’m gonna cum,” I whined. “Please can I cum? Please, please, please?” I begged.

“Fu-fuck yeah,” Rafe stuttered. “Cum with me baby.”

And this time, as I fell across pleasure’s razor edge once more, Rafe fell with me. I felt as he came inside me, hot and deep. My eyes rolled at the feeling, almost addicted to the mere feeling of him being so close and intensely part of me at that moment. I held him without realizing it, nails digging into the skin of his back as I held him against me, ignoring the fact that I was trembling like a leaf.

“So proud of you, my sweet girl. So good for me, gorgeous. Love you so much. So good for me.” Those were the first things I was coherent of hearing again when the whooshing in my ears had faded. They were the sweet praise that Rafe was offering. He went to move—to pull out—but I held him to me still, almost wrapping myself around him like a koala to stop it.

“No,” I denied. “Don’t move yet.”

“Okay, baby,” he agreed. “I won’t pull out. Do you want me to hold you?” I nodded. He carefully moved us. I winced as he adjusted us so that I was sitting up and in his lap because it made him deeper for a moment still but as we settled that faded and I just melted into his chest. “I’m so proud of you, baby. You did so good.” He stroked my skin and hair for a moment. “I gotta get you cleaned up, sweet girl. Get you some water.”

“Not yet,” I denied again, eyes closed as I leaned against him, as much of my skin touching him as possible. “Take care of me in a minute.”

He chuckled. “Oh? You’re gonna let me take care of you?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I answered absent-mindedly. “Fine. You can take care of me, Rafe. I’ll stop being stubborn.” I needed his help. He’d been right about that when he showed up, I was adult enough to admit that. And I knew that he loved me. That he meant it from the best place.

“Really?” he asked, disbelieving. “You’re gonna move in with me? Let me take care of you? Just like that? All I had to do was fuck you like that?”

“Yeah. That’s all you had to do,” I agreed, far too exhausted to explain the complex detail of it in truth. I let out a breathless laugh though, a thought occurring to me when I felt a cool bite of metal and plastic on my leg. “Well, as long as you don’t get arrested for busting out of house arrest.” I cracked open my eyes to give him a smile.

“Shut up, I'll be fine,” he muttered. His hands held me closely, tightly, possessively to him. “You don’t get to take it back. I get to take care of you now. To make sure you’re safe. You’re gonna live with me, sweet girl.”

“Okay, Rafe,” I agreed softly, reaching up to stroke his cheek gently. He leaned into the touch and I smiled. “I will.” I leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to his lips, laying my forehead against his.

“I love you, baby,” he murmured, so quiet I could barely hear it.

“I love you too,” I replied, just as quiet, just as simple.

He smiled at that, the sight making his eyes go warm and sweet. “Alright, then, gorgeous. Let’s get you cleaned up and get the fuck out of here,” he said. His smile morphed into a cheesy sort of grin—the kind I rarely got to see. “Let’s go home.”

For once, I couldn’t disagree. And I couldn’t help but echo the cheesy smile. “Okay, then, Romeo,” I teased. “Let’s go home.”

[echobx]

Rivalry - Rafe Cameron × enemy!fem!reader

summary: Rafe and reader are two competing colleges who hate each other and tend to fuck their frustration away in a not so healthy way

word count: 778

warnings: smut, dub con!!!!, anal, fingering, degradation, Rafe is a real asshole

author's note: I wrote this at 2:30am so apparently my insomnia beats my trauma when it comes to anything concerning butt stuff

kinktober masterlist

“You're a fucking bitch,” Rafe growls, and you don’t understand why his anger turns you on, his insults going straight to your pussy. “Shut up, Cameron, you wouldn't even be able to tell apart a pear and an apple if someone fucking told you,” you yell, long forgotten is the reason this fight started in the first place. “At least I didn't have to sleep my way to the fucking top.” He accuses you of it once a week, it's his go-to reply when he has nothing left but pure rage and lust. “No, all you had to do was be born a rich motherfucker with no manners and a tiny dick to prove it,” you know you hit his nerve with that one, and as soon as he crosses the room you get what you’ve wanted. Rafe and you were always competing for the top spot in the company, and right now you are tied, and it frustrates you both. So you made your plan to go to his office and confront him, it isn’t the first time this helped you deal with stress.

He presses a button, and the blinds towards the rest of the office close automatically. “You want me to prove to you that it's not tiny at all? Again?” he pulls you closer by your throat. “Wanna choke on it?” he grins. “Fuck you,” you hiss at him, and he pushes you to the floor, kneeling down by your side and resting one of his knees on your back without putting too much pressure on you. “Wanna say that again?” “Go fuck yourself, Rafe,” you spit out, and he rips your tight dress up to reveal your ass and that non-existent slip of yours. “Such a naughty slut,” he laughs tauntingly while slapping your ass a few times, making you yelp. “Fucking asshole,” you grit your teeth and feel him get up, pulling you up with him and forcing you to lie on his desk, the tips of your high heels are barely scratching the carpet. “I might just do that, darling,” he laughs. You can hear the zipper of his pants before you feel him spit on your ass, and a slight panic arises in you. “Rafe, no. Not that,” you try to free yourself from his grip, but he's pushing down hard on your back, his hand wrapped around your wrists. “What are you gonna do? Run to HR? Tell them how you told me to fuck you and then changed your fucking mind? You came to me, sweet cheeks. Now let me punish you like you fucking deserve it.”

You can feel the tip of his cock pressing against your tight virgin hole, slowly forcing himself inside you, while tears well in your eyes, and you try your best to not cry out in pain. “Have you never been fucked up the ass before?” Rafe taunts you as he starts fucking you, and to your own surprise it's not as bad as you'd always imagined it to be. “I hate you,” you moan, and he laughs even more. He's addicted to how pathetic you sound for him, to how you cry and try to wind yourself out of his grip no matter what way he fucks you. But this is extra delicious to him, because he is taking something from you that you never intended to give up in the first place. “Want me to make you come?” he asks almost sweetly, and you know not to trust him. “Eat a bag of dicks, asshole,” you hiss, and he takes one hand from your back and brings it to your cunt. Plunging his long digits into your wetness and groaning over it. “You like being fucked in the ass, don't you, sweetheart. You're so fucking pathetic it's laughable. Guess I'll be nice and let you finish for once,” he chuckles and starts to fuck both of your holes until you fall apart and lose all sense of direction for a moment. Rafe groans, and you can feel his dick twitch inside you, forcing his cum deeper up your guts before pulling out and dragging your dress back down.

“Can you fucking stand?” he snaps at you when you threaten to fall over for the second time after he's dragged you off his desk. “God, if you weren't such a good fuck, I might hate you less and respect you more,” he laughs and signs you to leave his office. It's not that you feel humiliated, but the fact that you can feel his cum slowly leaking out of your ass as you make your way towards the elevator isn't helping either.

please don't copy and/or post my work onto other platforms! ~e©ho

taglist: @redhead1180 @spideysimpossiblegirl @drwstarkeyy @princessmaybank @kys4-20 @immyowndefender @julczimozart @hoe4sunarin @m2m2m2 @mochimms @itsme-again @maybankslover @th3eternalersi @because-i-like-toxic-men @rafeeekam @carolinaxvz

[reixtsu]

*ೃ༄ Whispers In The Twilight ༉‧₊˚.

༊*·˚ Aventurine x reader

༊*·˚ Genre: angst with sweet comfort

༊*·˚ Synopsis: While enjoying the night on Aventurine’s patio, your intrusive thought start to invade. Luckily your wonderful partner is here to comfort you. (´ε｀ )♡

༊*·˚ A/N: I was feeling very down the day I wrote this, I so I thought about sharing this comfort story in hopes to help those who feel similarly. Enjoy!

༊*·˚ Word count: 1k

To Aventurine, you were the best thing he has won is his god-forsaken life. You were the light of his world, a candle in a dark tunnel, his reason to continue living. He was willing to do anything for you, even sacrifice himself for you. In his eyes, you were worth the whole world. So why couldn't you see that yourself? Why couldn't you understand your own value? Why do you belittle yourself so much? That was something that Aventurine could never grasp.

You sat with Aventurine on the patio of his penthouse, gazing up at the artificial stars that dotted the night sky. The soft flicker of candlelight bathed the patio in a warm, golden glow, creating an intimate ambiance. You sighed contentedly as you rested your head on Aventurine's lap, feeling the tranquility of the moment settle around you.

Placing a gentle hand in his, you gracefully slipped off his rings one by one, followed by his silk glove, revealing the warmth of his skin beneath. You took his hand in yours, bringing it tenderly to your lips. "You are so beautiful," you whispered, your voice soft and breathy, as your half-lidded eyes gazed up into Aventurine’s with a deep, lingering affection.

Aventurine smiled warmly, leaning down to place a gentle kiss on your forehead. "I should be the one saying that to you, sweetie," he murmured, his voice tender and full of affection.

You smiled, though it looked a bit forced, the corners of your lips not quite reaching your eyes, before you closed them again, letting the moment pass in silence.

He observed you closely, his gaze softening as he kept his hand over yours, savoring the warmth between you. "Is something wrong?" he asked gently, concern threading through his voice.

You hummed, shifting your head on his lap. "No. Why would there be?" You asked softly.

Aventurine could spot an actor from a mile away—after all, he was one too—but unlike him, you lacked the years of experience in concealing your emotions. There was a subtle sadness in your voice, a note of vulnerability that didn’t go unnoticed. Your body was tense, and your hand only tightened around his, a silent plea for comfort. "You can be honest," he said softly. "We're alone.”

Silence, silence, and more silence. All the two of you could hear was the cracking of the candles. Aventurine sighed, bringing his other hand to start combing your hair. You sighed, leaning into his touch. "What? Don't you trust me?" He teased.

You scoffed, opening your eyes again to look at his frame. "I trust you, 'turine," You said softly. "I'm just... thinking."

"About what?"

You averted your gaze, your eyes darkening as a shadow of emotion crossed your face. "I hate pain," you said simply, the words carrying a weight that lingered in the air between you.

Aventurine blinked, pausing his strokes on your hair.

"We experience it every day. Stress, pain-just existing is painful," you said, exhaling shakily as you tried to rein in your rising emotions. "I'm so tired. Day by day, I lose the will to keep going. I have no purpose, no reason to keep living. And what makes it worse is knowing that there are people out there, really struggling, fighting to survive. And here I am, wishing for death.”

Aventurine hummed, staying silent. He didn't know the best way to comfort you when you were like this.

"People tell me I should be grateful for my life, and I am. I have you, after all," you said, forcing a smile as tears welled up in your eyes. "But I hate dealing with all the negatives. I wish I could stay with you forever in a utopia, but this world is anything but that. I hate it. I'm so tired, I want to disappear-"

"My love," Aventurine interrupted gently, placing a finger over your lips to quiet your words. "I know this world can be a terrible place to exist. But when you're by my side, you make everything bearable. With you, I can see color, endure pain, laugh, and love.”

You stayed silent, sniffing as your tears threatened to fall. "But—" you began, your voice trembling as you struggled to find the words to express the conflict within you.

"You are the one that keeps me alive. I want to be your reason to live."

"...Huh?"

Aventurine placed his hands gently on your hips, lifting you to sit on his lap, facing him. "Make me the reason you live," he said firmly, his grip on your waist tight yet comforting. "Do I not make you happy? Don’t I lighten your burdens?”

You couldn’t meet his intense gaze, too ashamed and afraid to look him in the eye. "You do..." you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.

"Then what can I do? What can I do to stop these intrusive thoughts of yours? It might be impossible, but I am willing to take a gamble."

You stared at the ground, your eyes and emotions becoming numb, something they always did when your emotions started to become too strong for you to handle. "I could be laying in a grave today, all of my efforts are going to waste. Everything stays the same while we play and waste away. Some things are impossible but my death is fated to arrive. Why can't I decide when it will happen?"

Aventurine paused, his eyes glistening with a mix of fear and desperation. Despite being blessed by a god, he didn't believe in any divine power. No deity had saved his sister when she died, nor his mother. No god had intervened when he was enslaved by the IPC. Uncertain of how to answer your question, he decided on the one thing he felt he could do: he wrapped you in a tight, reassuring embrace.

Cold arms wrapped around your warm body, enveloping you in a comforting embrace. Your breath hitched, and a single tear traced down your cheek as you began to tremble.

"I don't want you to die," Aventurine said, stuffing his face into your neck, his hands massaging little circles along your back. "You're my lucky charm, I need you, a lot more than what you think."

You started crying, no longer able to uphold the barrier. You clung into him, sobbing into his pricy leather coat. Feelings attack you like an avalanche, waves of negativity and guilt dancing in the hole of your heart, kicking and tearing at it, only making it hurt more.

"Live. Leave the dying to the dead, alright?"

You sniffed, digging your face into his shoulder. "That doesn't even make sense, 'turine."

He chuckled, the sound a soothing melody that fought against the demons within you. "Of course it makes sense," Aventurine said simply, his voice steady and reassuring.

There was a moment when you and Aventurine were wrapped in a tight embrace, his arms holding you as you sobbed uncontrollably. After a while, your tears subsided, and you lifted your head from his shoulder, noticing the damp spots on his clothes. "Ah, your clothes..." you said softly, a hint of embarrassment in your voice.

Aventurine shook his head, his charming smile lighting up his face as it always did for you. "No need to worry," he said gently. "It’s replaceable. You, my dear, are not.”

You wrapped your arms around him, a small, grateful smile touching your lips. "Thanks. I'm sorry for crying," you murmured softly.

He clicked his tongue, his smile gentle. "You don’t have to apologize, sweetie. I’m glad I could help you." With that, he leaned forward and placed a tender kiss on your lips.

A/N: I was listening to that one Hu Tao fan song… so if someone is able to guess which one it is I’ll grant you my upmost respect. Hint: It’s sung by Will Stetson. Oh shoot! Is that hint too easy?

[hotvintagepoll]

Propaganda

Madhubala (Mughal-e-Azam, Barsaat Ki Raat, Mr. & Mrs. '55)—The Venus of India; heart-throb of all who saw her; responsible for the sexual awakening of every single desi lesbian I know (including me!) And my god, she is breathtakingly beautiful. Look at the subtle grace with which she moves, and that smile - the kind of radiant smile that can make you laugh with sheer delight, or cry because of its hidden pain. Those wild curls! That Cupid's bow! The way she tilts back her head and smiles at you with mischief dancing in her eyes! She has a way of looking at the camera that makes you feel she's sharing a private joke just with you; it's something about that quizzical twist of the lips and eyebrows. As an actress, she is inimitable; she seems to effortlessly inhabit roles ranging from a heart-broken courtesan to a laughter-loving socialite. Fun fact : she's had quite the fan following in Greece! Stelios Kazantidis even wrote a song as a tribute to her.

Olivia de Havilland (Adventures of Robin Hood, Gone With the Wind, The Heiress)— The woman who took on the Studio System at the height of their power and Won! A double Oscar winner! Is magnetic and beautiful in everything she's in and gave us all the juicy scandal with her sibling rivalry with Joan Fontaine! Before the Oscar Slap was the Oscar sister snub! Also everything she wears in Robin Hood she makes beautiful even a purple green and orange monstrosity how does she do it! Anyway this scene is one of my old Hollywood favourites

This is round 3 of the tournament. All other polls in this bracket can be found here. Please reblog with further support of your beloved hot sexy vintage woman.

