#maybe there will be some changes but this is going to be the cast
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luvleyshif4 ¡ 2 days ago
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rafe x reader.... she's touchstarved. Maybe size/height difference. Just the wonderful feeling of him being the protector (and 'provider'). They've only been dating for a little while but he figures out that her love language is physical touch. And she's so surprised bc she isn't used to receiving love. Prob a bad family setting... thanks, love <33
JUST HOLD ME
Rafe Cameron x Reader
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Warnings: Mention of family issues, emotional vulnerability, emotional repression, medium angst turned into fluff, reader is touch starved, implied toxic family dynamics, reader might have body dysmorphia (N/A).
Word count: 1.22k words
Authors note: heyy bb!! Tysmmm for requesting this!!! I already had something like that sitting in my drafts so I thought I’d just add some changes to suit your idea🤞🏽🤞🏽🤞🏽honestly your idea made it sooo soo much better!! HOPE YOU LIKE IT CAUSE I KNOW I DO💗💗 (also I didn’t proof read this so let me know if there’s any grammar mistakes😝😝)
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The night was quiet, the kind of stillness that felt heavy yet comforting. Rafe’s truck hummed softly beneath you, the glow of the dashboard lights casting faint shadows across his face.
He had picked you up an hour ago, like he always did when your texts grew short and vague, as though he could sense the things you didn’t say. The roads were empty, a blur of dim streetlights and the occasional flicker of passing headlights.
You sat in the passenger seat, curled slightly toward the door, your oversized hoodie swallowing you whole. Rafe’s hand rested on the gear shift, his fingers drumming a slow rhythm as the faint hum of music played in the background.
He wasn’t saying much tonight, giving you space like he always did, but you could feel his eyes flick toward you now and then, studying you.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he finally asked, his voice breaking the silence but staying soft.
You didn’t answer right away, your fingers playing with the strings of your hoodie. The truth was, you didn’t know how to talk about it—the way your chest felt tight every time you thought about home, the way your family’s sharp words had a way of cutting deeper than they should. It wasn’t new, but it felt heavier lately, like you were dragging something you couldn’t shake off.
“I’m fine,” you said, the words automatic and hollow.
Rafe glanced at you again, his jaw tightening slightly. He didn’t press, though. He never did. Instead, his hand shifted, brushing lightly against your knee before returning to the gear shift. It was such a small gesture, but it made your throat tighten. You turned your head, staring out the window, hoping he wouldn’t notice the way your hands were trembling slightly.
The silence stretched on, comfortable for him, suffocating for you. It wasn’t that you didn’t trust Rafe—you did, more than you’d ever thought possible for someone you’d only been with for a few months. It was just that you didn’t know how to let someone in like this. You didn’t know how to let yourself be seen, not when you’d spent so long trying to shrink yourself down, to take up less space.
Rafe, of course, noticed everything.
He didn’t say anything at first, but you felt the shift when he slowed the truck down, pulling over to the side of the road. The engine idled softly as he put the truck in park, turning to face you fully. His brows were drawn together, his blue eyes searching yours in the dim light.
“Talk to me,” he said, his voice low but steady.
Your chest tightened again, and you shook your head, biting the inside of your cheek. “It’s nothing,” you muttered, barely meeting his gaze. “Just a long day.”
Rafe let out a soft, disbelieving huff, leaning back slightly. He didn’t look frustrated, just… concerned. And that concern was somehow worse, more overwhelming than if he’d been annoyed.
“Come on,” he said, his tone lighter but still holding that edge of care. “You don’t get this quiet unless something’s really messing with you. I’m not going anywhere, so you might as well tell me.”
The weight of his words hit you harder than you expected. You glanced at him, your lips parting as if to say something, but the words stuck in your throat. Rafe’s gaze softened even further, and without thinking, he reached over, his hand hesitating for a moment before he grazed the back of his fingers against your cheek. The touch was featherlight, and yet it sent a shiver through you. You didn’t pull away. Instead, you leaned into it, your eyes fluttering shut for a moment as if savoring the warmth.
Rafe stilled, watching you as though you were the only thing in the world that mattered. His hand lingered there, his knuckles brushing over your skin softly, reverently. “You’re allowed to let me in,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.
Your breath hitched at his words, but you didn’t pull back. Instead, you let yourself lean into his hand fully, your head tilting slightly as though you didn’t want him to stop. His thumb shifted, lightly grazing your chin, and your eyes opened just in time to catch the way his gaze flicked down to your lips.
It wasn’t rushed or sudden. His movements were deliberate, careful, giving you every chance to stop him. But you didn’t. You couldn’t. When his lips finally met yours, it was soft and slow, like a promise. He kissed you with a tenderness that made your chest ache, his hand still cradling your face as though he couldn’t bear to let go.
Your body melted into his touch, your fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt to steady yourself. The kiss deepened slightly, but it stayed unhurried, every movement of his lips against yours making you feel like you were coming undone in the best possible way.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his thumb brushing gently over your chin. He didn’t say anything at first, just looked at you, his blue eyes filled with something you couldn’t quite name but felt down to your core.
“You don’t have to tell me everything right now,” he said, his voice low and steady. “But I need you to know that you’re not alone. Not with me.”
Your chest ached at his words, and you opened your eyes, meeting his. There was no judgment there, no expectation. Just him, just Rafe, offering you something you didn’t know how to accept but desperately wanted to.
Your lips parted like you might say something, but no words came. Instead, you let out a shaky breath and leaned into him again, resting your head on his shoulder this time. His arms wrapped around you without hesitation, holding you tightly, protectively, as though shielding you from all the things you couldn’t put into words.
And for the first time in what felt like forever, you let yourself be held. Safe, warm, and, for once, not alone.
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fuwaprince ¡ 24 minutes ago
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No hot water, no electricity, I haven't eaten but a few bites of food and I don't think I had any water. I don't know what will help. I'm too tired to go to the store. Too sad to change my pad. I refuse to leave loved ones in this position. Would someone in this position abandon their baby just because a stranger offered you to sleep in their bed or on their floor...? Maybe but not happily. I returned here after abandoning a friend once to continue living like this and people treated me badly in spite of me doing everything right. It's a caste system. I can't beat monopolistic observers at their own game and I can't opt out of being a pawn. They're choosing to let me die here, or in a hospital where they medically abuse me or in jail where they deny me water for crying too much. I'm not allowed to exist anywhere unless I'm fined. People who call police on me or an ambulance even in the instance I might be dying before them on the streets fail to realize that the debt accrued from all that is a death sentence in itself. I can't pay back what I owe as is for hospital stays against my will and medication I didn't consent to and wasn't informed about. I can't pay back the debt from school for dropping out mid semester because disaster struck and I had no place for a foundation. I applied for financial aid and they asked for that money back knowing I was begging to begin with. My medical and food assistance are both fucked because I don't stay in the same county I applied in because it's not like I have any one place to exist.
I'm just going where the wind takes me. I'm tired. I'm sad. I have loved ones that are dying and I can't be with them. I have loved ones I can't take care of and I can't take care of myself. The best thing I feel like I can do is sleep and never wake up but how could that ever be a good resolution?
This one guy says he sends all his love my way sometimes... but it's empty. It's just a pretty phrase he says to be polite and charming. I'm not loved thought. Love endures and doesn't abandon. I'm not sure what to do.
The people who want to help can't and the people who can help won't. The people I try to help along the way steal everything I have from me. It's a take and take and take and I'm picked to the bone like a Christmas turkey.
Merry belated Christmas. Please help me and the people closest to you. Please practice human kindness and unconditional love. Don't perpetuate the hateful narrative that life is all doom and gloom. Don't let love and hope die out. Keep being loving and hopeful and have faith. Be proactive instead of in denial please so people like me and my friends don't die like we probably will. I slept on the cold ground while it was raining last night and hugged for warmth. People tell me to stay alone who I ask help from. I'm tired of being failed and turned away. Begging gets me punched in the face.
What can we do but blog about it? There's no getting over it for me. You all have the luxury and freedom to not care about my situation and life. I wish I was in that boat but for some reason I can't even get over it happening to loved ones. I can't just care less and feel better about that. I would be a monster to sleep well at night knowing what happens to them.
Hey friends and followers. It's me again. Please send what support you can. I could really use it. I'm about to be back on the street after finally getting a job. I'm still homeless and need help. I'm begging for my life. Please please please help me. I don't have any family who can. I'm basically alone out here. Please donate
paypal
cashapp
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darkficsyouneveraskedfor ¡ 13 hours ago
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All Ye Faithful
Warnings: dubcon/noncon, lactation, PPD mentions, cheating, and other dark elements. Not all kinks or triggers are tagged. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.
Summary: You are on the hunt for the perfect present but the price is steeper than you expect.
Character: Loki
Day Twenty-Six of the December Daze Challenge.
Prompt - there's only one of these left and i need it more than you.
Note: As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.
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“Is he okay?” You ask as your fingers squeeze around the grooves of the steering wheel. 
“He’s fine,” Ellie almost laughs over the babbling, “aren’t you, Lil Griffy?” 
She cooes as your heart patters wildly. You’re stress level is at your ears. Your head almost hurts from the tension wound through you; or maybe it’s that you keep squinting to see the road beneath the cones cast by the street lights.  
You hate waiting until the last minute, but despite your best effort, it’s come down to the wire. This is your last chance to make Christmas perfect. 
The morning was a whirlwind. Your son, Griffin, shrieking as you tried to feed him breakfast, the email buried beneath all the dozens of Black Friday and holiday promotions. The order you placed over a month ago was canceled the week after. You don’t know how you missed it but you did. Now you have to figure this out. 
“I won’t be long. If he starts freaking out, you can give him some baby advil for his teeth. He’s been cutting some--” 
“Hey, I got it, mama,” your sister insists. “Enjoy the time to yourself. Please. I'm sure tomorrow is going to be a lot.” 
“Right,” you agree dully. “I’ll call you when I'm on the way back.” 