[additional propaganda submitted under the cut.]

Madhubala:

An icon of Bollywood, who was well known for her beauty and has continued to inspire performances and songs into the 21st century. She was at times described as "the number one beauty of the Indian screen" and "the biggest star in the world".

SHE IS EVERYTHING AHHH. JUST LOOK AT HER SMILE-

She's been nicknamed the Marilyn Monroe of India and was one of the highest paid actresses in the Hindi film industry (the term Bollywood did not exist yet) during the 1950s. Also an extremely talented dancer and singer

SHE'S JUST SO STUNNING, like seeing her eyes IMMEDIATELY CAPTIVATES YOU, THE DANCING, THE BEAUTY!!!!!!!!! She worked in Bollywood for over 20 years and passed away at a sad early age of 36, BUT THE IMPACT SHE HAD WAS UNMATCHED!!!!!

That sassy sideways glance she does always has me WEAK AT THE KNEES. And when she's making silly faces at the camera to mimic someone ahhhh my gay little heart <3

Olivia de Havilland:

She is just perfection. She has a smile that is looks like it is barely holding back, and yet so reserved as well.

Broke the contract system and won freedoms for actors (the de Havilland Law is still in effect I believe). 2 time Oscar winner. Beautiful and smart

She legally challenged the movie studios' unfair contracts and won, setting a precedent for other actors to be treated more fairly. This was at great cost to her financially and essentially getting her blacklisted for years but the resulting judicial opinion is still known as the De Havilland Law and has won her a great deal of praise and admiration.

Her performance in The Heiress is one of my all-time favorites, she’s so good at making melodrama feel real and grounded without sacrificing any of the passion/drama.

Serenely beautiful, she struck a balance between crowd-pleasing fluff and prestigious drama. Famously at odds with her equally successful sister Joan Fontaine, she was too much of a lady to ever say anything public. Successfully sued Ryan Murphy for portraying her as a saucy gossip in Feud.

the period costume + eye patch combo in That Lady is just an absolute serve

She has the most adorable and cherubic face and voice

[furiousgoldfish]

I wrote a very pained, depressive and dark post, even maybe too dark for this blog, but I ultimately decided to publish it, just because this pain has always been invisible in me, and I want to be able to say something. If you're going to read it, there's a lot of mention of death and contemplation of suicide in it, and a lot of painful emotion. Maybe someone will resonate with it and find words to describe their own pain. I also want to note that even though every word of it is true, I am most of the time completely dissociated from this, I'm not actively thinking it, and it came out now because my parents are actively trying to find me and disrupting the life I've tried to make for myself.

What my parents did to me is worse than death, they erased me. When I escaped I didn't know who I was, I had no hope to survive, I didn't think I was worth anything, I felt ashamed to even exist. I was suicidal, i thought I'd be dead within a month even if I don't do it myself. I didn't think I had it in me to survive, to be alive, to be anything. I was a less than a ghost, I didn't even have memories to remember of who I once was because there was no warm memories, only violence, blame, guilt, shame, pain, terror. I was supposed to be a person, and they put me in a state where I knew nothing about being a person, only property and a target, it was my entire life. I was told I deserved this, I was a monster, there was never anything else that is correct to do to me, but hurt me. I thought it was my job to be endlessly harmed. They knew I was suicidal and didn't stop. The only reason I didn't kill myself was the dissociative disorder that functioned like a suicide prevention measure, I physically could not have done it because I have been split into pieces and one of the pieces prevented me from doing it. I would have died otherwise.

What would a quick violent death be compared to this? A fucking blessing. I was slowly tortured until I was willing to kill myself in order to end it. They didn't want to dirty their hands with my murder, they planned on torturing me until I did it to myself. I had an intense drive to survive despite everything, and even that was getting erased. My basic instincts were being erased by the amount of pain I was in. My personality was gone, I didn't even have a personality, it was all overwhelmed by pain and desperation to both survive and end it all, I walked trough life looking death in the face the entire time, it felt so close, so close to me, like it would claim me any second, but I had to stay stoic, calm, me staring down death had to be invisible, I couldn't let it show. It shouldn't have mattered to anyone what I was experiencing. I was torn between life and death, stuck in constant anticipation of it and it couldn't have mattered.

Take a person, any person, imagine them having a life, family, friends, interests, hobbies, desires, dreams, loved ones, support, community. Now imagine that same person isolated, everything stripped away from them, and them being hurt until they can no longer remember anything they wanted to live for. Even their basic instinct to survive is stripped frm them as pain is too large for them to be able to sustain themselves, there's no longer anything in this person's life worth living for, nothing they remember about who they were, no warm thought they can think about themselves, and they're repeatedly told they deserve this, they've wanted this. Until there's nothing of them left.

That was me, but from the start. I didn't get to experience having a life, family, loved ones, interests, dreams, community, or any of that first, I didn't get to know how it was to have any of that! From the very start it was pain and being told that this is all there is, and that I'm stupid for ever thinking there would be anything more to life, that it is in fact, only terror and death and I'm a weakling for not taking it better, everyone else is dealing with this just fine. Shame and guilt were the only traits I could have, I didn't know anything further about me. Nobody knew me because nobody saw me being abused. Nobody could know I was worthless, it had to be my private hell. I would have to live only to the point where it was decided that it was enough and I had to die, or until the point where I couldn't take it anymore and take my own life, even though I so strongly didn't want to, even that basic desire was tempered with and overwritten by pain.

Who would want a life like that? Life of not only being aware that nobody cares about you, but everyone around you is willing to inflict pain on you until you wish to die, but can't. Where crying and screaming is forbidden even when you can't breathe from the amount of pain you're in; you're not even allowed to cry out. You fight with yourself every day on how badly you want to die and why you can't, and it doesn't help, you get lost in magical thinking in order to escape from the hell you're in, but you're brutally reminded of it every time you interact with anyone, when they find you hiding under the bed and dreaming. You don't even know that you're supposed to have loved ones, be safe, be unharmed, that life is supposed to be different, that you're not alive only to be a target, that you're worth anything. You don't even know that you're supposed to have more freedom in life than to choose the manner and time of your death, this is all that's dealt to you. And now, live, see how far you can get before you die. Would anyone choose that? Would anyone decide to be born into a life like that? Wouldn't you choose not to exist at all rather than be put trough that? To be erased and then having to keep on living while thinking you in fact, deserve death, and should do it yourself, and you know if you do die, it won't matter, just like your life didn't? Because people around you regularly nearly kill you and then laugh about it like it was a funny joke? They humiliate you for how ugly you look close to death? You're scared that your last moment will be humiliation for how unseemly your corpse looks and you're hoping you'd be able to die alone, to not be berated as you're dying.

Death is nothing to me compared to this. Waiting to die is worse than death. Endless anticipation of pain is worse than death. Having everything about you erased by pain is worse. Not knowing anything about yourself except that you are incredibly shameful existence and that you need to feel guilty all of the time, is worse. Watching people around you receive care and warmth while you're stuck watching death in the face silently, pretending it's not happening, and trying to not have anyone's attention on yourself because someone noticing means more pain, more shame and guilt. It's worse. Kill me any fucking day. But this will always be worse. Every time I face the reality of my life I wish I had died in the womb, at childbirth, I wish I had died when I was 1, 2, 3, 5, 10, 12, any time before I experienced all this. It would have been so much less pain. It would have been so much easier on me.

And I've already given up on ever having a place in anyone's heart, because at this point, I don't have it in me to make people love me. I have nothing about me that is other people find worth caring for, I made peace with it. There will be no loved ones, and thats fine. But at least then I should get to live my life alone the way I want it. I should find joy in being who I found I am, and doing what I want to do. I should get to do things that give me a little bit of pleasure and enjoyment, and I should be safe, and death should no longer come knocking at my door, staring me down like I owe it something. If I can't even have that, then to hell with everything. What is the fucking point of anything if all my life is a continued slow torture until I can no longer bear it. I have nobody to bear it for, nobody would be harmed by my death. But I also don't deserve to die, because I want to live, and this should be mine. Who the fuck dares to try and take this away from me again. I want to fucking explode. If I have to make my own justice then how do I do it. I literally just want to live. And I see other people having at least that much secured for them. Why can't I at least have that much. I am seriously asking for the bare fucking minimum.

[h8ani]

You don't mean to hold onto the past but, you do. You hold onto him with every piece of you and you're only going to hurt others in the process.

Takashi Mitsuya x Reader

Word Count: 3.7k

Warnings: nsfw, female reader, non-canon events, reader deals with grief, major character death, descriptions of a dead body, mentions of blood, mentions of a panic attack, unprotected sex, hurt & no comfort

Here is my entry for @bioticlaw TUN collab! I don't know why I choose sadness and angst but I hope anyone who reads this enjoys what I wrote! I tried my hardest with this one :')

taglist: @kkittycries @blackfire2013 @benkeibear @suyacho @shujistars

join my taglist -> here

Grief: (noun) deep sorrow, especially that caused by someone's death. 

Grief is the response to loss, particularly to the loss of someone or something that has died. Death is the tragedy in the young, too many opportunities and experiences cut short. There’s a different kind of mourning you feel when someone you love dies young, you’re angry; the unfairness in the world makes you want to scream and cry, all the lost occasions and celebrations you’ll never get with your person. It’s different when they never get to grow old with you, getting to have the same initiations in life that you had to go through; the heartbreaks, the ceremonies, all the celebratory times in one’s life all cut too short by the angel of death himself. Death is a right of passage for the elderly, the old have lived their lives fully, looking back on the memories that they made because they had a full life to live, a life they had lived absolutely.

The death in your life was one no person should have to endure. The loss of your one true love; Ken Ryuguji. The sorrow you feel should be a testament to the love you had, the pain stands as a witness of your bond with him and how it still survives even when time has spent since his passing. 

Ken was a true gem, a diamond in the rough of the people in your life. He was a protector by nature when it came to you, always shielding you from danger since you two were young, it continued even after you two grew up from little kids to young adults although by then you were able to defend yourself without needing his presence. It’s a shame you were never able to do the same for him. 

The memories of seeing him were ones engraved in your mind, the blood that pooled around his cold, lifeless body still haunts every aspect of your being. Most nights you cry yourself to sleep, the recollections of that unforgettable night being the only thing you’re able to think of when the moon shines brightly through your window, the darkness of the night mirroring just how you felt inside most days. No matter what you do to stop them, the tears continue to flow. 

You wish you could think of the happy memories, lord knows there were plenty of them to blur out the bad. Your favorite memories hazily glow in the glum thoughts, the light trying to brighten but eventually being downcast into the murkiness of your heartbreak. You still think back to when you’d be on the back of his bike – your arms wrapped tightly around his waist as the bike was revved up and exceeded speeds that weren’t legal in any way but you didn’t care. You could’ve driven for hours and ended up who knows where and you wouldn’t care. You would’ve been content just being with Ken forever. 

But forever doesn’t exist.

The suffering you endure from the memories of that very night – it’s like razor blades filled inside one of the many stuffed animals he had given you throughout the years, the more you clung to them the deeper the cuts go, and no chance in healing as you embed them deeper and deeper. 

You gasp aloud, body shooting up in a frenzy as you look around, the heavy comforter that was once draped over you was now kicked down and bunched down at your feet. Your throat constricted against itself as you tried to heave as much air in your lungs as possible. The room was spinning even when the darkness surrounded you with no form of light peeking out anywhere. You squeezed your eyes shut, the tears that had already been welling up fell down your cheeks now. You’re so focused on catching your breath and centering yourself that you don’t hear the calling of your name from beside you, the low buzz in your ears greater than his voice could reach. 

You feel a gentle hand on your back, the slow movements of his hand seemingly calming you down in a matter of seconds. “Sorry…” you mutter out, voice hoarse and quiet, you glance over to see your boyfriend, a worried expression etched all over his face. 

“No apologies tonight, okay?” Mitsuya says as he sees your broken figure, he pulls you closer to him as he lays you both back into the bed. Your head rests against his shoulder while he continues to rub small circles along your back. A shaky sigh escapes your lips as you melt into him feeling the tingle in your body slowly dissipate while you calm down. 

Mitsuya knew what he was getting into when he finally decided to approach you, he had known you since you both were kids; being introduced to each other by Draken himself, he also knew of the relationship that you and Draken had, Mistuya was also the one who realized that you were the unlucky soul who found Draken’s body, but how could you not when you were pinged the location. 

It was something out of a movie, a horror movie that no one should have to live through. Mitsuya remembers hearing that you found Draken’s body but when you opened up enough to tell him the events that happened that very night a shiver ran through his spine. 

You rushed through the story when trying to talk to him about it, tears pricking your eyes because you were so tired of crying and just wanted to stop. When you finally got to the part that took an eerily chill turn Mitsuya could feel his own throat start to contract, the bile in his throat slowly rising up. You got the location ping from Draken himself, it was a random spot, an area behind a field that was frequently packed during the summer when little league would be in full swing, but you knew it. You went to go meet him, confused as to why he was so M.I.A during the day and why he didn’t tell you about the reason for this random location drop. You finally saw him, lying in a patch of grass staring up at the stars until realizing what you were actually looking at. 

Draken was dead. 

His face looked peaceful but the torn, dirty clothes he was wearing said differently. The grass was stained red around him and it dragged on as if his body was moved. Days later you found out that he had been dead for hours prior to getting the location ping that was sent to your phone, a silent yet deafening message being sent to you.

Mitsuya listened to everything, seeing how you were when reiterating the story to him, watching how you fidgeted and struggled to finish the story towards the end. You were never the same after that, the lasting effects of witnessing and living through something so traumatizing was something you dealt with on a daily basis. You told him that the first few months you had nightmares every night, some so bad that you forced yourself to stay awake for days on end which only made you incoherent at work. Therapy was something you now go to three times a week, it does help but he sees the anger behind your eyes when you say you shouldn’t need it. 

You were closed off when Mitsuya came to you, another result of what you had been through. He remembers vividly of your warnings to him, you were so adamant on telling him that you weren’t the same girl he once knew, you couldn’t be. If you could’ve given him a powerpoint presentation as to why he shouldn’t be with you, you would have if you were given the time. But he didn’t care, he just smiled that same comforting smile he’s always had at you just waiting on you to finish the 15th reason as to why he’d be better off with someone else. 

The look on your face when he just waited for you to finish and proceed to ask you out on a date was something he cherished, the little gap your lips made in astonishment and wide eyes was something to snicker at. He was going to be the one to break down this concrete wall you had built up. 

Days turned into weeks which turned to months and here you were, almost a year together and if you were being completely honest you were surprised. You didn’t expect a relationship to come from him, but when it did, the guilt that started to eat away at you displayed so vividly that you were so sure that he was going to cut and run at the earliest convenience, but he stayed, he kept his feet planted firmly down and promised to help you, he told you that you weren’t alone in this and for the first time in a long time you didn’t feel alone. 

Mitsuya was never a rebound to you, you never wanted him to be just someone to take up the space that Ken once filled up, you don’t think that anyone could truly do that. Being with Mitsuya you learned that it’s okay to keep ahold of those memories you held so close when it came to Ken, that still loving Ken was okay even if you were now with Mitsuya. With the relationship you now had it was easier than you had expected because he had seen all of you, all of your troubles and hardships, and what you needed. There were no points of uncertainty because he was there to help you through it all. If that’s the secret to the strong bond and how it formed so fast for you two you’d be happy to say it aloud and shout it from the rooftops, although you still have your troubles it’s easier to talk to someone who isn’t being paid to listen. 