You hang up with the flick of your thumb, the button depressing beneath and the music coming back to life from the stereo. Something about the beat addles you further.
This isn’t how you imagined your baby’s first Christmas. While you also envisioned a little extra help from your fiance, you didn’t intend to be driving around to meet strangers to purchase gifts like some underworld arms’ deal. 
Ellie recommended the marketplace app. She got a bunch of stuff for her wedding there and she even bartered some designer pieces along the way. She’s always been better at everything. It’s probably why your son wasn’t freaking out for the first time in days. 
Your GPS tells you to turn left and concludes the trip, noting that your destination is on your right. The storefront glows but the ‘Open’ sign is out. Much like the rest of the shops in the area. If you had any other choice, you would take it over this hand-off. 
You pull into the lot and put your car in park. You scoop your phone out of the cup holder and open up the app. You send a message to the seller that you’ve arrived. You restlessly jiggle your foot over the pedal and stare at the snow-laden curbs and salt-streaked brick. 
You flutter your fingers over the wheel and your chest furls into a cluster of nerves. What if it’s a scam? What if they don’t show up? Typical that the one big gift you had your heart set on is the one thing you can’t get a hold of. 
A car pulls up next to yours and your phone buzzes. That must be them. You glance over at the dark silhouette behind the tinted window. Your family-friendly car is not cheap by any means but the luxury vehicle suggests an income you can only aspire to. 
You get out and shove your hand into your pocket, checking for the envelope of cash. You hesitate as you once more glance over at the other car. It’s too expensive to be a criminal, right? Or maybe you just walked straight into a mugging. 
Their door opens as you hover behind your trunk, uncertain of how far to go. A sleek, dark-haired man steps out. He’s tall and his black locks are tidy and combed back behind his nape. He wears a well-cut suit beneath a fur-trimmed collar. You didn’t bother to change out of your flour-dusted hoodie and jeans. 
You bite your lower lip and swallow your fear. 
“Uh, hi, you’re uh...” you blink and try to remember his name. He says your first. 
“I’ve got the toy,” he declares plainly. 
“Oh, great, er... can I see it?” You ask. Essie says always see it first before you hand over the payment. She even gave you a tip to barter down by offering a pick-up. It seemed safer than giving a stranger your address anyhow. 
“If you insist,” he strides forward, his posture straight, somewhat condescending just in the slant of his chin. You back up as he passes and circles around to open his trunk. You inch towards him and peek inside. “For your inspection.” 
He waves his hand indifferently and you examine the packaging for the sensory set. You’ve been watching videos and reading all these Montessori articles about it. You just want the best for Griffon. 
You nod and face him. He slides his phone from his pocket and clucks. You take out the brown bank envelope. “I have the money. Thanks for meeting me--” 
“Hm, I’ve got an offer for two hundred more,” he turns his screen to you. “And they can meet me here as well.” 
“What?” You gasp. “But I'm here.” You wag the envelope at him. “I need this. Please.” 
“Very well you might but--” 
“I can get two hundred more,” you beg, heart rending at yet another expense. “There’s an ATM close by. I’ll go take it out.” 
“I suppose, if you are quicker than the other buyer,” he drones. 
You frown. He doesn’t care. This is all just extortion to him. He doesn’t look like the type to need a baby toy. Essie did say there are a lot of resellers on the app. Wow, that’s just despicable. Still, you came all this way, you’re not willing to just give up. 
“Or...” he interrupts your inner turmoil. You flinch and look at him as his eyes flick up and down. “If you are especially desperate, I might accept a different currency.” 
You arch your brows, “uh, yeah, I got cashapp or venmo--” 
“I’m not referring to money,” he intones. 
The cold air turns bitter with silence. You stand staring at him, confused, as he watches you in turn; unflinching. The dimple in his cheek confirms your suspicions. He can’t mean that. No, not that. Look at you, you’re an underslept, overworked mother in a nursing bra and stained jeans. 
“Excuse me?” You utter. 
“It seems a bargain we might both benefit from. For my trouble, I could use something more than numbers in my account, and you, an obviously neglected housewife, might pretend it is that tending you so desire.” 
“Huh? That’s-- that’s... gross,” you wilt. 
“And yet you’ve not slapped me or walked away, so I dare say you are considering it,” he smirks. “And certainly, you are here to ensure you precious child has their perfect holiday. I would surmise it is their first--” 
“Please, don’t-- don’t talk about my son,” you plead and clutch the envelope, looking down at your shaking hands. 
“I’d rather not. Bit of a mood killer, honestly,” he snickers. “So?” 
You chew your lip, letting it flick out from under your teeth. Your eyes well and burn. You can’t believe you’re even thinking about it. You just want that one day. You just want one victory after messing up every other thing. 
You nod and lift your chin, only halfway as you can barely look at that man; a stranger. You hold out the envelope. He takes it, his fingers brushing yours, and he tucks it into his pocket. 
“You may wait for me,” he gestures to his car, “I’ll let the other seller know the item is no longer available.” 
His glee is clear in his tone. You’re sick to your stomach. You drag your feet away from him and go around the other side of the car. 
“In the back, darling, it’ll be easier.” 
You stop and face the car. Does he want... everything? Or just a hand... or... 
You open the door and sit on the edge of the seat. As you shut the door, you lean on it and hang your head. You’re more than terrified of what you’ve just agreed to. You’re terrified of yourself.
Are you so low as to go through with this? What if Brodie finds out? It’s cheating, technically. No, in all ways. 
The other door opens and lets in a wintry gale that adds to the iciness in your veins. Your throat tightens around a wave of nausea. The man sighs as he closes the door and settles in with a wiggle of his shoulders. He might be awful but you’re worse for going along with it. For what? A toy. 
No, this is for Christmas. It’s for your son. You just want him to be happy. You don’t need your husband telling you how you fucked up another thing. 
“Take the sweater off. Whatever that is... it’s not very intriguing,” he points to the stain on your hoodie. It could be chocolate from baking or something inedible. 
You wince and clasp the fabric in your fists. Slowly you strip away the hoodie. You have only your nursing bra beneath; grey and plain, the thin fabric wet as you leak through. You shudder and hunch your shoulders. Your swollen tits bulge over the flimsy cups as you try to hide the stretch marks on your stomach with you bundled hoodies. 
“Mm, yes, delightful,” he purrs and surprises you as his fingers reach to the strap of your bra. 
You squeak as he easily tugs free the cup and peels it away, exposing your raw nipple. You don’t have time to react as he leans in and bows to take the pert bud between his lips. You cry out in shock as he suckles and you watch his dark head helplessly. 
His hand comes up to grope the other side of your chest. You moan in response to the heaviness in his grasp. You’re sickened as he is entirely unbothered at the trickle of milk that rolls from the corner of his mouth, yet a twinge deep down scalds you with shame. Your own fiance won’t touch you because of the way you leak; or maybe it’s rest of your; the loose skin and the stretch marks... 
He groans as he rolls your nipple between his teeth and you cry out at the tenderness. He continues to fondle you as his saliva mingles with your milk. You are repulsed but cozened by his diligence. 
Your eyes wander around the luxurious interior of the car, a wall of tears blurring your reality, before you find your way back to him. He doesn’t seem the type. Too wealthy and refined, yet here he is feeling you up in the back of his car. You repress another heave of disgust. 
“Supple,” he pulls back and opens the other side of your bra, your tits hanging free. “Yes, yes, I know,” he continues the one-sided conversation as you sit mute and dump, tingling from his touch, “we both have places to be.” 
He sits back and pushes open his jacket. He shrugs free of the wool and lets the coat open across the seat behind him. He swiftly unbuckles his belt and opens his fly. You watch without reaction. Your body won’t respond to your horror. 
“Come,” he reaches into his briefs as he lifts himself slightly off the seat, pushing both pants and undergarments down as he pulls his dick free. He strokes himself as he reclines again. “You’ve had a child, you should know how these things work.” 
You exhale shakily. You reach for him as he continues to pump himself and he swats you away meanly. 
“I’ve not the time for all that, get in my lap.” 
His blunt demand puts you further off-balance. You move without thinking. This needs to be over. You have a son to get home to. 
And a fiance. 
You turn and stand up, bent over in the tight space, and push down your jeans to your ankles. He might see your unshaven legs or the rest of you and change his mind still. You’d almost rather that humiliation than the guilt of what you’ve resigned yourself to. 
He doesn’t stop you. He only hums as you move awkwardly to kneel on the seat and lift your knee over him to straddle his lap. You grasp his shoulder first then recoil as if burnt. You brace the seat instead as you set your legs, your ankles kept awkwardly together by the tangle of denim. 
He frames your hips with his large hand and you wince again. It’s so strange to be touched in that way. Not to be tugged and teethed at, or have someone screaming or crying in your ear at the same time. 
He pushes you down as he guides his tip along your lips. You quiver at the reminder of what you haven’t felt in so long. At those needs you pushed so far down you convinced yourself they just weren’t there anymore. 
He eases into you as you let your hips drop. You gasp at the sensation. It’s snug and warm and... he said you were ruined. That one-time you tried and Brodie stopped you. Never mind, he said. And you saw the reddit post he left open the next day; ‘my wife ruined by childbirth. What can I do?’ 
Ugh, don’t think about that. 
Another moan rolls from your throat as you hang your head back. You sink down onto the stranger’s lap and he fills you up easily. You claw the seats as his other hand squeezes your chest again. He pulls you closer as he guides your hips in a slow motion. 
The crawl of his own low, sultry voice singes away all your doubts and damnation. You lose yourself in the carnal melding of your bodies. You are not a mother or a fiancee or anything but needy. Your grip slips from the leather and onto his shoulders. 
He bends to once more nip and suck at your chest. He keeps you moving as he rocks from below. He doesn’t let up as he buries his face in your cleavage. His large hand splays across your back and he squeezes your hip tighter and tighter. 
The fire roars inside of you, trapping you both as you chase that final spark. You buck against him desperately and his nose brushes up to your collar bone. He bites into your shoulder and drones as he hooks his hand down around your ass. 