Despite the fact that your relationship with him wasn’t always like this and your feelings for Mitsuya were more of a slow agonizing burn than something that blossomed like a beautiful flower in the springtime. Your feelings crept up slowly, once treating him like a foreign object that was protruding into you deeper and deeper until you felt the ache subside, you caught yourself waiting on his calls, always happening around the same time, and just like clockwork you let it ring three times before answering. You started to miss his absence and sweet words, always knowing what calms you down when you’re more anxious about the world around you. You genuinely liked him, although the thoughts of uncertainty always loomed in the back of your mind. The guilt eats you away in random moments of the day, when you feel content it hits harder than you’d like. Would Ken be upset with you? This was his friend, his close friend to be exact and it felt wrong. Continuing on with life was something you needed to do, you had to keep going on, so why did you still feel this way? Was it too soon to move on? Should you have stayed alone and dealt with this all yourself rather than finding solace in another person? Was it fair for you to find happiness while Ken couldn’t feel anything anymore? He was gone, dead and buried yet here you are alive and tormented by nothing but the thoughts of him and what could’ve been. 

“We’ll get through this.” Mitsuya’s voice brings you back to him, his voice was as quiet as a whisper but came through so loud in your head. He always has a way of bringing you back down. Your throat still hurt and you could still feel the drum of your heart pounding against your chest. “We’ll get past this.”

Past this… Past Ken… God, if only he was still here. You wouldn’t be like this, you wouldn’t be in pain and constantly having a battle within yourself, you wouldn’t be– 

“I love you.” Mitsuya’s voice cut in. 

Suddenly everything stopped; time, sound, your breathing. The words that left his lips danced around in the atmosphere circling around you both. You raise your head and look at him, lavender eyes wide open as he stares right back at you. He’s terrified, the silence in the air making him more nervous than he’d like to be. 

It slipped, of course he feels that way but he didn’t want to say it until he was absolutely sure you felt the same. A childlike way of going about things but who could blame him when you looked the way you did right now, you were stunned, you might as well have been hit with a stun gun with the way you seemed to be frozen just from three simple words that carried so much weight to them and worry was now creeping up on him, God knows you’ve tried pushing him away before but now this just might be the final blow to send you running away from him for good. 

“Say it again.” You speak up, albeit quietly and unsure of the words that you had just heard but still understood by Mitsuya. 

He swallows down the fear that creeps up his throat, the look he gives you is uncommon yet raw, shifting to face you more, his hand grazes up your arm until it rests against your cheek, and his thumb brushes against the soft skin as he takes a deep needed breath. “I love you–” 

Mitsuya felt your lips on him before he could finish let alone process what was happening. Your eyes squeezed together tight and hands squeezed around his wrist even tighter. If a single kiss could condense a million thoughts and promises in one, this would be it. He kisses you back, lips forming against yours and bleeding all the passion between the words he said to you behind it. Your lips were warm and soft against his which was a stark contrast to your bodies, his was cold to the touch; chest pricked with goosebumps as your warm hands roamed over him. He snaked an arm around you quickly tugging you closer all while shifting to hover over you. You feel his weight bare more on top of you, one hand holding himself up as his other slides under your shirt just enough to feel your skin against his. 

Your skin felt like a million fireworks were being set off on top of it, the way his hand set them off in an instant made you feel so many things: excitement, regret, acceptance, guilt.  

The thought of Ken slips into your mind. Of all times to be here, you thought. You were always so shy with him, the memories of your first time flooded in like a dam that had finally burst. His face; rosy cheeks and the beads of sweat that graced his body, he was praising you the entire time, telling you how good you were doing and how beautiful you looked under his body. His hands; how strong they were when you finally switched positions, he so easily lifted you up and brought you back down his cock with such ease. And his mouth; the way he effortlessly spewed such filth on top of the sweet and loving words he’d call you. And his-

You shake those thoughts away, needing wanting to focus on the man in front of you. 

Your hands find their way to his hair, fingers grazing the side where his tattoo stays hidden. Strong hands find place at your waist and soon fingers dexterously hook into the waistband of your bottoms and tug them down.

He wishes he could take his time with you, wanting to go as slow as he can to savor this moment, but the way he’s tugging your top off and pulling his sweats down he can’t help it. Your hands move quickly as well, tugging at his boxers with a slight tremor. Nerves running rampant at this very moment, you want this, you need this with him. You want to get this right. 

You’re both so sweaty as his cock is thrusted back into you continuously. The oversensitivity for how long you two have been going is catching up to you and tears well up in your eyeline ready to fall. Just a little more and you’ll get there, teetering on the edge of ecstasy and falling back down to losing your high. 

Mitsuya’s thrusts weren’t rough but were just enough to pull the small whimpers from you. His hands were on your hips pushing you deeper into the mattress with every thrust that kissed your walls, it was needy, the way your legs hooked behind him pulling him deeper and deeper just chasing that high you couldn’t reach. Your brows furrowed in frustration and he saw that, he saw how you’ve been trying for so long just to finally cum. His thumb pressed into your clit rubbing small, quick circles to help you but that barely did anything. 

Your walls fluttered around him for the nth time that night but almost like a mental block you don’t reach your peak, your walls stop gripping around him while a pout forms on your face and a huffed out sigh that was quietly heard. You couldn’t get yourself to finish. 

Mitsuya swallows thickly as the words he’s about to say cause a deep churn in his stomach. “If you need to say…” he swallows them down, hips slowing down in the process yet still flush against yours, “his name. If that makes all of this easier for you, then say it.”

You snap your head up to look at him. Disbelief filling your brain from the words he just said. His name. Say Ken’s name…

“Takashi-”

“It’s fine-fuck.” He groans, his hips slowly pulling out until just the tip then slowly thrusts back in, a certain fervor behind it that makes your ears ring. His pace picks up, the shallow sound of his hips meeting yours until another groan leaves him. “You need this.”

He leans down and his lips latch onto the sweet spot to your neck, licking a stripe up until you visibly shiver. Your arms hook under his own, holding him tight against your chest. His own groans of pleasure in your ear spurring you on further. 

You squeeze your eyes shut, tears finally falling past your waterline as you allow yourself to think about him, bringing those thoughts you so desperately tried pushing away earlier this night. You think about how Ken would grab you, hold you, kiss you, touch you. Imagining that he was the one to touch you now, cock buried deep within your walls and groaning from how tight you squeeze him. If you thought hard enough Mitsuya’s voice melded into his, the same deep vibrato you loved to hear, especially in the morning. Mitsuya’s cock buried in you soon blended in your thoughts of Ken, finally feeling as if it was Ken who was fucking you.

His name slips out of your lips before you realize what you’re doing, a gasp rips from you as you open your eyes wide. You meet Mitsuya’s pretty purple eyes that are already staring down at you. You couldn’t decipher what it was; he had a different appearance behind his eyes. “Again.” He says before thrusting into you harder, each thrust of his soon becoming rougher than the last and hitting all the sensitive spots inside that make you choke on your own moans. 

“Fuck…Ken.” You moan his name, this time a bit louder than the last. You clench down tighter than you have for the night, you were so close, Mitsuya could tell from the glossy look you had. 

“Come on baby, cum for me.” His voice was desperate, he needed you to cum, he needed to feel you unravel underneath him even if it wasn’t him who you had on your mind. 

He leans down to press a soft kiss to your forehead, hips slamming in rougher that had you squealing out. His tip hitting deeper the harder he fucks up into you. You look up at him seeing that his eyes never left yours. “I love you.” is all you utter before finally crashing down. Body shaking as you orgasm, Mitsuya’s hips sputter as your own orgasm causes his, a flurry of curse words leaving his lips as he paints your walls with his cum.

It’s silent in the aftermath, just the sounds of heavy breathing from the both of you and the sound of the blankets shuffling as he pulls out, laying beside you. 

You both are at a loss for words, how has someone as pure hearted as Mitsuya lasted this long in a world so cold and fucked up? How did he end up with you? Were you also just the last string left he had left of Draken? Had his feelings been blinded by the pain he felt from losing him? How did you end up with someone so kind and understanding? Knowing no one else in this world would have the patience that he has had for you. How did a once calm night turn into tension that couldn’t be cut with the sharpest blade? 

You really fucked up this time, you both think to yourselves. 

Eventually, Mitsuya turns to flick the bedside lamp off, soon enveloping you in the darkness that you felt was your heart. You felt the blankets now cover you as you were pulled into him, the warmth of his body and his arm holding you tight allowing you to feel relieved in some way, you still felt cold inside, nonetheless. A sigh leaves both of your chests while you close your eyes and let the darkness take over. 

The last thought before falling asleep was of Ken.

Oh, how you missed him. 

If only it really was him.

networks: @enchantedforest-network @bitchcraftinc @ghostqueue

[fuck-you-upmusicbracket]

The Foundations of Decay (My Chemical Romance)

The guiltiness is yours/You must fix your heart/And you must build an altar where it swells/When the storm decays/And the sky it rains/Let it flood, let it flood, let it wash away/And as we stumble through our last crusade

And if by his own hand his spirit flies/take his body as a relic to be canonised/and so he gets to die a saint /while she will always be the whore

Let our bodies lay where our hearts will stay/Let our blood on vacation, you'll find God in pain/And if by his own hand his spirit flies/Take his body as a relic to be canonized/And so he gets to die a saint but she will always be the whore

"Every single lyric is so fucking powerful. the instrumentals hit every time. it’s such a powerful and moving and motivational song like yeah, everything is fucked up and ruined and will never be the same again. but keep moving. get up (coward). fix your heart. god it’s so good."

“Aside from being MCRs return song after 10 years. There's so much pain, and rage, and just deeply felt emotion. When I saw them live, screaming GET UP COWARD at the end is the single loudest sound I have ever made in my life."

"It's just... a spiritual feeling that washes over me whenever I listen to this song. I feel like I die and am reborn thousands of times throughout its six minute duration. The lyrics are poetry. A battle between giving up and letting the decay take over you or overcoming it and getting up no matter the consequences. But it's not like a gym song to work out to. It's a battle song to make it though the dark cave that is depression and suicidal thoughts and trauma. It's a song that brings you back from the dead."

I/Me/Myself (Will Wood)

I wish I could be a girl, and that way/You'd wish I could be your girlfriend, boyfriend/Am I pretty enough to love back?/No not yet/I wish I could be a girl, and really/I'd prefer it if you would use I/Me/Myself/Am I pretty enough, am I pretty enough to fucking die?

"Do you KNOW what the line “I am quantum physics, my witness brings me into existence” has DONE to me. to my psyche. because it’s like. okay so I’m so sorry if you know all of this already but in quantum physics theres something called the observer effect, where if you you measure something, it affects it. Like by checking tyre pressure, you have to let some air out, so you can’t physically measure it without changing what you’re measuring. in normal day to day life (like the tyre) this doesn’t really matter, because the effect is so small that you can basically ignore it. but quantum physics deals with really REALLY small shit so every single effect matters. Basically. observation of an object changes it’s state. this line is about acceptance. the euphoria of someone calling you by your preferred pronouns or chosen name. observation changing your state. It might seem small to others- someone who’s never been misgendered in their life it’s not even something that would occur to them, but to a trans/nb person who’s being observed, being SEEN? it’s everything. AND THE SHEER PUNCH OF “say my name like a slur, but I’ve been called worse” like. FUCK. oaky I think I’ve rambled enough about One Entire Line so lemme just wrap this up by saying that Will Wood is a cis man who ID’ as genderqueer for a while before realising that he wasn’t, he just had some internalised shit about being gnc and not traditionally masculine to work through, so he wrote this song about his frustrations with gender in general and about how clinging to an identity that didn’t fit him can hurt you"

[joannasteez]

with me, the world is yours

pairing: roman reigns x black reader authors note: i wrote all of this late summer/early fall and after breaking away from it for so long, i've kind of lost the drive to finish the story in the original way i'd intended to write it, BUT, i am willing to add to it in small ways with little drabbles and such. so whoever reads this, please consider it as background/exposition and or a prologue to whatever gets added to it. if anyone wants to see something added to this specific story please drop me scenarios in my inbox!! word count: 8k

he liked to walk the floor

carpet smooth beneath the expensive drop of his heel and toe. hubris a limitless force, the broad width of his chest swelling. pride, unsullied, raw and ever simple in its existence. it was a deep elegant staining streak along his being that refused to leave him, unless of course he willed it so. and the casino floor of The Summer Isle Hotel, his hotel, filled with this great thundering of rage and joy and desperation. tiny drops of poker chips like small striking claps. the flipping of cards giving that easy slipping swoop against padded black jack tables. the hum of the room was loud, because the room itself seemed, to his eye, to never end. a tenacious buzzing that simmered his blood quick, excited. 

the night was young. restless. ruby red suede heels moving, clever and seductive. the color of champagne at every corner his eyes took him, bubbling rich in flutes and set in the sweet form of silk dresses. pearls sitting tempting over cleavages and diamonds dressing the sturdiness of fingers that roamed the figures of excitable women. emeralds, jades and sapphires, taking every shape against the skin that would have it. 

earrings, anklets, rings, bracelets......

whiskey and brandy swishing in glasses......

dry champagne hitting the tongue just right......

bodies hugging, lips kissing, eyes glazed over and just so damn greedy......

this...this ceaseless atmosphere. the un-quelled need to have. to take hold. to win. 

roman loved to walk the casino floor of his hotel. 

but he hated, absolutely hated cheaters. fucking thieves, cunning-less and eager. their tact lacking just as much as their ambition. roman figured, if their schemes were anymore complex, then he'd feel somehow better about their stealing. he'd at least respect their finesse before using their heads to shove them out the entryway doors of the establishment. and what a fine establishment it was, built off the sweat of his brow, his, others, blood and many tears. owning a hotel on the vegas strip was no easy feat and he'd be damned if someone disrespected it. disrespected his work. his vision. 

...so then why?...

your eyes flit over to a table just some feet away. 

...why did he let you play your games?...

a man in muted clothes gives you a signal. many silent signals, ones roman was once oblivious to, but now overly familiar with, as if he created them himself. 

...four seconds of a stare. one mississippi, two mississippi, three mississippi, four. four meaning spade, given they were following the alphabetical order of the suits. 

the man, face more punchable by the minute, touches his nose. meaning, the spade is a face card. 

and the fucking dealer is young, flips up his card too easily, exposing just before he deals.

roman wants to do many things. to the man, the dealer, and the other pairs around the other blackjack tables following the same system. his fingers curl, ball inward till his palm pains him but his eyes remain as they always did. fiercely void, teetering delicate on some fine line of violence, until you move. speak. 

"blackjack", you call. with just enough disinterest that prides the flow of his blood. makes him smirk.

"they've all been at it for days", paul bristles. 

"end it", roman calls, walking away. 