You quake in a noiseless orgasm, choked of your voice as your muscles contract in ecstasy and relief. You only realise then how much you needed this. How much you longed for that release. How long you just wanted to be needed for more than a feeding or rocking or changing. 
He bursts inside of you in a warm deluge. You gasp as sense slaps you across the face. What are you doing? He’s not protected. You aren’t either. Why didn’t you even think of that?
He curls his arms around you and presses his hand against your shoulder as he ruts up into you until the last drop. You push on his arms but he doesn’t relent. Not until he’s weak and trembling. 
He lets you go, arms falling slack to his sides, and he sighs. He snickers as his lips curl and you sit back to look him in the face. His green eyes sparkle in triumph. 
“What did you do?” You drag yourself off of him and angle awkwardly as you cover your cunt with your hand. 
He tuts, “don’t make a mess.” 
“Me--” You retort. “I...” You lean your knees on the seat as you try to scrap his cum off of you, wiping it on your hoodie. “You--” 
“And it isn’t what I’ve done, you should worry for, darling,” he taunts. “Ask yourself that very question.” 
You look at him and hiss. You don’t have any defense. Because he’s right. Because you did this. For a goddamn toy.  
His eyes drift down to your chest and he winks. “They payment was adequate. You make have your prize.” 
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fangdokja ¡ 3 days ago
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You’re his sister, but to him, you’re everything he’ll never let go of.
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❤︎ Synopsis. Trapped in his obsession, your brother’s love is a cage—burning, possessive, and unyielding. Every kiss is a claim, every touch a warning. You’re his, and he’ll make sure the world knows it.
♡ Book. Forbidden Fruits: Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires.
♡ Pairing. Yandere! Older Brother x Reader
♡ Novelette. Sins of the Silent Heart - Part 1
♡ Word Count. 6,926
♡ TW. incest, unhealthy power dynamics, toxic relationship, spanking and slapping, emotional and psychological manipulation, social isolation, non-con kissing, physical assault and abuse
♡ Note. Due to Tumblr content guidelines involving minors, some plot details of the original story were changed to fit the platform. If you want the true original story, please look at the author's official website or Ao3.
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The dim yellow glow of the bedside lamp painted long, jagged shadows across the walls, distorting the once-familiar room into a grotesque parody of safety. His room—a chaotic vortex of textbooks, rumpled sheets, and the faint scent of stale cologne—now felt like a predator’s den, with you caught squarely in its jaws. The door clicked shut behind you with an almost mocking finality, the latch’s soft groan a promise of no escape.
He stood near the bed, his back to you, shoulders tense as if bracing for an internal war. His silhouette was a study in contradiction—strong, protective lines now cast in a menacing, foreboding light. The distant hum of the world beyond the house seemed to mock the thick silence between you, punctuated only by the rasp of his uneven breathing.
“Why are you here?” His voice cut through the stillness like a blade, low and clipped, every syllable weighted with restraint.
“I… I just wanted to talk.” Your words wavered, the carefully rehearsed lines evaporating under his icy stare when he turned, his eyes locking onto yours.
Those eyes, once a sanctuary of warmth during countless childhood nights, now held a glacial fury, as if he blamed you for some unseen torment. But beneath the chill was something darker, something that churned like a black hole, swallowing reason and morality whole. You couldn’t name it, but you could feel it—a suffocating, primal pull that made your stomach twist and your legs stiffen.
“I’ve been busy,” he said curtly, turning back to his desk, dismissing you as easily as one might swat away an insect. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“I miss you.” The words slipped out, raw and vulnerable, a desperate attempt to breach the widening chasm between you. “I thought—now that we’re both here—maybe we could…” Your voice faltered as he turned again, this time slowly, deliberately, like a predator circling prey.
“Miss me?” he repeated, his lips curving into a bitter smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “You don’t even know me anymore.”
The accusation hit harder than you expected, making your chest tighten. “That’s why I’m here,” you murmured, your hands clenching at your sides. “To know you again.”
He barked out a laugh, sharp and humorless. “Know me?” His gaze raked over you, lingering in a way that made your skin crawl. “You wouldn’t want that. Trust me.”
His words were a warning, but they only fueled your resolve. You stepped closer, driven by the memory of the brother who once held your hand during thunderstorms, who stayed up late helping you with your homework, who always told you everything would be okay. “You’re still my brother,” you said softly, pleadingly.
“Don’t,” he growled, his voice suddenly sharp, his hand twitching as if to reach for you but stopping short. “Don’t call me that.”
The air between you grew oppressive, thick with unspoken truths. Your heart pounded as his gaze darkened, his pupils blown wide as they drank you in. For a moment, his mask of indifference cracked, and what lay beneath made your stomach churn.
“You think I haven’t noticed?” His voice was low, almost gentle, but it carried the weight of a confession. “The way you look at me? The way you follow me around like a lost kitten?” He took a step closer, and you instinctively backed into the wall, your breath hitching. “You’ve always needed me. Always depended on me. And now you think you can waltz in here and what? Fix everything? Fix me?”
“That’s not what I—”
“Shut up.” His voice cut through your protest like a whip. He was close now, too close, his breath hot against your cheek. The smell of him—faintly metallic, tinged with sweat—wrapped around you like a suffocating shroud. “You don’t know the first thing about me, about what I’ve done. About the things I think about when I look at you.”
The room seemed to tilt, the floor buckling under the weight of his words. “I… I don’t understand,” you stammered, your voice barely audible.
“No, you wouldn’t,” he sneered, his hand shooting out to brace against the wall beside your head, caging you in. “Because you’re pure. Untouched. You don’t know what it’s like to carry this...this sickness. To want something you can never fucking have.”
The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the frantic pounding of your heart. His confession hung in the air like a noose, tightening around your throat.
“I tried,” he continued, his voice shaking now, the cracks in his facade spreading. “I tried to stay away. To forget. Do you know how many women I’ve fucked trying to scrub you out of my head? But it doesn’t work. It never fucking works.” His hand slid down the wall, his knuckles brushing against your shoulder. “You’re in here,” he said, tapping his temple, then his chest. “In here. Like a damn parasite.”
Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. “Why are you saying this?” you whispered, your voice trembling. “Why now?”
“Because you’re here,” he said simply, his lips curling into a twisted smile. “Because you walked into my fucking room and looked at me like that. Like I’m still the hero you remember. Like I haven’t been corrupted.”
“You’re scaring me,” you admitted, your voice barely audible.
“Good,” he replied, his tone soft but laced with menace. “You should be scared. Because if you stay, I don’t know if I can stop myself.”
For a moment, neither of you moved, the room charged with a tension so thick it was suffocating. Then, with a suddenness that made you flinch, he stepped back, raking a hand through his hair. “Get out,” he growled, his voice rough and uneven. “Before I do something we’ll both regret.”
You didn’t need to be told twice. Your hands fumbled with the doorknob, your legs barely supporting you as you stumbled out of the room. As the door slammed shut behind you, the last thing you heard was the sound of his ragged breathing, a haunting symphony of longing and despair.
────────────
It began in your first year of university, with a joke. A harmless, stupid, throwaway line.
"Hey, your sister's cute. Maybe I'll ask her out when she’s older."
You hadn’t been there to hear it. Maybe that was for the best. He’d laughed then, a sound so casual it might have fooled anyone listening. “Don’t even think about it,” he’d said, shoving his friend’s shoulder as if it were all a joke. But deep down, something had snapped into place.
It wasn’t anger, exactly—not yet. Just a quiet, simmering unease that he didn’t understand.
You were always close to him, always lingering just at the edge of his vision, a constant part of his life. He was your older brother; it was natural. He was protective—maybe a little too much so. But wasn’t that what older brothers were supposed to be? That’s what he told himself whenever he felt the strange, uncomfortable tightness in his chest.
It only became a problem the day he saw you with someone else.
It was late autumn, and the world was painted in muted tones of orange and gray. He’d been walking to the library to pick you up when he saw you standing beneath a streetlamp with a boy.
The sight froze him in place.
You were holding a notebook, pointing to something on the page, explaining something with that calm, patient expression you always wore. The boy leaned in, his eyes never leaving your face.
And that was when he felt it. That sick, twisting feeling in his gut. The way the boy looked at you—like he wanted something. Like he thought he deserved something.
His hands clenched into fists, the sharp bite of his nails grounding him just enough to keep him from storming over. He didn’t know what he’d say if he did. What excuse could he possibly give?
Instead, he stayed hidden in the shadows, watching as you finished your tutoring session. The boy lingered too long, said something that made you smile faintly, and then finally walked away.
You didn’t even notice him standing there. You just closed your notebook, adjusted the strap of your bag, and walked off as if nothing had happened.
He followed you home that day, keeping a careful distance.
After that, it was as though something inside him had cracked open.
He told himself it was normal to be worried. You were too trusting, too naive. You didn’t see the way people looked at you. You didn’t realize how vulnerable you were. Someone had to protect you—someone who knew you better than anyone else.
But it wasn’t just about protection anymore.
It was about possession.
He tried to ignore it at first. Tried to tell himself it was nothing. But every time he saw you leave to meet that boy, his anger simmered just a little hotter. It didn’t matter that you were only tutoring him. It didn’t matter that you weren’t interested. He could see the way the boy looked at you, the way he lingered when you weren’t paying attention.
He started watching you more closely after that. You didn’t notice—of course, you didn’t. You never seemed to notice anything when it came to him.
When you weren’t around, he buried himself in distractions. He went out with his friends, dated girls who were nothing like you, did anything he could to drown out the thoughts that haunted him. But it didn’t work. Nothing worked.
Every laugh, every touch, every kiss felt wrong. None of them were you.
By the time you started your second year of university, and him at his Master's, he’d perfected the art of keeping his distance. He didn’t want you to see the way he looked at you, didn’t want you to know the things he thought about late at night when he was alone.
But keeping his distance didn’t mean he stopped watching. He always knew where you were, who you were with, what you were doing.
You were his. Even if you didn’t know it.