---

you despised most men, despised their presence, looking at them, unnecessarily speaking to them, breathing the same air as them. they'd bred more trouble than they were ever worth and always, without fail, served up to you, on some disgusting dish, half baked and ill formed, the least discreet of charms, to win even slivers of your attention. it was the usual lousy song and dance, artless and heavy handed. you despised most of them, because they led you to places like these with promises too alluring to ignore. all you wanted, want still, is the money. its all you need. 

and they'd all but manhandled you from the casino floor to a room. two men, one barely distinguishable from the other, but then again...they donned shades that matched their disapproving looks. lips turned in scrutiny. but what the fuck did they know anyway?... fuck them and this...this room. a holding of some sort. walls white, chairs black, a purposeful minimalistic touch crafted to intimidate. and it was working...even if just slightly. 

your chair creaks, wooden and anxious. you hated this, always would. this forceful feel of surrendering. 

and you don't speak first, but because of that neither does he. 

grey's scattered about his beard, scarce but still there. slight face lines...stress maybe?...and tawny specks living as freckles. he's groomed to perfection but still there's something about him, a flare in his eye that lends itself to a buried ruggedness. a meticulous sort of brutality. 

and he's just sitting there... 

...close to you but not too close. enough to open you with his eyes, but not enough to leave you breathless...

he's practiced in this. patient. 

...he can't do this all day... you think, till his body sits more comfortable than before. he will if he has to, and he will. to prove a point. to win. 

the room is cold. sterile. you shiver some, the first to say anything. 

"i didn't do anything wrong". 

"then why so defensive?"

you felt some ways away from lethal and the reasons for such a feeling mounting more every second. forming knots in your belly, heat and pressure. guilt and a sickly intrigue. his voice was rich and deep. smooth and commanding. if in another place, at some other time, you could see yourself falling for that voice, lulled and taken by it. you hate it, the hot twinge it drives into your skin. you grow sharp, words throwing like daggers. 

"if you were me, sitting where i am, you'd be defensive too". 

"i could have you brought up on charges", he presses. toying really. flip and flopping between seriousness and sarcasm. the heels of his shoes click the floors, and you fall slow into the creak of the chair, pulling away from the size of him as he approaches. he bends, levels with you, but even this feels like a looking down upon. "cheating and swindling. maybe even restitution". 

"what?" you start. you cant help your self. "not nice enough for a little jail time". 

you see his jaw shift. "smart mouth". 

you move in with a sudden spell of boldness. "fuck you". your lips twist to spit against the floor. "and fuck your casino". 

it's quick. harsh. his fingers long and curling at your jaw. he's warm, grip steady despite the push of your hands. he feels the fight in you, regardless of how soft you are to the touch. skin tender, like untouched feathers. 

but still... that damn mouth of yours. 

"you tried remember", mirthless but not. 

"don't fucking touch me", you rant. hitting at him harder. attempting without end to pry away his fingers, until finally he lets go. 

and it's rather shortsighted but brave nonetheless, the way your feet carry you to go at him. to do what exactly? you're not to entirely sure. but it doesn't matter much anyways, not when he's this mountain of a man. herculean and spiting. resolute in fucking with you a little for whatever enjoyment he can get out of the situation, and you know this to be true when your momentum to him is soured, a scream bleeding coarse through the walls. 

the dense walls block most of the action, but the scream of pain is undeniable. the faint crush of bone breaking through to where you are, fixing you to the floor where you stand in some sickly mixture of fear and surprise. 

"the money or their fingers i asked them". his stare is heavy. daunting. "some of them chose money, but of course they get to keep neither". he walks to the single entry-exit door. body taking up most of the frame. "paul, escort the young lady back to her room". 

you scoff on instinct. hating the condescension his tone takes. you shift by them both in a way that knocks your shoulders into their arms. paul's chalky, round face as amused as his boss. 

"i can escort myself". 

---

amongst the other's lining the vegas strip, The Summer Isle Hotel is the second largest. and where the floors lack that bold blood red carpeting, there is laid instead a fine marbling, in the endless halls and walkways, polished enough to see even the faintest of facial details. the ceilings venture high, littered with crystal chandeliers and in the walls and on ceilings are engraved these renaissance inspired paintings. there is this rhythm to the place, something archaic and forever far away, that is meant to always be desired. as people sip champagne, drunk and more verbose by the second, bleeding their pockets dry to their hearts content, the artistry of the hotel leaves them wondered and greedy. that even as they eat the finest food and drink the oldest wines, there is more to indulge in. more to have, to reach that unreachable place of pure luxury.

it was extravagant and all consuming, and pieces of you wondered what it all felt like. to never want or lack for it, because it was just simply there, at the edge of your fingertips. 

the hotel was big enough to get lost in, big enough to lose others in, so when paul sits himself at your table for two, security detailing not too far, just at the edges of the bar, you grow weary and annoyed. he'd been looking for you. 

you swirl your drink with a cocktail straw. feeling the pressure of his stare. "im being babysat now?" 

his hands fold with an instinctive diplomacy. 

"just call it reassurance". 

reassurance...that was bullshit. you didn't need to be told things more than once, especially when the talk was as loud and showy as it was earlier. "he made it pretty clear what can happen. i'm a cheater, not stupid". 

"there isn't always much of a difference between the two".

you hum, sipping what's left of your drink. "if you're gonna chat me up, buy me another drink then". his brow raises, as if in waiting. you sigh, annoyed at having to perform niceties. "please". 

its expert and concise, a look and just under a handful of gestures to the bartender, but his awareness never wavers from the already empty cocktail glasses where vodka-cran once filled. three to be exact. this fourth, he hopes, would be your last, as it was now that the glazing over of your eyes was coming underway. and he'd originally been an advocate for roman's earlier display of brutish prowess, and still is in all honesty, but seeing you, it did unsettle him in very few but poignant ways. he knew enough to know that you were attempting a drowning of frenzied nerve. sitting here, he hopes you understand, like everything else on the strip... its just business. 

paul shifts. bringing his chair slightly closer. "the system you use on the blackjack tables, how long did it take to come up with it?" 

"not long, maybe a few minutes", you start. sipping and thinking on whether to indulge him or not. but it seems to you now that the whole trip has gone to complete shit so why not. "it's all about assigning basic signals to cards but it's the memory part that fucks people up. memory and performance anxiety". paul chuckles at the absurdity and you grin, slightly pleased at his interest. "practicing in a warehouse versus being on a casino floor, at a table. it's different. anything can happen". 

you push away the drink. satisfied. paul's eyes turn soft, with what you think is relief. why relief?

"and then theres the whole finding a weak dealer situation", you continue. "no offense, you guys have a better looking hotel but the venetian runs tight security". 

"noted". 

its your turn to shift in your chair. asking the question you've been wanting the answer to since the moment happened. "why didn't he break my fingers?" 

"who knows. maybe he's waiting for you to get stupid", paul jokes. 

"you either are or you aren't. no in between". 

"that means you'll stay put then?" 

you scoff. "what, i'm on lockdown?"

"the boss says you're free to do as you please. just no stealing".

you smile coy, standing to leave. "you wouldn't mind covering the tab then? can't seem to find my wallet". 

---

thief. cheater. schemer. you've heard many names and resented none of them, because at their root, the truth remained what it was. it was artistry. and if you're clever enough, sharp enough, quick enough, finessing could be masterful. the constant putting together of a challenge, a game. and it was practical to love games, because good players win. 

but this? this was not practical. he was not practical. 

he seemed to be playing a different game entirely. you figure solely to spite you. a figurative spitting in the face if you will. 

every waiter of every bar in every corner of the hotel knew your cocktail order. vodka-cran with lime, extra ice. a splash of club soda. 

the security detail seemingly doubled overnight and each of them never failed to greet you. a smile and a head tipping nod. 

casino floor personnel, always with a subtle but sudden direction, pointed out to you the slots that paid out the biggest and the most often. 

the restaurants you dined in refused to give you the check and when you asked why, flustered and confused, they gave the same answer every time. 

"because the boss said so". 

complementary goods in your hotel room. aged wines and sweets. 

tickets to shows you neither wanted to attend or cared for.

if you were a different woman, who lived a different life, you figure she'd find this every bit as enticing as it was. enchanting even. grand gestures made out of some sickly sweet distant admiration. but you were not her and most men you knew or had known only did things; provided, loved, cared, with condition. so only one questioned remained. why? and after days of guessing games, a stomach turning foreboding shifted swiftly to irritation. he'd upped the ante finally, moving from these fairly small gestures, which to you were not small at all, to something a little bit too much for you to take. 

and you wonder now if he knows that he's reached your end, knocking hard at the ceiling of your limits. body simmering hot with this slow to finish unraveling feeling. as if at any moment unknown to you, you'll break in some uncontrolled fit of rage. he was becoming more persistent, silent still but more persistent and the affects of such persistence were all around you. soft wool carpeting where marble floors ended, a detailed fretwork spanning every corner of the ceilings, and french sliding doors connecting you to a wide stretched pool looking over the vegas strip. 

"the boss sends his regards", housekeeping said after it was all said and done. 

from the 6th floor straight up to the 39th, he'd gotten them to move everything you'd bought with you. your clothes, shoes, purses, from a studio room you could just barely pay for, to the penthouse suite. 

all of this, and a tiny note atop the dresser. 

enjoy your stay - roman

"roman", you try aloud. 

it isn't till the next day that you realize he's quite fond of leaving these little letters. words thin and cursive. messages brief enough to never reveal even a semblance of his thoughts. 

friday morning his words scribble a small card stuck to the center of a bouquet of white roses. 

white desdemona's. enjoy the roses - roman

you struggle for sometime in the bright silence of the morning. the busyness of the vegas strip bleeding a hum in through the sliding french doors. it wouldn't be hard, indulging him. cling fast and easy to soft petaled gestures, quelling finally that wayward need for a romantic sort of fascination. buried so long ago but clawing upwards tirelessly still, begging for relief. but it would be more sensible to deny yourself, which in the same breath meant denying him. tearing that pristine white card in two and setting the roses out to sit just in front your suite door. to send a message, simple but strong, enough for him to understand. 

a sudden knock urges you to settle into a resolution quickly. quicker than you were prepared for. the white card now in your hand tearing into two pieces with a twist of your wrist as you go to open the door. 

its house keeping. 

you place the torn paper in their hand before stepping out of the suite, furthering more down the hallway to the elevator by the second. the roses themselves were too lovely to get rid of anyways. 

"tell your boss i send my regards". 

---

would you believe them?

a less than modest woman from the north east, standing above the illustrious wonder of the vegas strip. and from your glass flute a slow, smooth sip, along with some restless awakening of a dream, even if it last only for a moment. an imagining from this high place, that with a deep sure breath like some figure from beyond with a vast primordial power, you gave life to this idle desert, and with sun and sand, birthed from pure will what they call fabulous las vegas. but this must be what he feels, day after day, night after night, standing above the rest, the staunch rush of pride, like something simmered well into the run of his blood. for you it was this endless day dream, the money, the power, the access, but for him, it seemed real. it was real. 

and still the question remains... would you believe them? a cunning woman, wrapped strapless in leather fine enough to please even the most marred skin, and heels that extend the vicious form of your legs. 

just tuesday you were cursing the good name and fortune of this place with your dna splat just mere inches from his shoes, and now here you are friday, waiting for him. 

if they, whoever they are, told you sometime ago that you'd be here, you wouldn't have believed them. 

he'd done well to send another card, and with it, another gift. 

the rendezvous. 7pm - roman

he'd gotten house keeping to do more of his dirty work, the poor bastards, but even their precision was daunting. the placement of the card, and the gift, and the complementary wine, and a single blooming stargazer. the petals dainty and blushing. it'd left you standing deep in a well of emotion, finding everything he'd left, and your bed taken by a box. the lid pulled off quickly by that gnawing urge to indulge him. and despite his initial brutish behavior and persistence, it was safe to say that the man was not void of taste. 

but it would be more sensible to deny yourself,  like a chant, it'd echoed, and your fingers ran over the plains of something silky. a dress, cool raven color, strong and subduing, but the fabric was so fine to the touch it'd felt criminal to hold. and with it had lived perfumes, bottle after bottle, as if he feared you'd somehow go without. and... fuck... sitting, waiting really, in a satin pouch... two pairs of goddamned diamond earrings. one pair smaller than the other, but both far more delicate than most things you'd ever owned. and soon the short warm swell of excitement had grown cold and hesitating. why was he doing this? what did he want from you? 

they were questions you intended to get answers to and it seemed if they weren't answered now then who knows when, unsure if you'd ever see him again. 

"you didn't like the roses"

your heart takes to some quick instinctual beating. a ragged fraying of nerves just off the simple sooth and strength of his voice. before, in that silent white room, you were sharp, aware of him but the power of his aura did nothing to sway your wanting to see him pained by your indifference to him. now though... it was so damn different now it seemed, as you were a small ways away from a purely formed nervousness. 

you turn just enough to give him your profile, sipping slow at the flute, steeling one buzz under your skin away with another. "i'd like them more if they were red". you face him finally, staying leant up against the balcony railing of the restaurant. "but it seems i don't have much option or choice here". 

"no need to choose when everything is the best". 

"that doesn't sound self important at all". 

"doesn't make it any less true". 

champagne has never tasted so good, you think, sipping and fighting the impulse to look away from him. his eyes softer than before but still lying in them are traces of searching for some unspoken truth. it was a much more subdued attempt compared to before, every pass his eyes made about your own, short flickers to your lips, the way you clutched the glass, your hair, your jewelry, the dress you were wearing, like a gentle pealing back of a layer. less scrutiny out of a short bout of anger and more of a learning. he'd come to the conclusion after watching you leave the white room all those days ago that he wanted to learn you. 

here now, watching you sip champagne, he wondered if you'd let him. 

"listen", you start. taking a closer step to him, with some new found form of resolution, and its hard to keep this will strong and steeled away when he's this close. scent heady and soothing to your senses. "i don't know what you're thinking, but i do know that you got me a lot of fucked up for just hauling my shit-"

"the suite is yours for as long as you want it" 

"i'm not paying for it"

his grin is warm. inviting. long fingers slipping the flute from your hold after its been emptied to set it down at a nearby table. "it's yours anyways". 

your confusion is palpable, lives in the way you retreat closer to the banister again, for fresher air void of him. in hopes to think more clearly. "just the other day you practically had me hemmed up and now you're-"

"that was different. it was business". 

you scoff. "business my ass, fuck you-"

"and fuck my casino, i know". 

it's your go to insult it seems, this time having less of an affect on him, but still there is something there. a small stinging pain bruising the very large stain of ego. 

you look to him with searching eyes of your own. "so the wine... and-and the roses and just... everything, i mean thats?..."

"gifts. just gifts. not to be payed back ever". 

your face fixes in a fashion similar to the first time you spoke to him. eyes defensive and unsure, brows pulling in for a full measure of scrutiny. "why?"

"have dinner with me". 

you press again. "why?" 

"because", he starts, with a streak of vulnerability. "all of my attention is taken up by a casino resort on the strip of one of the busiest places in the world but for some reason, for the last 72 hours or so i've only been able to think clearly about you".

your eyes roll off instinct despite the flutter feeling in your gut. "am i supposed to be flattered?"