Another day, he caught you talking to someone else. Another boy. It didn’t matter that the conversation was casual, that you barely even smiled. All he could think about was how easily someone else could take you away from him.
When you came home that evening, he didn’t say a word. You didn’t ask why he was so quiet, why he avoided your gaze, why his knuckles were red and raw as if he’d been punching something—or someone.
You never asked questions like that.
Maybe you should have.
Now, standing in his room, he runs his hands through his hair, staring at the picture of you on his desk. It’s an innocent photo, one taken years ago during a family trip. But to him, it’s more than that.
It’s proof. Proof that you belong to him. Proof that no one else has the right to take you away.
He knows he can’t keep this up forever. He knows the truth will come out eventually.
But when it does?
You won’t have a choice.
────────────
It began with distance. He thought it would fix things—make him normal again, make you normal again. He pulled back, growing cold and indifferent, watching you from a distance as you stumbled through life. You didn’t even notice, did you? How he deliberately stopped answering your questions with warmth, how he only gave you clipped, efficient replies. How he didn’t teach you the things he should have, the things that would have made you stronger.
You didn’t need friends. He made sure of that.
He liked it that way—your awkwardness, your inability to connect with others. It kept you safe. It kept you his.
But then...
Then, he saw the change.
You became distracted, eyes far away, your lips twitching into little half-smiles when you thought no one was looking. At first, he ignored it. Told himself it didn’t matter. But then he started noticing the way you doodled during your free time, how your handwriting softened, curling into childish hearts.
And then the name.
Daniel.
The rage that erupted in his chest was immediate, primal. He wasn’t proud of how quickly he found your diary, how thoroughly he read every naïve, saccharine line.
"Daniel held my book today! He smiled at me, I think! Maybe I’ll ask him to the dance? Would he say yes? It’s stupid, but I think we’d make a great match."
You wrote about your future. About marriage. Little plans you hid in the margins of your notebook like some ridiculous fairytale.
Marriage, when you didn’t even know what it meant. When you’d never spared him, the one who’s protected you your entire life, that warm, shy smile.
He could’ve broken your door when he threw it open that night. You weren’t even there to hear the sound splinter through the silence, or see the way he stood there, shaking, fists clenched white-knuckled. He tore through your things after that—pictures, scraps of paper, clothes—he wanted to find anything, anything that might explain why you’d betrayed him like this.
You didn’t have the right to want someone else. You barely knew what you wanted! That boy didn’t even like you. Couldn’t you see it?
The world saw you as the awkward, strange little thing you’d always been. And he liked it that way. It kept the wolves at bay. He kept the wolves at bay.
But this boy? This Daniel? He didn’t even look at you the way you thought he did. He didn’t deserve your thoughts, your shy little fantasies. He deserved nothing.
When you finally confessed to the boy, he was there.
He’d hidden in the shadows like a predator waiting for the right moment. Watching as you stood there, clutching that stupid notebook to your chest, stammering over your words.
Daniel’s rejection was inevitable. His awkward laugh, his half-hearted apology—it was all so predictably pathetic. But you didn’t stop there.
Even after being turned down, you followed him. Like a kitten, tail wagging, desperate for scraps of affection. The same way you used to follow him.
That night, he didn’t go home. He didn’t sleep.
His body ached, torn between the raw heat of his anger and the cold clarity of his realization.
You’d never shown interest in romance before. Never spared anyone those soft looks, those quiet smiles. Not until now. And the thought of you giving that warmth—his warmth—to someone else?
He didn’t just want to destroy Daniel.
He wanted to destroy you.
You traitorous, ungrateful little bitch.
The next time he saw you, you didn’t notice anything was wrong. How could you?
“Hey,” you’d said softly, the same way you always did when you weren’t sure if you were bothering him. He didn’t reply.
Instead, he crossed the room in slow, deliberate steps. You flinched when he cupped your face, his fingers rough against your skin.
“Do you know what you’ve done?” His voice was calm, too calm, each word slicing through the silence like a blade.
You blinked up at him, confused, your lips parting to stammer out a reply. But he didn’t let you.
“Do you think he could protect you the way I have? Do you think he even sees you? You’re so... stupid.” His grip tightened, just enough to make you gasp. “But I’ll fix that.”
That night, he showed you what it meant to belong to someone.
There was nothing gentle in the way he touched you. Nothing kind. It wasn’t love—not in the way you’d dreamed it would be.
It was sharp edges and whispered threats. The suffocating weight of his body pinning yours to the mattress, his breath hot against your ear as he murmured things too dark to repeat.
“I’ll make sure you never think of him again,” he growled, his voice low and venomous.
You cried. He didn’t stop.
Because you were his. And no one else deserved to have you—not even you.
The next morning, he watched as you sat silently at the table, your hands trembling as you picked at your breakfast.
You didn’t look at him.
Good.
He leaned back in his chair, watching you with a satisfied smile.
“You’ll thank me one day,” he said, his tone light and conversational, as if nothing had happened. “You’ll see.”
But in the dim light of the kitchen, his eyes glinted with something darker.
Something permanent.
────────────
He hadn’t kissed you that night. He hadn’t touched you—not in the way he craved. That would come later.
Instead, he had punished you.
The memory played like a cracked film reel in his mind, skipping over the sound of your muffled cries, the way your body jolted with every strike of his hand. He’d treated it like a lesson, hadn’t he? A father disciplining a wayward child, nothing more.
Except it was so much more.
Each tear that slipped down your cheeks, each broken sob, fed something primal inside him. It made him feel strong, in control—your trembling figure draped across his lap, your protests falling to deaf ears.
“You need to understand,” he had murmured between blows, his voice calm, deliberate. “You don’t need anyone else. You don’t get to have anyone else.”
It wasn’t until your body went limp, your resolve shattered, that he finally stopped. His hand lingered against your flushed skin, his breathing uneven. He could feel the temptation coiling inside him, the desire to leave more than just a warning.
But he didn’t.
He wouldn’t.
Not yet.
You were still too young, too delicate, and he loved you too much to break you completely.
In the days that followed, you clung to him like you always had. The defiance in your eyes was gone, replaced by a docile obedience that filled him with both satisfaction and guilt.
It was better this way. No friends, no distractions.
Just the two of you, the way it had always been.
────────────
The door clicked shut behind you, leaving him alone in the suffocating quiet of his room.
He sank onto the edge of the bed, his head in his hands, fingers digging into his scalp as he exhaled sharply.
He could feel the cracks spreading, the fragile dam of restraint he’d built over the years threatening to shatter. You were older now—no longer the awkward, wide-eyed girl he’d once protected. You were beautiful, maddeningly so, and every time he looked at you, he could feel his self-control slipping.
But what was he supposed to do?
His parents had never cared, not about him, not about you. The only thing that mattered to them was the profit you both could generate. He doubted they’d even notice if he crossed the line.
And that was the problem, wasn’t it?
His gaze drifted to the doorway you’d just passed through, his chest tightening with something dark and suffocating.
He could take you now if he wanted to. No one would stop him. No one would care.
But he cared.
He loved you in a way that terrified him, a way that left him tangled in knots of lust and guilt and longing. He wanted you—to keep you, to claim you, to destroy anyone who dared look at you the wrong way. But more than that, he wanted you to love him the way he loved you.
And that’s where the conflict lay.
Would you still look at him with those soft, trusting eyes if you knew what he was thinking? Would you still cling to his arm, still smile at him, still call him brother if you knew the truth?
Or would you hate him?
The thought sent a shiver of rage and despair through him, his hands clenching into fists.
He stood abruptly, pacing the room like a caged animal.
What was the point of waiting?
Every moment he held back felt like agony, his need for you consuming him piece by piece. You were already his, in every way that mattered. You’d been his from the start, long before you even realized it.
He stopped in front of the mirror, his reflection glaring back at him—a predator barely leashed, a man fighting against the very instincts that defined him.
He exhaled slowly, his lips curling into a dark, humorless smile.
“As long as I don’t get caught, right?” he muttered, his voice dripping with bitter irony.
The words hung in the air, heavy with implication.
When he finally left the room, his mind was made up.
He’d wait, just a little longer. Long enough for you to grow even more dependent on him, long enough for you to forget whatever fleeting fantasies you’d once harbored about other men.
And when the time came, when there was no doubt in your mind that he was the only one who could ever love you, he’d take what was his.
Until then, he’d bide his time.
But God help anyone who got in the way.
You were his. And soon, you’d know it too.
────────────
Classes had started like any other semester. Despite sharing a dorm, he and you had kept your distance—a mutual, unspoken agreement that suited both of you.
On the surface, things appeared normal.
He excelled as always, juggling academics, sports, and a parade of temporary girlfriends like it was nothing. You thrived in your own way, delving into the competitive grind of your entrepreneurship course with an unrelenting focus. To the outside world, you were two strangers, bound only by circumstance. No one would guess you were siblings, much less tied by anything deeper.
And that was fine by him.
As long as you stayed close—within reach—he could tolerate the cold distance between you.
It began as a flicker, a subtle shift in your demeanor that most would have missed.
You’d always been poised, calm, your expressions muted and unreadable, much like his own. But lately, there was something else—an irritation simmering beneath the surface, barely contained. You’d still wear that neutral, aloof mask, but he could see through it.
At first, he dismissed it. Maybe you were stressed. Maybe it was nothing.
But then he noticed the reason.
It was another guy.
The bastard was a thorn in your side, a so-called academic rival who had taken to hounding you relentlessly. He was obnoxious and petty, constantly goading you with thinly veiled insults and challenges.
Initially, he’d thought it might be a good thing—an opportunity for you to toughen up, to learn not to rely on him or anyone else.
How fucking naive he’d been.
The longer he watched, the more he understood.
The interloper didn’t even realize he liked you, not yet, but the signs were there. The way he hovered around you, the excuses he made to stay close, the looks that lingered too long—it was all obvious to him.
What infuriated him most was you.
You, who never cared about anyone. You, who had always kept your distance from people, brushing off their advances without a second thought.