"its the truth". 

roman hadn't been a man who lent himself to believing in chance or possibility for sometime. if he wanted something, or hell even someone, it simply happened, because thats the way it had been, since the first burst of the resorts success till before this very moment. when he spoke, the world of the resort opened and bent, twisted and curved till it formed to his liking, so much until the effects of his wants rippled through the whole of the strip till they echoed miles away, through the rolling of nevada desert dust. but you...

the click of your heels, the soft sway of your hips, the way words twisted from your lips comfortable because you knew yourself well enough to know that regardless of his capabilities you'd do something drastic and a bit ways away from reckless before ever letting him get the best of you. 

that bravery, an unflinching flame, new and unpredictable and different and more exciting than anything he'd seen in sometime. 

whether you were leaving or staying, he follows you and savors even the cut of your eyes. it's quick and fierce, unsure of its power but stripping the resolve of him all the same. and of course a curt look is all you give him, as he opens the door to the rendezvous and follows you in, not a word to him as waiters and well off patrons pass the both of you by. a leisure walk around pristine white cloth dressed tables and velvet chairs, each of your steps like some small conquering of a widely secured territory. his territory. you move more sure of yourself by the second and it rushes his warm and wanting. 

with no real hurry, roman pulls out the chair you've picked to sit in just before you can make to do it yourself, finding himself closer than he needs to be, just some inches from your face. each breath in, sweet and tempting. the perfume he bought you...

you sit without a word, not even a thank you, and he finds himself more drawn in by the second. 

it isn't until he sits himself that roman realizes you've chosen a seat at the center of the restaurant. and whether it's purposeful or not, it's damn sure fitting. 

a trivial orbit of faces and voices. 

"you don't take no for an answer do you?"

"when you're where i am, after a while, you stop asking and getting asked. you never even have to hear no". 

its arrogant, eye roll worthy even, but you don't miss the truth in it. the pull of his brows together, lending themselves to a pure honesty. and it's hard, quelling that pull up of envy. to be so well off, so rich, never having to answer to any one. i wish, you thought. i wish

your finger trails along the fine table cloth. "i must have you so out of sorts then, how rude of me". 

"it's fun", he grins. a single finger signaling someone. " 'm learning my manners again". 

and there was this fidelity to his words ......everything is the best because i am the best...... a quality that spilled over into everything that he touched, spoked to, looked at, and did. it was this undeniable thing, a force, that caused such a natural hesitation in you, but also this impulse to fight. you wanted to struggle against him, war with the easy diligence of him till he folded. cracking under the weight of his hubris till large fragmented pieces ground to dust. but you would not win that battle today, no, not as waiters execute their level of precision, plate after plate set atop the table in such a meticulous manner that it seemed to be planned. a well thought scheme with the intent to impress. dish after dish, revealed, one after the other smelling more divine than the one before it. 

the waiter, an adorably eager young man, falls into a spiel about the wine you can't be bothered to care about. his work of a perfect pour all for nothing. it nearly pains you. "i'll take a water please". 

the waiter flattens. a curt nod as he hurries away. 

"it's vintage", roman says. seemingly unaffected by your disinterest in old aged wine. 

" 'm sure it is". eyeing him. the sip his lips take. "seems you've had things all planned out. what if i'd said no?" 

"someone else's lucky night then. a free meal on the house".

"do you have a ready made answer to everything?". 

"i am who i am. it's impossible not to".  the cut of your knives into plated steaks reveals this smooth buttery finish. the meat tender against the blade and more so to the taste. and it takes everything in you not to moan or go cross eyed, not when he's watching your every move. seemingly studying and committing your eyes and lips and words to memory. no, you simply chew. sip at your water and live as quiet in your delight as possible. till of course it hits you, not as hard or sudden as one would expect, but it's more of a washing over. a stilled piecing together that quickens your pulse and frowns out the apathy on your lips. 

you stare down at your plate. a short ways away from dumbfounded. "you know how i like my steak".  even the way he chews is perfect. measured and steady. a luxurious sort of etiquette steeped into the make of him. but you find that his manners are selective, as he doesn't even bother to meet your eyes. low sitting and accusing. he chews as you did, but with more leisure. the slice of his knife and the clink of his fork fighting against the waiting you do in the silence. even when he works to indulge you, he abides in his own time, lets you wrestle with the trivial chatter of the room the way you did not so long ago with the abundance of his gifts. 

he wipes his mouth with a cloth. a feigned unawareness about him. 

"the chefs know how you like your steak".

you scoff. maybe your tenth eye roll of the night. " and the bartenders so conveniently know how i like my cocktails too". 

he sips his wine easy like he would water. "they have an eye for detail, thats why they work here". 

"or maybe", you start. fork an obnoxious clinking at the plate as it drops dramatic from your fingers. "just maybe it's someone else's eyes they're looking through. someone else's words they're following". 

"maybe". 

...so fucking goddamn frustrating... you think. eyeing the full table of food. and it's less anger and more confusion, that slow to finish fraying of nerves. these things that he does, says, that leave you emotionally inconvenienced. 

"you don't know how insane it feels, night after night, trying to pick up a check for dinner and the waiter refuses your money. it feels like stealing". 

he chuckles. "something you should be used to then". 

"fuck you. i only steal out of necessity". 

and this was it, the thing from which his curiosities where born, feverish in his fingers. an ache to flex broad and wide, to do and make till need was just a distant word laying dead at the recesses of your mind. necessities were strange, and if it became flesh and bone with legs and the will to speak it too would be a stranger to him. roman had not wanted for anything in some time, and if he felt in himself that he needed something, the readiness by which it came to him revealed only that he did not need it, but that he wanted it, in that covetous way that a man wants another mans woman. and so it became natural, that others around him would not need for anything either. 

the way he's settled into the velvet of the chair becomes less leisure, leaning in slightly with a more focused determination. "what do you need?" 

your smile is wry. unconvinced. "like you care". 

"if you could have anything, what would it be?"

the list was endless it seemed, a question you'd asked and answered thousands of times and then thousands of times again. cars, houses, shoes, clothes, jewelry, yachts, boats. trivial and obnoxiously expensive things even, if it meant that you could feel the freedom of just being. it was an easy thing to answer, but so hard still when all the answers were far away from you, never even brushing faint at your fingertips. 

and he thinks in this moment, your eyes softening, this is the most serious he's ever seen you. 

"i wanna be comfortable. enough not to worry about anything". 

"and why aren't you there yet?"

"i tried", a finger of yours slipping against the grip of the cutting knife. "but you stopped me". 

but how could he question you? was your drive, your diligence to get what you wanted not legitimate because it was not legal? and with this, the question forms clear again, why the fuck were you here? 

"a man at the top asking me why i'm all the way down here", your head shaking in this sly build of indignation. he had some nerve. "you don't see how shitty that is?" 

roman feels something in him lessen. a deep pulling away that reflects in the flare that takes to your eyes. an edge that leaves the room a bit cooler than before. how could he have been so stupid and blind? judging you for the very thing that had left him in this whirl of curiosity and admiration. 

" 'm not tryin to offend you". 

"but here i am. offended". 

he shifts, reaches the wide stretch of his palm to lay open against the table. an olive branch close enough for you to reach out and take. "let me make it up to you". 

you consider him. the outstretch of his palm. fingers strong and waiting. the way his eyes settle into this mild sort of kindness that still lends itself to something not so pleasing. the warm lights amongst the crystals of hanging chandeliers casting along his face in such a way that it shadows his eyes some but still shines against his features. speaking so clearly to the deepened well of his hubris, always revealing and hiding itself in his own time. he is a sure man, wanting only what he wants, but seeks it in such a diligent way that it suffocates the things, the people that he desires. but maybe, just maybe, if you leave him wanting, challenged and needy, he would give you everything. 

your finger tips move to tease at his. this faint dancing along his palm. "if you're gonna send me gifts, make sure it's things i like". touch a sly caress at his wrist. "i'm not a wine girl, and i hate seeing flowers die". 

he lets your touch play along his skin. revels silent in the rush it sends, a jetting stream into his blood. 

"what do you prefer?"

you slip off a ring that shines against his pinky. fitting it onto your middle one. your stare is this rapturous thing. hypnotic and breath taking, and he understands why you've probably gotten away with so much till now. 

"i have a sweet tooth". 

"i can work with that".

you hum into a sigh, considering still. your hand balling his own to close that reaching opened palm before you settle back into your chair. more eased now than you've been the whole night. 

"i hope so for your sake". 

and roman does not hesitate often, certainly never out of fear. he doesn't mind the manner of his words much, or their phrasing and the life it breathes into his expression. he doesn't suffer much to care for the thoughts of others and their own words, unless of course it somehow seeks to exist against his money, the resort or the greatness of his name. roman wasn't fearful, no, but being here with you, caution takes him all the same. like those tentative seconds where the lucky struck gambler is suspended in possibility, waiting for the dealers reveal. 

his words take to a mindfulness, as if each word is brought out selectively. "has anyone ever offered, to take care of you. buy you things. take you places". 

you laugh in that small uncontrollable way, when something, after so much confusion, becomes clear. because of course this is what he wants. of-fucking-course. 

"some have. i always told them no".

"why?"

to think of it, even if just slightly, annoyed you. "conditions. restrictions. rules. you can't go there, you can't do this. that's not care". 

"control is an acquired taste". 

a grin slips into the seam of your lips. curious. "is it yours?" 

his tongue peaks, a short run against his teeth, and something deep within, this buried and slow to rise feeling tightens at your core. maybe it wouldn't hurt to have a taste of wine.

his grin matches yours. "not if it ain't yours". 

"out of all the woman everywhere, why me?" 

"you try to steal from me, you spit on my casino floor, and you ain't missed a chance yet to tell me how you feel". 

"we're into degradation i see", you joke. and it gets a laugh you think not many have experienced. it's something sincere, crinkling for some seconds the corners of his eyes. and despite the short bout of fondness that forms at hearing him laugh, he's got to be joking right? pulling your leg hard for an even bigger laugh. "i'm a thief roman". 

"a very transparent thief. i don't meet people like that a lot". 

it's a losing fight but still, it's hard not to push back. 

"you barely know me". 

"i could know you, if you let me". 

"what's in it for you?" 

sex, you think. when he's given you enough of his money and access, he'll ask for sex. 

"your company". 

---

riverside, california was not the vegas strip, and by all intents and purposes did not claim to be the notorious sin city. the breeze here was something warm and patient. a soft flowing about, satisfied only by its own directionlessness. but in a small whispered taunting way, it was unadulterated. the vegas strip was loud, this harsh numbing sort of droning that buried the more subtle, truthful noises and those skittish undercurrents in the skin that lent to fervent thoughts and ideas. the silence of riverside and the quaint rooftop air of antonella's was this exposing thing. and you'd come west to unashamedly connive your way into some money, but now you were here, unsure of the minutes, hours and even days to come, with him. sipping at coffee, and picking gentle but anxious at his diamond ring, feeling as aimless as the riverside wind. 

and then, seemingly from no where, his shoes click against the cobblestone, steps slow and uniformed, a pace all his own. and as he sets down a fine spread atop the table; meats, cheeses, fruits, and small cakes, he can sense rather acutely this refusal to acknowledge him. from you, an amusing fight; one leg crossed over the other, a fidgeting in your fingers and this far away look else where, feigning indifference. 

antonella's at noon - roman

he'd written as he liked to do, and yet it was a little passed two in the afternoon. the drive over to riverside lengthy and unknowing. 

"you're late"

" 'm sorry?"

roman is amused but taken a back all the same. in the years of his success, lateness was not something to treat with avoidance or fear but just another trivial idea. something purely subjective. or maybe it was because things just ran on his time, started and stopped when his desires had not been met or when they'd exceeded his expectations. it was new to think that something like that was so bothersome for you. 

he sits in the empty space of a double seated chair beside you. the wood fine and stripped, carved with intricate designs. his arm falling against the top. your bodies closer now than they've ever been. 

"if i'm-", you shift to face him. eyes taken by the tan of his cheeks, sprinkled with freckles. lips full, and beard thick. his eyes softer than normal but still traces of an intensity to them. he's beautiful, even in his arrogance and persistence. "if i'm gonna do this. whatever this is, you have to be on time. i'm not a woman who likes to wait". 

his eyes drop to the plump of your lips. existing there this thin tempting line of gloss. "yes ma'am". 

and his stare lingers, a gentle taking in of the slight pout forming into the line of your lips and the soft round out of your cheeks. your eyes under the cast of the sun, more ethereal than not, but guarded some still in this impatient game of waiting for something that will quell that burden of unknowing. the small tells of your anxiety live in the way you play aimlessly at that ring you took from him, or rather the ring he let you take. even with your demands that fight against his own desires and your quick wits and your curt looks and your own bouts of teasing, you still hesitate for fear of the feelings that come with great disappointment. he wonders now if his words for you are not enough, and that though it had been enough for mostly everyone, you are not them. you are new and different and he'd have to treat you as such. 

roman cuts a piece of cake easy, and on a fork it waits for you to indulge in it. 

"taste this", he gives, handing you the fork. 

"what is it?" 

"panettone". his voice deep and delicate about the shape of the vowels, taking on a slight accent in reverence of the treat. italian?, you wonder. 

the cake is buttery and sweet, a taste of fruit with each pass it takes over your tongue and theres something there as you sit with the taste of it that tells you that it's homemade. its a perfect mixture of everything, as if the baker had made it a thousand times, and then a thousand times more. 

he reaches to pick off a piece of fruit with a slim pick, sleeves loose and revealing the beginnings of what you think is a full arm of connected tattoos. you wonder how far they travel, and where they possibly might end. 

the strength of espresso wafts against the flow of a simple breeze as he takes to refilling the teeny size of your cup and then a splash of his own to taste. 

he sighs, satisfied at the warmth of it. "you like it?". 

"mhmm", you give. a sincerity lining your lips as you give him a small smile. it's something new, relaxed. an earnestness lacking that natural wary look you wear when you look at him. "you're taking my words to heart. i like a man who listens". 

"i aim to please". 

you slip the ring back onto your finger, less fidgety with it now. an easy settling of the tensity in your shoulders that allows your body to rest closer to him. facing inward so that the cross of your leg touches his. and it's this innocent, dainty step towards intimacy. where the gentle quiet of the day fills the air with a more tender possibility. guards are fallen away, more than before if anything, and your eyes shimmer warm and a little more accepting. i'll try, you think to your self, to believe him even if only for a moment. i'll indulge him. 

"you like that ring?", he asks. staring at the way it shines against your finger. 

at the mention of it, you twist the band about your finger. 

"my mother thought the best thing a woman could do for herself was have jewelry. it's the only thing that doesn't disappoint". nostalgia a fine thread in your words. remembering the woman that taught you everything. and he sees the soft way your cheeks turn up. feels a need to keep them that way, but even more so when you look at him. "it's a little big, but it goes with my earrings". 

my...my earrings. claiming fully the things that he'd gifted you. 

his longer, stronger fingers reach for yours, for the ring, seemingly possessed by memory. and his touch is a light caress. featherweight and reverential. a shiver strums your skin there. teeming with the want for a heated relief found only in another pass of his finger, till it folds, along with the others, his over yours, to lock in an embrace. 

"i had it made ten years ago", he tells you. "about a month after the resort opened. a gift to myself". 

his thumb dances with a sweet brushing along your skin, with nothing particularly amorous, but there is comfort here, in your touch, a stranger. the way skin passes slow and steady to feel the other, lax and patient. 

"it's still beautiful", your hand dropping to your lap, locked with his still, and the pull brings him just that much closer. a comfortable leaning in that gives way to him taking in more readily the heady sweetness of your perfume. his eyes and his mouth something like a foot away, but feeling so very close, so much so that it steals breaths. kickstarts that harsh beating in your blood, a drumming pulse in your fingers. you wonder if he feels it. 

"it doesn't disappoint". 

you smile. interested in him. "how old were you then?"