You weren’t pushing the bastard away.
You tolerated him, even seemed to accept his presence, and that made his blood boil.
He told himself it didn’t matter.
No need to make a scene. No need to draw attention.
But it gnawed at him, day by day, that stupid fucker sticking to your side like a damn parasite. He could feel it building inside him, a storm of frustration and possessiveness he couldn’t fully suppress.
And then it happened.
You were late for dinner one evening, and his annoyance was already simmering by the time he went looking for you. He’d told himself he was only checking in because it was still his responsibility to take care of you.
That’s what he told himself.
He found you in an empty classroom.
And you weren’t alone.
────────────
The moment he saw you with him, it was as if the ground beneath his feet had shifted.
At first, it was confusion—a fleeting, disorienting moment where he didn’t fully understand what he was looking at. The interloper, leaning closer, his expression soft and open, the kind of look reserved for someone you cherished. You.
You, standing there, not moving, not rejecting him. Your hand was still, almost brushing against his, your lips parted as if you might speak—or worse, respond.
The first spike of jealousy hit him like a blade.
Not the dull ache of annoyance he’d felt when you first started tolerating this bastard’s presence. No, this was different. This was visceral. It clawed at him, shredding through his carefully constructed self-control until all that remained was raw, unfiltered rage.
His pulse roared in his ears, a deafening drumbeat that drowned out reason. His fists clenched at his sides, nails biting into his palms hard enough to draw blood. He could feel the metallic tang of it on his tongue, sharp and bitter, mixing with the bile rising in his throat.
He’d always prided himself on being in control. He wasn’t some reckless animal, driven by instinct or emotion. He was better than that. Smarter than that.
But watching that fucking bastard lean closer to you—watching you let him—it unraveled something inside him.
This wasn’t just anger. This wasn’t just possessiveness.
This was a deep, gnawing sickness, a jealousy so consuming it felt like his very soul was being eaten alive.
He couldn’t stand the way the interloper looked at you, like you were something pure and delicate. Like you were a prize to be won.
That was his.
You were his.
The thought burned through him, scorching and absolute.
He’d spent years keeping you close, making sure no one else could reach you, molding your world so that he was at the center of it. And yet, here you were, letting this pathetic excuse of a man step into the space that only he should occupy.
It was a betrayal.
And you—oh, you—were just as much to blame.
You, who never cared for anyone. You, who always kept your distance, your heart locked away. You, who had followed him like a shadow for so long, who had looked at him with that shy, adoring gaze that made him feel untouchable.
Now you were looking at someone else.
And it wasn’t just the look—it was your body language, the way you leaned ever so slightly into the interloper’s space. The way your eyes softened, your lips curled into the faintest hint of a smile.
He wanted to rip that expression off your face.
Not because it didn’t suit you—it did. It was beautiful. It made his heart ache.
But because it wasn’t for him.
The jealousy twisted, dark and monstrous, until it became something else entirely.
He didn’t just want to destroy the interloper.
He wanted to destroy you.
Not completely—no, never completely. You were his, after all. But he wanted to shatter this version of you, the one who dared to look at someone else with warmth. The one who dared to let someone else get close.
He wanted to strip you down to nothing and rebuild you in his image, piece by trembling piece, until there was no room for anyone else.
And then the bastard leaned in closer, and the room seemed to tilt.
The distance between you shrank, his lips hovering just above yours.
────────────
You were letting it happen.
Something inside him snapped.
Before he realized it, he was moving. The door slammed open with a deafening crash, and the interloper jerked back, startled, his face paling when he saw the storm etched into his expression.
“Hey, man—”
The words barely left the bastard’s lips before his fist collided with his jaw, the sickening crunch of bone echoing in the empty room. The impact sent the other man sprawling, blood pooling from his broken nose as he groaned in shock and pain.
“Stay. Away.” His voice was low, lethal, the kind of tone that promised far worse if the warning wasn’t heeded.
The room was silent except for the ragged breathing of the crumpled figure at his feet.
He turned to you then, his chest heaving, the adrenaline still coursing through his veins.
You stood frozen, wide-eyed and pale, your lips parted in disbelief.
“Get up,” he barked, his tone sharp, brooking no argument. “We’re leaving.”
You didn’t move, still staring at the man on the floor, and something in him snapped again.
He crossed the distance between you in two strides, grabbing your wrist and pulling you to him with enough force to make you stumble.
“I said, we’re leaving.” His voice was quieter this time, but the edge of danger was unmistakable.
Your gaze finally shifted to him, your eyes searching his face for something—an explanation, a reassurance, anything.
But all you found was rage.
As he dragged you out of the room, his grip unyielding, his mind raced.
This wasn’t over. Not even close.
You had betrayed him. Again.
And this time, he wasn’t sure he could let it slide.
No one else gets to have you. No one.
────────────
The door to your shared dorm slammed shut behind you with a bone-jarring finality. The echo reverberated in the small space, amplifying the oppressive silence that followed. You winced, clutching your throbbing wrist where his grip had bruised it. But before you could pull away, his hand was on you again, relentless and unyielding.
“Let go,” you hissed, yanking your arm back, your voice trembling despite your efforts to sound resolute. The command only seemed to enrage him further.
His response was immediate, a blur of motion and a sting that burned like fire across your cheek. The force sent you staggering, your knees hitting the cold floor as your vision swam. Pain blossomed, sharp and unrelenting, and you tasted copper on your tongue.
“Do you think I’m stupid?” His voice, usually so measured, so cold, was now raw and trembling with fury. He loomed over you, a monolith of rage, his shadow swallowing you whole. “Did you really think I wouldn’t see? Wouldn’t know?”
You pressed a trembling hand to your face, the sting of his slap radiating through your skull. You glared up at him, defiance flickering like a dying ember in your tear-filled eyes.
“What is wrong with you?” you spat, your voice quaking as you pushed yourself up. “I didn’t do anything!”
The words barely left your mouth before his hand shot out, tangling viciously in your hair. He yanked your head back, forcing you to meet his wild, unhinged gaze.
“Didn’t do anything?” he snarled, his face so close you could feel the heat of his breath against your skin. His lips twisted into a cruel smile that sent chills racing down your spine. “You let him touch you. You let him. Are you that desperate? That much of a pathetic little whore?”
You choked on a gasp as he tightened his grip, pulling hard enough to send a bolt of pain down your neck. “I didn’t—”
“Don’t lie to me.” His voice dropped to a deadly whisper, the calm before the storm. “I saw it. You didn’t push him away. You didn’t stop him.”
“You’re wong,” you bit out, your voice trembling with fury and fear. “You’re imagining things that aren’t there—”
Another slap cut your words short, sharper this time, enough to knock the breath from your lungs. You crumpled again, your cheek pressed against the floor, and before you could recover, his hand was back, dragging you up like a ragdoll.
“Do you spread your legs for anyone who pays attention to you?” he hissed, his voice venomous, laced with a dangerous kind of desperation. “Are you really that easy? That desperate for it?”
You glared at him through the haze of pain and tears, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing you break. But he wasn’t looking for defiance. He was looking for submission.
For proof that you were his, and his alone.
His free hand gripped your chin, forcing you to look at him. His expression was a terrifying mix of fury and something else—something far darker, far more possessive.
“Say it,” he growled, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “Say you’re mine. Say it, or so help me, I’ll make sure no one ever looks at you again.”
You opened your mouth to retort, to scream, but the words caught in your throat as his grip tightened, cutting off your air.
“Say. It.”
The room spun, your vision blurring as the oxygen left your lungs. Panic set in, and your resolve began to crumble. You clawed at his arm, your body trembling with the effort to stay conscious.
“Yours,” you gasped, barely audible, but it was enough.
His grip loosened just enough to let you breathe, but he didn’t let go. Instead, he leaned in closer, his lips brushing against your ear as he spoke.
“Good girl.”
The words sent a shiver down your spine, a sickening mix of relief and terror. His grip in your hair eased, but only to drag you closer, his arms encircling you in a cage of muscle and iron will.
“Don’t make me do this again,” he murmured, his voice softer now but no less threatening. “I don’t like hurting you. But I will if that’s what it takes to keep you.”
You stayed silent, too shaken to respond, your body trembling in his grasp. Deep down, you knew this wasn’t over. This was only the beginning of the storm.
────────────
Without another word, his lips slammed onto yours, a bruising, punishing kiss that stole what little breath you had left. Your eyes widened in shock, and you squirmed, thrashing against his iron hold, but it only seemed to fuel him further. His teeth bit down hard on your lower lip, drawing blood, and his tongue invaded your mouth with an almost feral desperation.
Every movement was a claim, a declaration, his hands gripping you like you might vanish if he let go. He growled against your lips, his voice a low, guttural snarl as he pressed you against the wall, his body pinning yours effortlessly.
“Since you’re so eager to spread your legs for any man who looks your way,” he hissed, breaking the kiss just long enough to speak, his breath hot and ragged against your skin, “why not for me? Your own older brother. Or does that only make you more of a filthy little slut?”
You shook your head vehemently, tears spilling down your cheeks, but he didn’t care. He didn’t want your consent; he wanted your submission. Your humiliation. His lips crashed against yours again, his teeth marking you, biting and bruising as though he could etch himself into your very being.
His hips pressed against yours, the weight of him inescapable as he ground against you with a possessive growl. Every word that left his mouth was venomous, dripping with jealousy and rage.
“Do you know how sick you make me?” he spat, his voice trembling with fury. “How fucking jealous I get every time I see someone else looking at you? Touching you? You’re mine. You’ll always be mine.”
Your protests were muffled, your struggles weakening under the sheer force of his assault. His hands roamed your body with an almost methodical cruelty, every touch a reminder that you belonged to him and no one else. The room seemed to shrink around you, the air heavy with his dominance, his possessive need swallowing you whole.
“No one else gets to have you,” he growled against your ear, his voice a deadly promise. “No one.”
His lips crashed against yours again, bruising, punishing, and suffocating. There was no gentleness, no hesitation—only raw desperation and rage poured into every motion. His teeth scraped against your lips, a deliberate, cutting edge to the kiss that made you whimper, the taste of blood sharp and metallic as it spread across your tongue. He wasn’t just kissing you; he was claiming you, forcing his presence into every corner of your being.
When you tried to pull back, his hand was there, tangling in your hair with a bruising grip, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. Every gasp you took was his to steal, every sound you made swallowed by his insistent, devouring mouth.
His tongue pressed into you, hot and invasive, tasting, consuming, as though he could erase any trace of anyone else with sheer force alone. The kiss deepened with every passing moment, turning darker, hungrier, as his free hand gripped your waist hard enough to leave marks, pressing your body against the wall with an unrelenting pressure.
The sharp pain of his bite pulled a gasp from your lips, and he seized the moment, his tongue sliding against yours in a way that felt almost mocking. It wasn’t enough for him to take; he wanted you to feel it—to feel the way he dominated every inch of you, every sound, every breath.
“You taste like lies,” he growled against your lips, the words vibrating through your chest as his teeth grazed your bottom lip again, threatening another sharp bite. His breath was hot and ragged, mingling with yours, and the fury in his eyes hadn’t dimmed—it had only sharpened, focused entirely on you. “Do you think I’d ever let anyone else have this? Have you?”
Your hands pushed weakly at his chest, but it was like trying to move stone. He laughed, a low, bitter sound that sent chills racing down your spine. “Pathetic,” he sneered, the word dripping with venom. “Look at you. Fighting when you know you’ll lose. You always lose.”
He kissed you again, harder this time, his teeth sinking into your lip just enough to sting before he licked the blood away with a slow, deliberate motion. “Mine,” he murmured against your lips, his voice low and possessive. “Every inch of you. Every breath you take. Don’t forget it.”
He shifted slightly, his hips pressing against yours, trapping you further as his mouth moved with calculated cruelty. Each kiss was an invasion, each touch a brand, his lips trailing down to your jawline and then to the curve of your neck. His teeth grazed the sensitive skin there, sending a jolt through your body that you couldn’t suppress.
“You think they could kiss you like this?” he hissed, his voice rough and filled with bitter jealousy. His lips latched onto the base of your throat, sucking hard enough to bruise as his hands roamed your sides with deliberate possessiveness. “Think again.”
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his face inches from yours, his breath fanning against your swollen lips. His thumb brushed your cheek, almost tender, before he pressed it against the raw bite mark he’d left. You flinched, and he smirked, leaning in to whisper against your ear.
“You’ll remember who you belong to. Every time you see these marks, every time you feel them—” His teeth grazed your earlobe, sending a shiver down your spine. “—you’ll remember me.”
Then his lips found yours again, relentless, brutal, as though he couldn’t get enough. His fingers dug into your waist, his nails biting into your skin, and every movement was a reminder of the storm raging beneath his skin.
“You make me like this,” he growled between kisses, his voice thick with fury and something darker. “You make me fucking crazy. You make me want to ruin you, just so no one else can even look at you.”
His words blurred with the heat of his kiss, the tension between you a heady mix of fear, pain, and something far more twisted. And in that moment, you knew there was no escape—not from him, not from this, and certainly not from the obsession that burned in his eyes every time they met yours.
"You're a such a fucking cheating bitch. But, you're my cheating bitch."
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List of Fandoms and Characters
Ace Attorney: N/A
Blue Lock: Rin Itoshi, Sae Itoshi, Yoichi Isagi
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gldnstrngs ¡ 2 days ago
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thoughts post merlin season finale rewatch for the anniversary:
(let me preface that ive never cried to the finale despite me watching it twice and rewatching arthurs death scene several times— i definitely got emotional but never cried)
1.) …so i cried… from the beginning of the episode… i just hated how gwen never got a proper goodbye from arthur and was aiding all of his men, wondering where he was and if he was okay😭 and then later on, when leon tells her that arthurs missing and she turns around and silently cries, but quickly recovers… that was SO heartbreaking. she just keeps going and cries to herself like she deserved so so so much better and i hate that she never got closure
2.) i know that merlin has really truly become emrys but im not sure if it was necessary for dragoon to be his Final Form. i didnt watch the first part so maybe i missed the importance of that, but i feel like the scene would’ve been so much better if merlin looked like himself and casted all those badass spells and everyone would see him
3.) WHEN ARTHUR WAKES UP TO MERLIN AND THE FIRST THING HE SAYS IS “merlin, where have you been?” IM NOT OKAY??? it wasnt “merlin, what are you doing here?” or “merlin, how did you get here?” it was merlin, where have you been? that whole time arthur was in battle all😭he😭wanted😭was😭merlin😭
and then the magic reveal. the goddamn magic reveal. that entire scene is so heartbreaking. tell me why i was so distraught when ive seen that scene more times than i can count. and he doesnt just say “i have magic, i used it to protect you” NO. he says i use it for you, only for you. THAT IS A CONFESSION. it’s such a subtle shift of words but it says SO MUCH.
arthur immediately being in denial kills me. it was never a thought in his head that merlin would actually have magic because he associated it with evilness and cruelty. but then he finds out that merlin has always had magic and the way his eyes become so sad… the way his finger brushed his merlins chin right before realizing the truth… im so…
4.) i couldnt stop crying when the scene cut to gwen in the castle, staring out the window and feeling that arthur is alive. her eyes are so sad. i just can’t get over the fact that she never had the goodbye she deserved
5.) as much as i hate the way arthur reacted to merlin having magic, i do understand. he was literally just in battle, was mortally wounded, and found out that the only person he thought he could trust had been lying to him from the moment they met. i dont believe arthur actually thought merlin was dangerous— he’s prone being angry before being sad as a defense mechanism and that was only fueled by finding out that gaius was also lying to him. at that point, it must’ve felt like every person he’d ever known and trusted only ever lied to him. its so tragic I CANT.
BUT ALSO on the other side of that i actually cannot handle how utterly heartbroken merlin looks. his red rimmed eyes because he was crying all night😭 thinking that arthur would hate him forever…
5.) this entire scene bro…
“why did you never tell me?”
“…i wanted to, but…”
“…what?”
“you would’ve chopped my head off.”
“…not sure what i would’ve done.”
“and i didn’t want to put you in that position.”
“…that’s what worried you?”
“some men are born to… plow fields, some live to be great physicians, others… to be great kings. me… i was born to serve you, arthur. and i’m proud of that. and i wouldn’t change a thing.”
UMMMM SO I HAVE MANY THOUGHTS. i have rewatched this scene so. many. times. it is genuinely one of the most beautiful scenes ever written in cinema call me dramatic but im just speaking facts
arthur’s face when he realized that merlin really did care for him. the way he instantly lights up, despite being in pain. and his eyes… theyre glued to merlin. the whole time, he couldn’t look at him directly, but now he was. he was just scanning his face, memorizing all of merlin’s features AND MERLIN IS JUST STARING AT ARTHURS LIPS
also. ALSO. how have i seen this so many times and never. NEVER. caught onto the fact that gwen and arthur’s theme (which is originally titled the love theme) WAS PLAYING IN THE BACKGROUND. there was no mention of gwen at all in that scene. that was all merlin and arthur. this just confirms to me that this is the moment arthur fully realized and accepted that he was in love with merlin
6.) gwen deserved to know that merlin was a sorcerer FROM MERLIN. they were best friends. THEY WERE BEST FRIENDS!!! HE SHOULDVE BEEN THE ONE TO TELL HER!!! they deserved a scene where merlin comes back from avalon and he and gwen hug and cry.
7.) gwaine and percival should NOT have gone after morgana. i understand their rage but there was no way they were going to defeat her unless they had excalibur or something…
and gwaines death was so unnecessary. that was clearly for shock factor and i hated it. but i did get emotional when percy was able to free himself because he heard gwaine was being tortured… and then hes there when gwaine dies… their foreheads touching… (im not ok)
8.) it breaks my heart that morgana felt no guilt or remorse when she saw arthur, wounded and on the verge of dying. you can so clearly see that arthur feels that way when he sees morgana die, but there’s nothing on her end. i know it’s meant to show how far gone she is but it genuinely doesn’t feel right. i really do think she would’ve experienced some sort of internal conflict when seeing her own brother dying… like maybe she realized that none of this was worth it. it didnt feel as good as she thought it would
and when she’s stabbed by merlin😭 and he says he blames himself for what she’s become. people don’t recognize it enough how merlin feels so much guilt for the way he treated morgana. i just know he didn’t want to kill her, but he had no choice and he knew it was his fault…
9.) is there a reason why merlin didnt call for kilgharrah. i know kilgharrah said in the previous episode that he would finally be lying to rest for eternity, but i feel like this was an especially dire situation where he was needed😭 AND MERLIN SUMMONS HIM LATER ON!!!
or what about aithusa??? LIKE THEY DID NOT HAVE TO BE ON HORSES THE WHOLE TIME
(if anyone can explain the reasoning then lmk otherwise it was just a plot hole and that pisses me off bruh)
10.) arthur’s death did not need to happen, yet it was one of the best death scenes i’ve ever scene. it was just so raw and painful. “just… just hold me…” WHAT IF I DIE??!?!,,!!, he thanks merlin, he pats his head, he brushes his cheek, he tries to hold his hand like im fjwjdjsjjswhshshsj
also originally i was not fully convinced by the theory that the breath arthur took before saying “thank you” was “i love you.” i didnt want to be delusional but i actually do think he did say that he loves merlin. AND THAT CAN BE INTERPRETED AS ROMANTIC OR PLATONIC!!! i def see it as romantic but yes… im so Normal…
11.) “i’ve failed?” just. don’t talk to me.
12.) when merlin stands by the boat arthur is laid to rest in, trying to hold back his tears only to sob as he touches his forehead. the way he tries to gather himself. the way he struggles to say arthurs name and cast the spell. the way he watches arthur drift off, shaking. just. pls.