"28. you?"

you can see him at 28. untainted by the burning pace of vegas. his eyes ever intense but in them more of a smolder. his hair longer, with no flecks of grey. more unsure and less persistent. grasping at things that come to him so easily now. 

"24". 

and he'd love to meet 24 you. maybe not as quick witted but clever still. fast in your schemes with a maybe not so predictable temper. but still, a covetous touch to the things you wanted. needed. 

"causing trouble where?", he chuckles. 

"new york". 

he looks at the ring. loose on your finger. 

"ill have the ring resized to fit".

you shake your head. unsure. "it's something special. i don't wanna take that from you". 

"you don't ask and you don't say thank you. if i give it, it's yours. simple". 

he is as serious now as the day you first met him, and beyond all of your own doubting, there's this burden to believe him. the quiet fervor of his words and his touch, the warm glow of him amongst the day light and the unwavering hold his eyes take to yours. and his thumb runs a simple caress over where your pulse quickens harsh at the inside of your wrist, from surprise and need. a soft lulling that only seems to stoke the flame of a slow but sure to rise desire. it's yours, words promising and unfazed by the endless unknowns of tomorrow. so much so that he proves it, slips an envelope from his pocket till it finds its way into your hand. 

and the envelope is mere trash compared to whats inside. a sleek black card, engraved with his own name. 

your fingers slip at it. failing somewhat to hide the growing excitement. but there is disbelief here also, coming alive quick but dying quicker the more you feel the fixed weight of his decision, heavy in his eyes and warm at his touch. his intensity is a power all on its own, working well to lull you in. to subdue. a twinge at your core tells you that you are not immune. "is there a limit?" 

"why would there be?" 

you chuckle. "you're serious?"

"dead serious". 

there's that twinge again, lingering hot and teasing. scares you away from his eyes and the tender hold of his touch, but he doesn't falter, even when your fingers leave the tangle of his. and then, caution breaks against the luxurious sort of excitement teeming quick, tightens into your fingers so that the card feels heavy. too fine to hold in your hands. but still, he remains, sitting with an endless patience, sure that he will win you over fully. if not today then soon. 

the moment still seems too good to be true for you. 

you sigh. "this all isn't just some round about way of trying to fuck me is it?" 

but he doesn't hesitate. amused even. 

"that only happens if you want it to sweetheart". 

and it takes courage not to imagine it. the details of a daydream where his lips slip against your skin, hands strong and leading as they push and prod to his will, till you're just how he wants you, playing in these fast to leave flashes in your minds eyes. you think though, under his heavy gaze, that it's something to wonder about when he's not this close and determined to commit your every expression to memory. so you steel your face, fingers grabbing his cup to sip at his espresso, the curiosity of your daydreams attempting with a desperate sort of vigor to run away from you. they barely succeed. 

with roman, you were in for something interesting. 

[misscammiedawn]

Ethical Personality Play

So. I've written about my experiences with Personality Play in the past. A couple times, actually.

The TL;DR is that from early 2000s-2019 this was my signature move that the first three hypnotists I was tied up with utilized on a near daily basis. The damage of this abuse has never been fully tallied, but if you want my "how to alter your personality with hypnosis" guide in a word it is simple:

Don't.

"But what if I want to do hypnotic edgeplay?"

But saving that... let me impart some wisdom in hopes that y'all will play nice and safe with this.

Firstly let me define the terms.

Personality Play is any form of hypnosis scene that alters aspects of the individual's identity whether it be for a scene, as a permanent trigger or as permanent conditioning. The danger amplifies with the more severe and lasting the changes are but there is always danger.

So, let's cover each area of what can be done, how it can be harmful and how to avoid that harm.

General rules

Before even negotiating this kind of play. Disclose.

If you are engaging with intimate hypnosis at this end of the danger spectrum then you need to have a level of intimate trust relative to that risk and this trust needs to go both ways. If I were a hypnotist introducing this kind of play into the mix I would do so only if I could trust in my hypnotee partner's mental state.

I disclose my BPD and DID at the start of any hypnotic relationship and talk about how they impact me. How the depersonalization and derealization symptoms require a level of grounding before and after play and what to do if my emotional state switches during the middle of a scene. This is not an easy thing for me to do, especially if time is a limited factor, but it's a necessary thing to do.

I do not expect every person playing be willing to disclose every mental condition they have or open up about possible abreaction triggers. That's sensitive information and it's natural to not want to be open about that with every partner. I do, however emphasize that it is vital for that information to be known when approaching these topics. It is unfair for the partner in the scenarios to be responsible for managing safety on either side of the watch when they are unaware of the depths of vulnerability.

I have experience with this fallacy myself. In utilizing hypnosis to ignore my triggers I did severe damage to myself and I am now plagued with intrusive memories and nightmares of events that happened during scenes that I was able to effortlessly indulge in during the scene but as they say "The body keeps the score" and I was in fact doing further damage to myself. Something which my partner at the time was not equipped to deal with because I'd failed to disclose or even treat the situation as worth being safe about.

Now I am just burdened with further damage by ignoring my brain's defenses on my existing pain.

Once again, I refer to my first bit of advice on how to ethically perform Personality Play: DON'T.

Once you have a trusting understanding of both sides of the watch's limits and comforts the next step is grounding.

Grounding is mandatory.

I wrote about my feelings on this before in more depth. The short version, though:

Before and after a scene with intense reality distorting you should take an effort to make a person feel aware of their surroundings, to offer them connection "during the scene you will know I am here and you can pause the scene at any time for any reason" and for them to take stock of their mental state and how they are feeling. Just ask them to display curiosity and provide comfort in the connection between hypnotist and hypnotee. You will be returning here and you need to make it an inviting space.

Grounding should also include a reminder that the hypnotee will be aware of what is happening the whole time. I'll cover this more in the more risky portion, but the key to safety is to ensure that the hypnotee is not immersed in any headspaces they may slip into (with the understanding that there is another gradient here of subspace and highs and peaks from scene play which are chemical reactions and those highs are a little more natural than the altered headspaces I am referring to).

For another grain of personal experience and warning here, I just want to talk about the three hypnotists who played with me utilizing personality play. One knew what he was doing, one didn't know what they were doing and one didn't care. I'll refer to them as Noel (knew better), Dinny (didn't know) and Carrie (didn't care).

Dinny expected that if a scene got too much for me that I would drop out of trance or end the scene. To them they assumed that no one will do anything in hypnosis that they didn't want to do and that it was just extreme play-acting. They likely didn't believe in hypnosis all that much and used it as a framework for roleplay, which is their true indulgence.

So if a scene got too intense for them they would safeword. End the scene. They were in control.

As someone who was immersed in the play and had no grounding, there was no escape because within the framework of the scene, there was no "out of character" there was the scene and that was all that was happening.

You cannot assume that a hypnotee will safeword and end a scene unless they receive the proper grounding and instruction to do so. If you're going to be doing edge play, you have to surrender the fantasy and make sure reality is in the scene at all times. Both sides of the watch. If you are entering in a scene where a person is altered throughout then you cannot expect them to act on their agency. It's a CNC scene by default and you need to introduce safety and consent to avoid that.

Likewise I want to note the power imbalance that comes from play like this. A motivated hypnotee can fling themselves into this arena and do harm to the hypnotist. This does fly both ways. A hypnotee not advocating for themselves or exercising their agency will make a hypnotist accessory to the damage.

This is a sin I have committed.

A hypnotist has a responsibility to themselves to not allow a self-neglecting hypnotee use hypnosis as a method of psychological self-harm. This guide is as much to protect a hypnotist from being abused as it is for hypnotees to avoid allowing themselves to be abused.

Every side is vulnerable in these exchanges.

So... now that we understand the basics before we can even start, let's start in the shallow end and work out way up.

Emotion Control/Intelligence Play

Starting soft. This is fairly standard play and so long as you're being mindful I doubt many would have too many problems with these suggestions.

Infatuation potions, ditzy spells... this is fairly standard stuff.

The key thing to do is to ensure that the effects are temporary and impersonal. For instance for an intelligence play scene you may want to picture a dial in the hypnotees head that has a default setting. Take a moment to ground that default setting. What is normal. What it feels like out of hypnosis. Then you can suggest that it will always return to this default setting after a time but for now we intend to dial it back down, as you feel yourself growing sillier and sillier.

This is a safe way to handle a scene like this because even if you do not perform a post-session grounding (which you always should), the default will naturally return.

Likewise infatuation potions you can mention how your body will metabolize and you'll be aware of the artificial nature of the emotions you feel.

Being aware of the artificial nature of the emotions at play will prevent lingering effects. Even after you clean up there will always be a little bit left over and it's a matter of limiting how much sticks around and where the mind will return to.

I safely play with suggestions like this to this day even when Personality Play in the broader sense is Red for me. This is safe. It's manageable. It's temporary and with a partner who is willing to make space for it, you can keep reality in the room. Safe and secure.

But it can still be dangerous.

Let's see the intelligence play scene was handled poorly. Instead of a temporary dial which defaults to normal a hypnotist instead asked "Debra" to imagine herself with platinum blonde hair, a larger chest, all her thoughts evaporating into a pink bubblegum mist as boundless confidence overcomes her until she transforms into her bimbo persona, "Debbie" and Debbie can be summoned at a simple turn of phrase.

That right there? That's DANGEROUS.

We'll cover more as to why when I go over persona/character play, but it's a good example of how a "bimbo trigger" can be performed ethically and how it can be performed dangerously.

*sighs*

So let's move on...

Altered Headspaces

By altered headspaces I mean suggestions and scenes that play on your ability to perceive and process things. This can be the drugged/drunk sequences, hallucinations of any variety. It can be impulsiveness or boosts of confidence or terror.

Y'know. Stage hypnosis stuff. Because as we know, stage hypnosis tricks are a bastion of "ethical" suggestions.

Seriously though. The prevalence of these types of suggestion in the public perception make us as a community look bad and it's why doing them safely is vital, especially if we do get people entering the community with the idea of types of play which are risky at best from the get-go.

For these suggestions you want to provide the above grounding, but the hypnotee also needs to be able to have an objective view to their state so they can advocate for themselves.

Any altered headspace will supplement agency. It's why you cannot negotiate with someone when they are fractionated. Thusly, any interaction you have with someone in an altered headspace is going to be dubious consent by default. What if you made someone slutty for a scene and they escalated the scene to a sexual one without prior negotiation or existing rapport.

The correct thing to do is end the scene there and then. Otherwise the hypnotist is taking advantage of the hypnotee.

That's a fairly plain example, too. Hence why I feel even this level is edge play.

I don't particularly want to share my personal experience in this realm. Suffice to say I've never once in my life had lucid sexual intimacy with a partner. Every single time I was altered. I literally cannot approach the concept/act without being altered first. I invited it.

The body keeps score.

The way to practice this safely is to encourage the hypnotee to maintain an awareness and presence in the scene. There is a risk to this as incentivizing a dissociation between the conscious self and the altered self is the exact thing we are trying to avoid in these scenarios.

I refer again to the shining DON'T at the top of the post.

But with the correct grounding and temporary status of any scene this risk is lower than the risk of allowing a hypnotee to dive into a scene so heavily that they will ignore their personal ethics and safety for the consideration of the scene at play.

It's either allowing them the ability to advocate for themselves while altered, "the hidden observer will always be present during the scene and can stop things for any reason or just to check in" basically it's keeping reality in the room. A hypnotee should be discouraged from throwing themselves headlong into the fantasy and an awareness of waking self and the artificial nature of play is important, particularly the more immersive you go...

So...

Character/Persona Play

Which brings me to the final warning.

Please do not even attempt this. I see kids in tulpa communities and roleplayers who can't see the harm in becoming their characters and I wish I could share a grain of my experiences.

I did this for 18 years. Eighteen years. Daily. The damage it has done to me is never ever going to be fixed.

The thread I made on Twitter received a number of supportive messages from others with dissociative disorders who echoed my sentiments. I'm legitimately at the point where I ask "were we attracted to this type of play because we were predisposed to it" or "do we have serious disorders due to our time playing in the deep end"

Neither one need to be true. Doing so did damage. A lot of damage.

So here's my first question off the bat.

"What if your hypnotist gets hit by a bus?" what if one day you wake up and you no longer have someone to explore this gigantic portion of your soul with. What if access to this kind of play existed only within a relationship. Are you willing to allow that much of your personal experience and agency be left to someone else's hands?

What about trust. Can you trust someone to shape a part of yourself? Dinny, Carrie and Noel each did harm in their own way handling the bits of me I shared with them. Noel warped and twisted and perverted them to the point of which these characters, real and living aspects of me feel violated by his impact upon them. Carrie abandoned them and let them wither and die without even considering attachments I had made to them... attachments they had to the stories and connections they had made... and then Dinny? Dinny never treated them as real. They were fantasy and the situations were fantasy and it was all just a game.

Let me tell you about that last one. If you want to play out a hateship scene and utilize hypnosis to make your partner think that they are in that hateship scene, the emotions exist. They will bleed through and poison you in your waking state. If you are made to perform as a vampire who wants nothing more than to taste flesh then you are going to feel that desperate hunger and be trying with every fiber of your being to overpower the hypnotist who has the ability to end the scene if things get rough but, and this is the important part, unless you set up grounding-- you will not know that in the moment.

I legitimately have nightmares about the things I did while acting in scenes Dinny ran.

And lastly...

Are you willing to accept that there are parts of you that can do things that you in your waking and natural state, simply cannot do?

I do not know if doing these things makes you more vulnerable to the symptoms of a dissociative disorder or not, but I know that a damn lot of people who did this stuff excessively happen to have these symptoms.

Look. I don't hide my DID diagnosis on Tumblr. It hurts that I have a mesmerizing Fae in my heart who is more lovable than I am, more confident, more capable, more experienced and charming. I hate that she can perform feminine voice better than me. I hate that she can push boundaries and harm me without a thought. I hate feeling inferior to me. I hate feeling like I'm just a function of a person that people want around more.

I hate finding evidence that she had a whole online life that we hid so well that even post-diagnosis I am not fully sure what she did. I hate feeling powerless that I'm not in control of my own life and reality.

Dawn scares me. I am afraid of the part of me that most people love.

...and I have no way of communicating that as a warning that doesn't sound exotic and enticing. Because dissociative disorders are not exotic and enticing. They're boring, exhausting and tedious and though I am 50/50 on whether it can be accidentally induced through hypnosis play, I know there is no damned chance in hell any person should willingly gamble with that possibility.

I know so many systems and people who have endured extreme brainwashing who would be behind me when I say this.

DO. NOT. DO. IT.

...and so... assuming you have read all the warnings and you're not actively trying to invoke installed personalities into a person (which I do not condone under any circumstances at all).

How can we do character play and not leave lasting damage?

That's a question I have asked myself so so many times.

Firstly, avoid anything that makes the character headspace an extra layer. Do not use hypnosis to mold them. Do not give them their own triggers. Do not do anything which can be used as a divide between the waking self and the constructed persona.

But that's more "Don't" isn't it. Here's what you can do.

I think the best way is instead of having the hypnotee monitor the scene and step in when they need to, ask them to treat it as a performance. That they are aware of the artificial nature of the scene but at all times they will commit to taking on the role as an actor would on stage.