13.) gwen my baby girl. i cannot emphasize this enough. you deserved so much better. my heart broke when she played with arthurs royal seal and then when i saw the empty throne beside her. she had no time to prepare for this. she just lost the love of her life.
14.) it cuts to leon and then percival. and then i realize theyre the only two left in the round table. they both look so distraught. they lost everyone they ever loved.
15.) gaius :( he was waiting for merlin with his favorite meal :(
16.) bro the truck always jumpscares me omfg why is it so loud😭😭😭 then i get sad because merlin is old and walking alone and its the present and he’s still waiting for arthur :(
they should’ve had the show end with arthur saying “merlin” instead of kilgharrah saying it. that’s literally all we needed. it would’ve been so perfect but here we are…
final thoughts:
i love that this episode wasnt just the battle and action. the focus of it was merlin and arthur, navigating their feelings from the magic reveal and arthurs mortal wound. its so painful and heartbreaking but that just symbolizes the love they have for each other. this entire episode was filled with their gentle moments, softly speaking and touching each other. then arthur dies in merlin’s arms but i dont think he’d want to be anywhere else
also!!! colin and bradley’s acting in this episode… it was absolutely PHENOMENAL. they are already such great actors, but they really nailed it in the series finale. i can’t get over how they speak with their eyes the whole time. you can the love, fear, and acceptance they experienced throughout the whole episode. it was just so beautiful and i think that was what rlly made this ep
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twistedhxart ¡ 15 hours ago
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He had to pretend. He had to pretend that he was delighted with all the guests who were gradually arriving and settling into their chambers to get some rest after the long journey.
He smiled at those who approached him, even though his world, the perfect world he had secretly built up, was crumbling inside. If they had looked at him any longer, they would probably have seen it in his eyes, but no one was interested in hearing anything other than 'I'm fine' at the moment. Besides, it was not ConlĂĄed's intention to reveal his innermost feelings and fears to them.
It was at a moment when the hustle and bustle around him seemed to calm down, a moment when he recognized Will among all the unimportant people. He just stood there, not moving, but looking at him.
ConlĂĄed's heart was pounding in his throat. He swallowed. Why wasn't he doing anything? Why didn't he approach him? Didn't he at least deserve an explanation? On the other hand... would he be able to cope with this explanation? Maybe it would be better if Will just said... nothing.
His heart wanted to run to him, wanted to hold him, to pepper him with kisses, to tell him how much he had longed for this day. Smell him, taste him, never let him go. But his head said: don't. Will had changed his mind. In all the time they hadn't seen each other, someone else had captured his heart.
So he merely cast down his eyes, turned away and walked off.
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Will's legs were heavy as he set foot in Velaris castle. This should have been a joyous moment, even if the joy had to be kept inside because it arose from a secret, but he did not feel happy to be here at all. Not under the current circumstances. He wanted to run off into the gardens, far away from everyone else.
Except for of course one.
As he nodded his head in greeting at the people they passed, he thought of ConlĂĄed. And for a very short moment, he imagined that he was walking there with the prince, arms linked, being welcomed by all the foreign royals. The thought eased him somewhat, even though it wasn't true. Even though he was lying to himself.
Ammarra happily chatted all the way over to their chambers. About this being her first big trip, about the beautiful dress she'd be wearing that night. All smiles and giggles, but Will could barely manage to listen to it. As soon as he'd delivered her to their quarters, he excused himself. The look on her face was one of confusion, but he didn't allow her room to question. He turned and walked back down the long hallway. ConlĂĄed's quarters were a level up. He wondered if he could get there unseen.
With so many people around, that actually was surprisingly easy. Everyone was occupied with their own business. Will spotted ConlĂĄed amongst the crowd. It was disappointing. He wanted to talk to him alone, ask about why he hadn't written. And he had some explaining to do of his own. He wanted ConlĂĄed to know he wasn't here by himself. That was not the kind of surprise he wished to drop on the prince. But his feet didn't move. He stood there and watched, taking in the image of the man he had not seen for so long. His heart beat a little faster because of it, with both excitement and nerves.
@twistedhxart
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lullabyes22-blog ¡ 2 days ago
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Snippet - A Survivor's Story - Forward But Never Forget/XOXO
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Sevika spittin' facts...
Forward but Never Forget/XOXO
Snippet:
"I hear you thinking," Sevika warns, without opening her eyes.
"Thinking?"
"About how to get Jinx away from him."
Despite reflex, Vi doesn't ball her hands into fists. She's getting better at concealment. Not a pro like Sevika. Not a savant like Silco. But she's learning. These past five months, she's learnt enough to last a lifetime. Yet she has so much left to know.
"He's not a monster," Vi says. "I thought he was. Now I understand he's just a fucked-up asshole. But that doesn't mean he's not dangerous."
"He's got his reasons."
"I'm tired of you defending him, Sevika."
"I'm defending—"
"—Zaun?" Vi's jaw grates. "Yeah. That's your big religion. The cause you've given everything to. And he's the messiah. You worship him. The rest of us have to believe too, or be cast out." Her eyes seize Sevika's, daring her to contradict. "It's easy to believe in him, too. I'd like to say otherwise. But I've seen him work in real-time. He's got a mojo. A pull, and he pulls who he wants. But that's not faith, Sevika. That's smokescreen to hide the rot inside. And someone like that, they learn all sorts of strategies to hide it. All that smooth talk, all that drive and charisma—they aren't Silco. They're the bracing that hides the sickness." 
"Look—"
"I have looked," Vi snaps, then takes a stabilizing breath. "I get it, okay? If he hadn't fought for Zaun, we'd still be under Piltover. If he hadn't done awful things, the Fissurefolk would be suffering worse. I understand that. He—Jinx—changed the city in ways no one else could've done. You can't scare monsters unless you're the scarier monster." She shakes her head. "Maybe he's the leader the Undercity—Zaun—needs right now. But what about ten years down the line? Twenty? What kind of shape will our home be if it's just a game of whack-a-villain every minute of every day? How do we take care of each other, if we're at each other's throats? How will Jinx take care of herself as she gets older? She doesn't need more monsters in her life, Sevika. She's got enough. She needs to feel safe. To know that her own city won't chew her up and spit her out if she slips up. To know her own home is behind her and not just a snakepit."
Sevika's features hold a deliberate smoothness. She says nothing.
"What people do isn't always who they are," Vi goes on. "Vander always told me that. I think it's true. For you. For a lot of folks who fought for Silco's cause. It's not true for Silco. Living means changing. Someone who can't change isn't really alive. Silco isn't." She swallows. "Not since Vander drowned him." 
Sevika takes a swallow of her beer. When she's finished, there's a half-smile on her face. Too old a smile, too knowing.
"You're right," she says. "He isn't alive."
Vi stares.
House odds were that Sevika would argue. That she'd shrug off Vi's outburst. Not that she'd pay it off with plainspoken fact.
"He's not alive," she repeats, "because he's forgotten how to be."
"Forgotten?"
"He's not you, Vi." Sevika's tone holds a weird stoicism. "If he was, he'd have had a different story. Not everyone's so lucky."
"Lucky?" Resentment creeps under Vi's skin. "I grew up in the Lanes. Same as you and Silco. I lost my family. My sister was stolen. I spent six years in Stillwater."
"A hard-knock life."
"What's that mean?"
Sevika shrugs. No sarcasm. Just blunt fact. "People in the Lanes—hell, people all over—go through all kinds of shit. They survive wars and famines. They get sold to slavers. They wake up one morning and a crazy Mage burns their village down. Or Noxus rolls in and salts all their fields. It's disaster after disaster. A life of hardship. Some learn early on how to cope. How to deal with pain. Others... it's like they just stop. Stop in time. Stop living completely." Her eyes go heavy-lidded. "Nobody has a perfect childhood. But some kids learn how to be happy, or at least float on when things aren't happy. A lot of it's down to nature. The rest? That's how you grow up. Who teaches you to be strong, and smart, and resilient. For you, it was Vander and your folks. Whoever gave you hope and kept you sane. For me..."
Belatedly, Vi understands.
"It was your sister."
Sevika doesn't flinch. Withdrawing a cigarillo from her pocket, she lights up perfunctorily. Brightleaf drifts in Vi's airspace.
"Don't recall mentioning Nandi to you," Sevika says.
"Silco did." Vi's eyelids droop. She feels tired all of a sudden. Torpid with the humidity; the slanting sunrays. With the surreal passage of time and the inexorable weight of history. "So did Vander, when I was a kid. She was the Priestess at Janna's Temple. Mom liked her." She looks away. "Mom was a believer in the old gods. Said they were a part of us, same as blood. She'd always visit the Temple for the Priestess' prayers. She'd stay for her stories. I remember those stories. I didn't understand 'em much, but I liked listening to her voice. I just never connected..."
That you two were family.
That you lost someone, same as me.
Vi's eyes are dry. But she feels the emotion lodged inside: half-processed.
"I didn't connect the dots," she repeats. "I'm sorry."
A plume of smoke rises pensively from Sevika's lips.
"She was a good woman," she says at length "Better one than me. I've made a career out of breaking bones. Nandi made a calling out of binding them back together.  But it was just a different kind of faith, y'know? She had faith in the divine. I had faith in me and mine. So I took care of her. She took care of me. We were family."
"Like me and Powder."
Sevika says nothing. She tips her chin back, staring at the sun-spangled sky.
"After she passed," Vi says, more tentatively, "you took up with Silco?"
The orientation of Sevika's body shifts.  "Don't recall mentioning that either."
"I—I saw you two."
"Saw us?" 
"Last night." Vi’s tongue burns as the confession slips past. " At the penthouse."
The cigarillo smolders in Sevika's prosthetic fingers: spark and flint. Smoke drifts over her face. Her hair's tied in a high tail today. There's nothing to conceal her expression. Not that there's an expression to conceal. Her eyes, meeting Vi's, reflect nothing in the metalhazy glints.
She is a monolith, and monoliths don't flinch.
Neither does Vi. This isn't a place for shame. They've known each other too long and too bitterly for that.