The key is to associate the role with the hypnotee enough that they are present in the scene while allowing them to commit to the actions without experiencing the thoughts and feelings of their own. Insist that no matter the morality and behavior of the character, the hypnotee as the actor will never cross their personal limits or ethics for the sake of the scene.

Then at the end of the sequence be sure to end the scene and ground the hypnotee, have them remember everything that had happened, remember them performing the act and deciding how to handle every decision. Make sure that the entire time that character and actor are one and the same and all hypnosis is doing is allowing the actor to invest in the bit.

That is legitimately the only safe way I think one can engage in this kind of play and from that angle it seems as harmless a suggestion as any scene.

But no shortcuts. No triggers that induce character headspace. No trying to breathe life into characters and allow them to inhabit. Even channeling them or letting them speak through the hypnotee courts a level of dissonance between states.

It's possible to enjoy the spontaneity of character play without suppressing the ego of the hypnotee. As I mentioned at the start, it may seem like a desirable outcome for some hypnotees to experience a state of ego-death and allow themselves to experience becoming someone else for a little while. It sounds appealing on paper.

A responsible hypnotist should never indulge that kind of desire and a respectable hypnotee should never burden a hypnotist with that level of responsibility. The damage is too risky.

Lastly, and this applies to all.

DEBFRIEF

Every major scene in any kink should involve a debrief segment. This helps with the grounding and it helps establish the in and out of scene dynamic while allowing the hypnotee to associate with their actions. "I did" rather than "they did".

One of my bigger mistakes in character play in my younger days was that I baked amnesia in and allowed my play partner to tell me about the scenes after the fact. This made it seem like the characters in the scene were the ones controlling things and I was a passive and absent spectator. Not good for healthy associations.

During a debrief the hypnotist and hypnotee should discuss their roles in the scene, how they felt during the experience. It gives both parties an opportunity to interrogate how the other is perceiving things, catch any flags (abuse of control over the scene, losing reality to fantasy etc) and give one another ideas for how to improve for future scenes. Debriefs make all kink play better in my opinion. Plus who doesn't like a bit of feedback on how you handled things in scene?

...look... I don't want to be an old lady yelling at the kids for doing things when I did them myself at that age.

I'd be a hypocrite if I didn't pretend I didn't see the allure on both sides of the watch.

I just... there weren't 20+ year experienced hypnosis veterans who had been in my character play abusing position when I was growing up. No one warned me. I learned all this the hard way and I hurt people. People I loved. Moreover I hurt me. In ways that will never heal.

I just want to spare anyone I can the pain of going through this.

So, in quick summary:

Ensure reality is always in the room.

Ensure the hypnotee is always aware of themselves and their action.

Reset after every scene.

Do not allow situational scenes to become direct triggers.

If you insist on reusing altered headspaces and characters then install and deinstal every time to limit any lingering traces out of scene. Do not allow them to have programming/conditioning unique to them.

Avoid allowing the hypnotee to circumvent their own ego and agency in a scene.

Debrief

Play safe... if you must play at all.

[holyblanchett]

Oh Agatha binding Jen was insulting on so many levels. Sasheer and Kathryn were AMAZING but the writing was pathetic. It really bothers me that Jen is a total afterthought, like Alice, gives me very White vibes off that writers room - Alice didn't get any exploration or depth until her trial and then she's dead but you can't criticise it because the whole point is that it's unfair and you're a meanie if you point out racist media patterns just like we're just bitter d*kes for pointing out the lesbophobia and misogyny. Jen though, lmao wow they really did just fucking forget her in the end like there is not even superficial closure she just flies off and Billy and Agatha don't even mention her again. And the binding- it's like they wrote it wanting a cool twist to drive home Agatha being a villain but were chickenshit about the racist implications and no "it's in Agatha's character to deflect" isn't an excuse because where's the writers discussing any of this shit in interviews? Cowards. Jen being bound by a white woman who she thought she was forming a coven with and learning to trust should've been a moment that got so much more than it did, look at Sasheer's face and she is doing all of the work to convey the horror and hurt and rage because the writing did fuck all to recognise a Black woman's pain. And it doesn't even make sense, why the hell would Agatha ever help a man abainst a witch? Why would she need money when shes at best been existing on the fringes of society and has no compunctions about stealing things? And Agatha already knew how long Jen had been bound, she has history with Jen thwt includes some other mess, she knew Jen was a midwife and considered her work important, how the fuck wouldn't she know it was her? It's so stupid. It does a disservice to both characters because casting Agatha as a racist misogynist woman which is what the last 2 episodes djd runs against her characterisation and the supposed themes of the show and the writing and fans won't grapple with it, and Jen's journey is completely glossed over and practically rewritten. We aren't going to see her deal with the trauma of this, she barely got five minutes on screen processing this horrific violent betrayal before she was conveniently zipped away, and her reclaiming her power was incredible acting but taking it back from Agatha stole some if the wind out of it - Alice and Lilia got to own their moments, they needed to believe in themselves, Jen's moment was building to that for 7 episodes and then oh actually it was Agatha who won't take the moment seriously (no shade to Kathryn, you could see how present she was for Sasheer) and Jen was really magicless the whole time.

oh!! Oh!!! We going there with the racial implications of being bound by a white woman 😭😭😭 as a person of color I hear you and understand how it looks. I think one interviewer brought it up to Jac. About how powerful that moment was of her reclaiming her power in that way. Pretty sure she said something along the lines of: "The scene wasn't written that way but she let Sasheer do her thing." Don't quote me on that but if someone finds it lemme know. I also read somewhere that Jennifer Kale will definitely be in more marvel projects because her cousin is ghost rider. So we shall see how that unfolds.

[thepenandthepistol]

Mundane Aching (Platonic!Grain x reader)

Due to some soreness, you're unable to help Gem like you said you would. Grian helps you out and soothes some of your worries.

A/N : Sickfic I wrote because my period was killing me T-T and also the first thing I've actually posted on this account! A win for the slayers of perfectionism. This was meant as a platonic fic but I'm sure you could read it as romantic if you want. Also, reader is an avian as well. (1018 words)

Art by @applestruda and divider by @saradika-graphics

There's still so much to be done, and here you are, still under the sheets. You spent the first half of the day trying to manage a creeping pain in your back right where skin meets the base of your coal-black wings. Ache spreads in waves from the limb and into your vertebra, as if something alive is puppeteering the sinews under your skin.

Despite the guilt, you've resigned yourself to your bed; due to an enormous nap, you missed your afternoon plans with Gem. Being an avian means you were much more used to flying than she was, and the new nether build she was planning required some tight maneuvering. Days like these are some you look forward to, holding onto the back of her chestplate, hovering over lava lakes and bastions. 

The trust she has in you, feeling safe even if dangling over potential death, is special in its own right. The friendship you've cultivated and the idle conversations had midair are among your most treasured memories. So, when the exhaustion from carrying materials to and from your shop finally made itself known, you groaned as you curled up on your bed, trying to push away the pain and at least pass by Gem's to apologize for your absence. Maybe sweeten the deal with a nice cake and evening tea.

A sudden flash of crimson outside your window makes you stop in your tracks, feet just inches from touching the cool floor. A single moment of silence is had before Grian pulls himself back up onto the windowsill with a mischievous smile. 

"Did I scare you?" He asks, shuffling inside and closing the window behind him with a soft click.

"Oh yeah," you start, closing your eyes and breathing deeply as a particularly sharp stab rolls from your back and claws at your ribs. "Only if being worried you were going to cut your wings on the bars outside counts as scared." 

"Excuse me, I'm very skilled! I could probably dodge like five of those in a row." He speaks with a smile, but, to your dismay, he's seen through your teasing and into the discomfort below. 

"Gem's been looking for you," he says, aligning some of the trinkets on your shelf and picking your work clothes off the floor. "Sent me here to check while she continued working." 

"Shit," you sigh and drape your arm over your eyes, blocking the light crawling in from outside. "I'm having a bad day, I guess. Must've overworked myself last week, and now my wings are killing me."

"Have you had something to eat?" You hear your closet door creek open and Grian looking for something between clothes and towels.

"Not exactly. I had a snack before midday, but I slept through lunch." You open your eyes to see him bring a nice blanket over your shoulders. It doesn't ease the pain, but the soft texture makes existing a little easier.

"Well, just about time for some tea then." You grimace, remembering your promise to Gem. Grian moves to close the room door behind him when you groan out a protest, wrapping the woolen quilt around yourself and finally standing up.

"I'll join you. If I lay here any longer, I'll sleep the entire day away," Grian snickers, but walks in sync with your lethargic steps down the stairs and into a quaint kitchen. 

Plopping down on a stool, you watch Grian clack on the stove and place a ceramic kettle on top. It was a birthday gift from Ren. A painted flock of dark birds contrasts the white background alongside some fleuron details. 

"Grian, mate, it's you," you point to a particularly wonky bird.

"Absolutely not, look at him! He's your splitting image." He gestures to the dark wings behind you. 

"You know what else is splitting?"

"Your head?"

"My head."

You rest your temple on the wooden table and furrow your eyebrows. You could probably make the journey over to Gem's by now; despite the headache and muscle cramps, you're feeling well enough to stand, and you could chance flying the short way over. 

With a crack, you stretch your wings entirely; they spasm a bit before reaching their full length; you pay no mind. What was once a terrible tendon-deep flare has resided to a burning soreness; you've done more than travel a couple hundred blocks in worse conditions. 

Grian pours the water into two mugs, each with a homemade teabag flopping loosely off the side. You take the smaller mug, lifting it to say 'cheers,' and sip on the sweet berry. You begin putting on your boots when Grian finally lets concern wash over his face.

"You should rest a bit more. Gem's fine. Her garden's turning out really nice." You hesitate a tad bit before tying the laces together.

"I promised her I'd help you know. I'm sure she understands, but I want to make good on my word." You don't register Grian setting down his mug and tilt your head in confusion as he kneels and pulls your boots to his thigh, unlacing them.

"You sound like a knight going to war," he cracks a tiny fond smile. "I know it's your nature, but these things aren't that serious. Your 'word' is still good even if you don't put your own health on the line." Silence follows.

"You're sure she doesn't need me?"

"Positively." He stalks off to line your shoes up by the door and then returns, sitting next to you on the couch and letting his wing curl around you.

"You need to relax. No wonder you're having a bad time when your muscles are that tense." He teases, and you scoff, taking back the mug and continuing to drink.

"Can you tell Gem I won't be making it then, please." 

"Yeah, course," he says, knocking his shoulder with yours and hopping to his feet. 

"I should tie a letter to your leg and throw you out of the second-story window." You say into the mug as he turns the knob on the front door.

"Hey! I am not a pigeon!"

[multifandomlover01]

To Drown In Your Love

(Simp!)Spencer Reid x BAU!Reader (menstruating reader, female anatomy)

Established Relationship

WC: ~3.4k

Warnings: 18+ MDNI menstruation is discussed, pads are mentioned but you could just adjust the time mention and pretend it says tampons or something else, it’s not that big a deal, female fingering while on period, Spencer being horny but also determined to not succumb to it, both parties achieve orgasm (either simultaneously or female first and male soon thereafter)

Disclaimer: I understand that some times I have put for female orgasm may not be accurate. I am a female...I know. But this is fiction so...it's not gonna be 100% realistic

Note: reader is a child behavior specialist (expert on child witnesses, victims and perpetrators; debriefs children after they’ve experienced a trauma) because I wrote this for myself and that’s how I imagine/write myself in the CM universal

Gif credit: hotch-girl

Gif not necessarily indicative of timeline placement

“JJ…JJ, no…not a case. Not now. Please.” You beg her as she goes towards the conference room as she exists her office.

“Sorry. Duty calls.” She gives you a sympathetic look as she waves the files in her hand.

You groan lightly and lay your head on your desk. Your period was due to start any day now and you hated starting it when you were on a case. If there was one thing your body and you yourself hated, it was a lack of consistency and continuity.

Your body sometimes just said: “girl, tf are you doing on a plane going to North Dakota?”

Like…it’s my job…please…cooperate?

Nope. Guess what? You gotta poop. On the plane. With your coworkers. Or guess what else? Blood. Haha. Who said God didn’t have a sense of humor?

Your boyfriend Spencer, who sometimes was more attuned to your body than you were, knew exactly why you didn’t wish to go on a case right now. He comes over to your desk and places his hands on your shoulders. He leans down to kiss you on the head.

“It’ll be ok.” He says softly, intending to be reassuring. He simply gets a groan in response.

He goes over to his go bag and checks to make sure he has extra pads, water bottles, acetaminophen, and underwear for you. He’s well prepared and stocked as usual.

He comes back over to you. He leans down, wrapping his arms around you. He kisses your temple. “I’ve got pads, underwear, pain killers and water, all for you, ok? Don’t worry, hon.”

You lean back into him, relaxing a bit. “Thank you. You’re the best.”

“Only because you deserve the best.”

The team is called into the conference room.

Another case in California. On the other side of the country. Great. Child victims and witnesses too. My favorite, my area of expertise. Just the right case for my period to start in the middle of.

There was that delightful divine or cosmic sense of humor again. You’d rather just go home and crawl into bed but no…a child needs to be saved and a killer needs to be stopped.

The team is dismissed and Spencer helps you pack your go bag and get it loaded onto the plane.

-

After a long and exhausting day, Spencer and you finally arrived at your hotel. The team parted ways as they went to their rooms. Hotch had taken to pairing Spencer and you up when it was needed. He’s become resigned to the fact that you two worked better at your jobs when you weren’t separated. He also knew he couldn’t keep the two of you from sneaking into another room when you had separate ones so he thought he’d just go ahead and save you the trouble.

As soon as you got into the room, Spencer unloaded your bag as well as his. He produced a pad for you.

“It’s been six hours.” He said simply, referring to when you’d gotten your period earlier in the day and had put a pad on. Sometimes the job got in the way of hygiene. You tried your best but sometimes stuff slips away from you a little. Fortunately, 6 hours wasn’t entirely too horrible.

You took the pad, along with the sleep wear he had additionally produced, and offered a small thanks before slipping into the bathroom to change.

Coming back out, you were feeling better as you had a clean pad and a clean set of clothes (a t-shirt and shorts) on.

Spencer had already changed into an old short sleeve CalTech t-shirt and a pair of long, light weight pj pants (even though you were in California, he didn’t own one pair of shorts, mostly because he was insecure about how scrawny his legs were (ignores that S9 (?) ep I guess)). He looked up from his book when he heard you exit the bathroom.

“Hey. Are you feeling better?” He asked softly, giving you a sympathetic look.

You smile. “Much. Thank you.”

Hotch had put you two in a single bed room because only so much money was allotted for rooms and a single bed room happened to be a little cheaper than another double bed room.

You join him on the bed, snuggling up to him. He puts one arm around your shoulder. You lay your head on his chest. He starts to read out loud softly. You don’t know specifically what he’s reading and it doesn’t matter. You just love to hear his voice.

After a while, he starts to notice you shifting a bit.

“You ok?” He stops reading. He looks down at you.

“Mhm.” You nod. “Yeah. ‘M fine. Keep reading.”

“You sure?” He asks, wondering if you are masking your pain for his benefit. “Are you feeling any cramping?”

You murmur incoherently somewhat.

“Sweetheart? Are you ok?” He slides his hand down to your lower back where he begins to rub softly.

You sigh softly. Spencer chuckles.

“Oh? Is that it? Are you hurting down here?” You could almost picture the sly smirk on his face as you now have your eyes closed as you laid your head against his shoulder.

You nod. “Yeah.”

Without a word, he puts his book down on the nightstand, detaches you from him and turns you to face away from him. His hands find purchase on your lower back, his thumbs digging into your muscles. You groan softly.

“That’s it, love. Just let me take care of you.” He lifts your t-shirt up and pulls your shorts down a bit. His thumbs rub circles over your muscles on your bare skin.

“Does this feel good, hon?” He asks softly.

“Mhm. Yes. Thank you.”

“No need to thank me. It’s my job to take care of my girl.”

You chuckle lightly. “A job you do very well.”

“Well, I try.” You were turned away from him and there was no way you were twisting to face him right now. But you could still almost picture his pink cheeks and shy smile.

“You succeed.” You reassure him softly.

“It’s just…you deserve the world and I…I wanna give it to you, you know?”

“You do, hon, you do. Trust me, ok?”

“Ok.”

His thumbs continue to dig into your lower back. His body presses into yours. “Do you feel better?”

“Mhm.”

As time goes by, you visibly relax. You are reacting to him touching you and he notices he’s reacting to touching you. He tries to focus on you and not himself.

“You know…sometimes I forget just how much our touch affects each other.” He chuckles softly.

“We touch each other quite a lot, even when we aren’t supposed to…how on earth could you forget?”

“I don’t know, to be honest,” he chuckles lightly, “it’s just…every time I touch you…I feel this warmth spread through me.”

“We talking mushy romance like or are we teetering towards lewdness.”

He audibly shudders. “Sweetheart…” he chuckles.

“What? I’m your girlfriend, Spencer. You’ve been massaging a fairly intimate part of me for half an hour now…you’re allowed to be sexually attracted to me.”

“It’s actually only been 23 minutes and 37 seconds.” He said softly.

“You’re deflecting.”

“Sorry…” He murmurs.

“Don’t be. And don’t be ashamed of being attracted to your girlfriend.”

“I just…you drive me crazy, ok? And…sometimes that scares me.”

“I assume you mean in a good way. Why would that scare you?”

“I’ve never…I’ve never felt this way about anyone else before. I don’t wanna screw it up by acting like a horny teenager.”

You chuckled. “I doubt you could screw this up even if you were to do that.”

“R-Really? You mean that?” He asked hopefully.

“Spencer…is there something you want to tell me that you’re not telling me?” You asked curiously.

“Maybe.” He murmurs.

“Can you please tell me? Can we talk about this?”

“You’re gonna hate me.”

“I could never hate you, hon.”

“I love you…so much. I feel…so…deeply for you. It scares me sometimes and I’m afraid it might scare you if I don’t show restraint.”

“I honestly don’t think anything you could do could ever scare me, sweetheart.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Well what is it exactly that you think is gonna scare me?”

“I really like touching you and I feel like I’m being selfish when I’m trying relieve your pain and discomfort but all I can think about is how touching you makes me feel.”

“You think you being horny is going to scare me? You’re a man. You’re my partner. It’s a natural reaction.”

“I know that. But…it just feels wrong that I am sexually attracted to you right now while I’m trying to help you with your period pain.”

“Period sex is a thing, you know. I get horny on my period too. It’s ok.”

“Well yeah but you’re not actually saying you’d wanna have…sex with me while you’re on your period…are you?”

“You’re telling me you don’t know the statistics on how orgasms can reduce cramps?”

“Well I uh y-yes…I do know that but I guess I just didn’t know if you’d be up for that. I guess I just kinda figured you’d be against it.”

“I’ll admit that I’ve never been too keen on the idea but I’d be ok if you maybe wanted to uh…finger me?”

“Really? You’d let me do that?” His face practically lights up.

“Yeah, if you want.” You shrug. You trusted him.

“I’ll get a pillow and a towel.” And just like that he’s off the bed like a rocket.

You chuckled at his enthusiasm as he chucked a small pillow from a chair at you which you caught and went to lay on your back with it under you as he went into the bathroom to get a towel.

He is so excited to get back with the towel and to see you lying on your back with the pillow underneath you and with your legs spread that he almost trips over himself and throws the towel at you as well. He scrambles up onto the bed. He looks at you with heart eyes.

“You’re sure you’re good with this?” He asks with concern in his voice, almost like he’s scared he’s pushing you into this. He places the towel under your butt so it is also under your vagina and legs so if anything gets messy, nothing will get on the white hotel sheets and the poor staff won’t have to get blood stains out of them.

“As long as you are.” You assured him.

“Oh I’m more than sure,” he chuckles, “I just wanted to make sure that you were ok with it.”

"I'm ok with it. I promise. I wouldn't have suggested it if I wasn't ok with it." You reassure him as you place your hand on top of his.

"Then c-can I..." He trails off as he gestures to your underwear.

"Mhm. You can, yes."

He beams as he leans forward and grasps the sides of your underwear and slowly pulls them down (If tampon user or a user of anything that needs to be removed: He carefully removes it and places it on the edge of the towel). He cleans the area with a warm, wet, washcloth that he’d brought from the bathroom.

"That better? You feel cleaner now? More comfortable, hmm?"

You nod. You'd cleaned yourself up in the bathroom when you'd gone in and changed but having him clean the area with the cloth did indeed provide you with some comfort. And you knew he'd only done it for your benefit. When it came to you, his germaphobia kinda checked out a little. He knew you. He trusted you. Sure you were as gross as any other person, but you were his person and that made it ok.

You were shocked the first time he told you he wanted to eat you out about six months into your relationship. You weren’t the one to bring it up, he was. You would’ve thought that he'd find putting his face in your private area to be an absolutely disgusting notion. But there was nothing disgusting about the way that he absolutely went to town on your pussy that first time (unless you’re a pearl clutching Southern old lady or something). Hair or no hair. Bush or trimmed. Shaved or waxed. He literally didn't care. You had just showered earlier that day and had put clean clothes on so he knew you were clean (he helped you out with personal hygiene sometimes, especially when you were struggling). He ate you out until you came twice within about 15 or so minutes. It was the first time he’d ever performed oral on a person with a pussy, too. He’d done his research, though, as he always did. He knew in theory what to do and was a quick learner in practice. Being a behavioral analyst certainly came in handy in the bedroom.

He tentatively reaches out with his hand to touch your clit. You shiver. He spreads your folds to reveal your clit more, his thumb brushing against it.

"You have such a pretty clit, baby." He rubs his thumb back and forth over it.

“Th-thank you.” Even after all this time, his compliments still held the ability to make you blush.

He rubs in rhythmic circles just the way he knows makes you feel good. It takes a few seconds for him to find the right rhythm but he always knows when he's found it by the way your body tenses and the way your breath hitches.

"You're really sensitive on your period, aren't you?" He murmurs

You nod. You whimper softly as he continues to rub your already sensitive button.

"Lots of women are. Your testosterone levels are increased on your period, and your estrogen and progesterone are decreased. The hormone dance that's happening in your body at this time lends itself to an increased libido."

You want to chuckle at his use of the phrase "hormone dance" but you're too focused on his increased pace on your clit. He's rubbing it in just the right way that's making you start to feel gooey inside. Little whines and whimpers begin to escape you.

Spencer cannot bring himself to care that you weren't giving him your undivided attention as he explained why your sex drive was currently increased. He didn't care that you didn't chuckle at his use of the phrase "hormone dance". He only cared about making you produce more of those addicting noises.

He can tell that you're squirming and whimpering more earlier on than you usually do. He loved how sensitive and responsive you were.

"I bet it's not going to be long before you're cumming, hmm?"

"Wh-what's our record again?"

"Ten minutes."

"I'd say...that we're well on our way there...wouldn't you? We can make that.”

"Mhm...I'd say so. Especially if I..." he increases the sped at which the index and middle fingers of his right hand are circling your clit.

You moan softly. “Oh…yeah…”

“Yeah? Does that feel good, sweetheart?”

“Mhm. It does.”

“Maybe I should go a little faster.” he increases his rhythm and is hitting it just right at just the right speed.

You whimper softly. “Fuck.”

“Oh? You like that, hon?” He is grinning now.

“Mhm…I like…a lot.” You nod.

Your breathing quickens. Little whines and whimpers begin to escape you.

“Yeah? You do? How long do you think it’s gonna be before you’re cumming? Five minutes? Eight minutes?”

“Are you…keeping track?” You pant lightly as he is expertly rubbing your clit and it’s got you mewling.

“Always.” He says as he looks at you with a determination in his eyes. You wonder how he can pleasure you and observe you while also calculating the time so precisely but then again, he’s a genius. You’re not so sure that technically explained it but you knew better than to ask or argue with him.

He continues to strategically strum your clit, using his experience with you and his experience with behavioral analysis to determine what you like and dislike and what to do and what not to do to get you there. He leans down to kiss your temple. His lips move to your ear, where he kisses the shell of it.

“Four minutes and 15 seconds and counting.” He whispers, his voice thick with desire.

“I don’t know if…we’re gonna make five minutes.” You chuckle softly.

“I’ll settle for eight.” He chuckles as he dips his fingers down to my entrance to collect some of my arousal before going back to rub my clit.

He’s hitting just the right spot at just the right pace.

“F-fuck never mind.” You say and your voice is higher in pitch.

“Hmm? Yeah? If I keep going like this, are we gonna make that five minute mark after all? You gonna cum in 8 minutes total time for me, honey?”

“Shit y-yeah, I think I am.” You chuckle. “How the hell is that even…possible?”

“You’re stressed…pent up…and aroused. And…you’re with me.” His soft smile turns into a devilish grin. He was allowed to be cocky because God knows this man knew your body inside and out and knew exactly what he was doing.

“That’s…true.” You chuckle softly.

He continued to skillfully work you towards an orgasm. You noticed his hips rutting.

“I can touch you too. You know that, right?”

He shakes his head no. “No. I’m fine. This is about you. Don’t worry about me.”

“I always worry about you. I know you were embarrassed before but…you’re allowed to be turned on and want pleasure. How long have you been aroused? Since you began massaging me? More than half an hour ago?”

He sighs and nods. “Yeah, pretty much.”

“Does it hurt?”

“It’s not exactly comfortable.” He chuckled.

“Let me touch you, please. You’re touching me. It’s only fair.” You look at him pleadingly.

“This wasn’t…about me. This was about you.” He grunts, trying to contain himself and not give in to his own pleasure because he really would like to focus more on you right now.

“And what did I say about you feeling that way?”

He sighs. “That it was ok.” He whispered softly.

“That’s right. There’s no reason that both of us can’t feel good.”

“But I…”

“No buts, honey. You deserve to feel good too.” You reached for his pants but he bats your hand away. You look at him confused.

“I’m sorry. But I’m afraid if you pleasure me, I won’t be able to focus as much as I want to on you. Just…please…let me make you feel good.”

You lock eyes. His warm eyes are darker, his pupils dilated.

“If you’re sure.”

“I’m more than sure, sweetheart. Now let me make you feel good…please.”

It doesn’t take him long before he’s got you feeling close again. He is rutting against the mattress at an increased pace now. He looks determined and focused on making you cum. You’d never know that he himself is nearing his own orgasm.

“You close? Gonna cum for me, honey?”

You whine. “Yeah.”

“Good. Me too.”

You don’t have time to process this before a few rubs over your clit with just the right amount of pressure in just the right way are sending you over the edge, causing you to whimper as you grip the sheets.

“That’s it…that’s my girl.” He softly praises as he helps you through your orgasm. You are too engrossed in your own feelings to notice that he’d been moving in just the right way to get the right amount of friction to make him release as well.

You come down from your high, panting slightly.

“Jesus…thank you. Now…are you sure you don’t want me to…” You trail off as you look at his crotch and notice a wet patch.

“That’s evidently not necessary.” He murmured, chuckling softly.

“Did you…” You ask, slightly amazed by how he’d been able to cum just from what he was doing. You never realized how aroused your own arousal made him.

He nods. “Yes. I did.”

“Oh…ok…” Your cheeks tinge pink as you smile.

“You wanna…take a shower?” He asks, sensing the slight awkwardness around the subject.

“Yeah…that sounds good.” You nod.

He uses the rag from earlier to clean up a bit before helping you off the bed and toward the shower, grabbing clean clothes along the way.

[adragonsfriend]

Cultural relationships to Pain: Sith, Jedi, Amavikka

Writing This Story can Kill You, I finally managed to articulate why I think Dooku seems so surprised to be betrayed by Sidious in ROTS, despite the whole 'betrayal is the way of the Sith thing,' and in the process I wrote a smol essay. Anyway,

So I think Dooku’s understanding of the Sith is incomplete not just because he fails to realize that the apprentice is always a slave never a partner of the master, but because he sees the Sith ways of gaining power—drawing from pain, rage, suffering, humiliation (your own and others)—as a means to an end. To him that pain is to be endured on the path to power.

But Sith doctrine properly understood is that the pain has to embraced, and continue to be embraced even when power is achieved. You have to want pain of all kinds to be a part of your being and part of the world. This is the difference between a regular darksider and a sith, the difference between drowning and diving in. A regular darksider falls because they have pain of some kind they can’t escape and can’t deal with, so they reject their experience of that pain so deeply that they project it outward. A Sith has a different relationship with pain. They are not coping with pain by refusing to acknowledge it, but instead by reveling in Pain in all its forms.

‘Passion’ in the Sith Code doesn’t refer to the modern meaning, eg, “I found my passion, and made it into my dream job!” It refers to passion like ‘the suffering and death of <insert your prefered martyr here>.’ They are saying, essentially, Pain is good, Pain is a natural part of the universe, Pain is an end in itself. This is something Dooku fails to understand, and I think it’s what allows him to be surprised that Sidious betrays him: he fundamentally doesn’t understand the paradigm in which Sidious is operating.

Anakin does understand it, and it’s part of what he rejects when he becomes Ekkreth in Shape Changer. I think he absolutely continues to draw on the darkside after that—he really couldn’t get away with not doing so under Sidious’ observation—and his storm-shield is the front of still embracing Pain the way a Sith should, but it has become a lie. In Fialleril's Trophies, Sidious thinks about how it’s disappointing that Vader doesn’t show much spark anymore. He's observing Vader apparently giving in to his depression instead of reveling it, and that’s a disappointment. Just like for Jedi, it’s not really about what the world does to a Sith (eg how much pain you’re in), it’s about how they react to it.

Ekkreth (the spirit) is fundamentally about freedom and an end to suffering. In fashioning himself after Ekkreth, Anakin rejects the Sith relationship to Pain (btw as does cannon Anakin in return of the Jedi by killing Sidious to save Luke, thereby, in George Lucas’ own words, ‘ending the horror’ for the rest of the galaxy). Notably, he also doesn’t embrace the Jedi relationship to Pain, which is that it isn’t an inherent or necessary part of the world and that if you can let go of your attachments, Pain will cease to exist. He says Pain is real, but I am going to end part of it (Sidious). This is the Amavikka relationship to Pain: Pain is always going to exist (Depur always tries again no matter how often Ekkreth frees the people), but it can and should always be fought (Ekkreth) or endured (Leia), not embraced. The Jedi and Sith developed in opposition to each other, while Amavikka culture developed in opposition to slavery.

To be clear: Jedi and Amavikka views are about a thousand times more compatible than Amavikka and Sith. Amavikka is not any kind of middle road between Jedi and Sith, it’s a different paradigm.