"I know," Vi mutters. "I know it wasn't my business."
"Then why make it your business?"
"Because—" It's an effort to match Sevika's stare "Because you and him... it's like you're stuck. Stuck on him. Stuck to him. He's bad news, Sevika. Not just for you, but everyone." She takes a shuddery breath, trying to keep the kneejerk anger out. "Whatever you're getting out of it, you can get better elsewhere."
"You offering, Vi?"
The near-flinch becomes a flush. "That's not what I—"
Except Sevika's not challenging her. Her demeanor's the same as when she and Vi used to spar: calm, level, blunt.
The bond between them doesn't go deep. Can't—given their convoluted history. Yet territorial as Sevika is, she takes care of her turf. Looks out for her own. Since Vi's return to the Lanes, she's treated her... not as an ally, but as a fellow Trencher.
They've both known hardship and come out stronger. They both understand that when disaster hits, it can make enemies out of friends—and friends out of enemies. 
Vi and Sevika are neither. They inhabit a shadowy zone in between. But that zone has its own language, and it's a clean one. No deadweight. No dredged-up debts.
Just the give-and-take of hard-hitting truth.
"It's funny," Sevika says. "The way folks throw that word around. Better. They're always thinking of what-ifs. What could be, instead of what is. Me, I like the facts. What's real, not what may come to pass."
"What's real is he's using you," Vi snaps. "Same as he uses everybody. He doesn't love you, Sevika."
"Love." Sevika's lip curls up at one corner. "What’s love got to do with it, little girl?"
"I—what?"
"You say Zaun's my big religion? Well, let me tell you. Love's yours. And it's got you—you, Jinx, Silco—so twisted up in knots, you're a fucking mess."
"I'm not a—"
"A fucking mess," Sevika repeats, and the tone brooks no argument. "All of you. That's the problem. You've got no perspective. No sense of self. No clue what's what. Everything's love, and you tote that word around like junkies with a fix. As if it's the answer to everything. The cure-all. Well, let me break it to you: it's not. Not even close."
"But—" Vi is stunned. "Then what's it for? What's the point?"
"There is no point," Sevika snaps. "Love's not a solution. It's not even a problem. It's just an emotion. And it's not the only one. There's rage. There's grief. There's hate. And they're just as real. Just another part of living." Her jaw hardens. "I loved my sister, Vi. Loved her enough that I'd strangle anybody who'd put a hand on her. Not because she was the best woman in the world—and she was—but because she was the best part of me. She was my family, same way Jinx is yours. When I lost her, I went to war. Didn't care if it was Enforcers, or Topside, or the whole goddamn world. I was ready to tear the planet down. Because I'd already been torn apart. I didn't have anything left."
"Sevika," Vi says, but doesn't finish.
She's been where Sevika has. She understands.
"I was broken," Sevika goes on. "I thought, without love, I'd stay broken. I was wrong. There's a whole lot more to life than that. And Silco..."
Her cadence doesn't waver. But there's a different undercurrent. Something raw, and blisteringly real.
"We had a thing, once," she says. "A shortlived thing. But that's the least of our history, Vi. It's not why I follow him. And it's not why I was with him last night."
"Why, then?" Vi's throat is tight. "Why stay with him?"
"Because… when I was broken, he knew what to do with the brokenness. He didn't ask me to be someone else. Didn't try to put me back together. He took me as I was. Because he understood that grief doesn't just end. It can't. There's no escaping it. But you can't let it end you, either. People have it worse; they have less. Me? I had more. When I had Nandi, I had everything. When I lost her, I lost it all. And what's left was an empty space, and filling it with something. Something that'd last the distance." She lets off a breath. A single strand of smoke uncurls. "Silco gave me that. He put his life in my hands. He laid his cause at my feet. He had faith in me. And that faith meant something."
"A way to go on," Vi says.
"That's the best anyone can ask for." Sevika smiles, and her hard face fills with soft lines. "Love's a fine thing, Vi. But it can't protect your family. It can't keep them safe. You gotta fight for that. And when you've fought as long as I have—taken more lives than you've seen years—it's not about the love. It's about what's left. About doing your part to keep it standing."
"Even if it means dying?"
Sevika doesn't miss a beat. "It's never about dying, Vi. It's about the life you choose before that."
"Silco can't give you a life."
"I know." Sevika's smile dwindles. The softness and hardness don't. "But he's given me everything else. The rest? I'll make do. My sister taught me how."
Vi says nothing. She's run out of arguments. Run, too, out of anger.
They sit in silence, watching the afternoon unfold.
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kezdispenser ¡ 2 days ago
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Cuddling Isn’t in the Goddamn Manual
A Soldier Boy Christmas one shot
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The snowstorm outside coated the city in a perfect winter wonderland. Streetlights cast a soft glow over the white-blanketed streets, and your apartment felt like a cozy little bubble insulated from the cold chaos beyond. The Christmas tree in the corner glimmered with fairy lights, and the smell of cinnamon cookies mixed with the faint aroma of the hot chocolate you’d just poured for yourself.
Ben—better known to the world as Soldier Boy—was slouched on your couch in full “tough guy” mode. His leather jacket was still zipped halfway up, his boots propped carelessly on the coffee table, and his beer dangling loosely in one hand. The perfect picture of a man who thought he was too cool for comfort.
“You know,” you said as you walked in and set your mug down on the side table, “you could at least take off your jacket and pretend to enjoy yourself. It’s Christmas Eve.”
He didn’t even glance at you, eyes fixed on the TV where some black-and-white holiday classic was playing. “Jacket stays on. Gotta stay ready for action.”
You snorted, flopping down onto the couch beside him. “What action? The reindeer uprising?”
That earned you a side-eye and a faint smirk, but he didn’t dignify it with a response.
“Anyway,” you continued, nudging his knee with your foot, “I was thinking we could cuddle for a bit. You know, really lean into the festive spirit.”
Ben’s laugh was loud and derisive, the kind of laugh that made it clear he thought you’d lost your damn mind. “Cuddling? You’re kidding, right?”
“Why would I be kidding? It’s Christmas! It’s cold! I’m cute!”
“Yeah, well, cuddling’s not exactly my thing,” he said, taking a swig of his beer. “Not manly. Never has been.”
“Oh, please,” you said, crossing your arms. “You’re telling me the guy who once hugged a flamethrower like it was his long-lost lover can’t handle a little cuddle?”
“That was different,” he said defensively.
“Uh-huh. Sure it was.” You leaned back dramatically, letting out a loud, theatrical sigh. “Fine. Guess I’ll just have to cuddle myself. Or, I don’t know, maybe the throw pillows. They’re softer than you, anyway.”
He scowled, his jaw tightening in that familiar way that meant you were getting under his skin. You knew him too well; you could see the flicker of hesitation in his eyes, the way his hand stilled on his beer bottle.
“You’re really not gonna let this go, are you?”
“Nope,” you said cheerfully, scooting a little closer to him. “Look, it’s Christmas Eve. Just one night, Ben. One tiny cuddle. No one’s gonna know, and I promise not to tell anyone you’re secretly a big teddy bear under all that macho posturing.”
He gave you a flat look. “I am not a teddy bear.”
“Sure you’re not,” you teased, poking his arm.
For a moment, you thought he was going to dig in his heels and keep up the act. But then he groaned, setting his beer down on the coffee table with a thud. “Fine. One night. But if you so much as think about telling anyone, I’m gone.”
Your grin was instantaneous and shameless. “Deal.”
Before he could change his mind, you crawled into his lap, making yourself comfortable as you wrapped your arms around his neck. He stiffened at first, like he didn’t quite know what to do with himself, but you weren’t worried.
“Relax,” you murmured, resting your head against his chest. “It’s not gonna kill you.”
“You don’t know that,” he muttered, though his hands slowly settled on your back.
You couldn’t help but smile as you felt him relax, his body softening against yours despite his grumbling. He was warm, solid, and oddly comforting in a way that didn’t match the image he projected to the world.
“This doesn’t mean anything,” he said after a while, his voice quieter now, almost thoughtful.
“Of course not,” you said, biting back a laugh. “Just a totally meaningless Christmas cuddle.”
“Damn right.”
The movie played on in the background, the faint sound of holiday music filtering in from the street below. You closed your eyes, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath you. His hand started tracing slow circles on your back, and you smiled to yourself.
“Hey,” he said after a while, his voice softer than you’d ever heard it. “Merry Christmas, doll.”
You tilted your head to look up at him, your smile widening. “Merry Christmas, Ben.”
And for that one night, Soldier Boy let himself be a little less soldier and a little more boy.
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A/N: A little christmas miracle from soldier boy and from me to you guys.
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mldrgrl ¡ 2 days ago
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La La Land
by: mldrgrl Rating: Teen Pairing: Hanella Summary: Hank gets an offer he can't refuse and brings Stella along.
Never in Hank’s career had one of his novels been so sought after for a film deal.  Charlie had been fielding calls on a daily basis from studio execs and some fairly prestigious producers trying to smooth talk their way into buying the rights.  Some of the offers were so low it was offensive, but some had been worth listening to their pitch before Hank ultimately shot them down.  Charlie just assumed Hank was trying to start a bidding war, but no amount of money could tempt Hank over this book.  Maybe for the first time in his life, he felt extremely protective over this piece of work and he wasn’t going to let some studio bastardize his masterpiece, not for all the money in the world.
And then Netflix came calling and their offer to fly him out to LA and hear what they had to say happened to coincide with Stella’s spring break and well, why not take a free trip to the west coast, first class, for some wining and dining on someone else’s dime?  Three days and two nights at The Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel, because what could be more Hollywood than Marilyn Monroe’s former residence?  Sure.
Stella was whisked away almost as soon as they arrived.  Per the check-in clerk, “your wife has been booked for a spa treatment, Sir, and the studio has sent a car for your meeting.”  And with that, fingers were snapped, a bellhop appeared, and Hank went one way, Stella another.  Charlie was waiting in the black Escalade that was apparently his ride to the studio.
“Runkle,” Hank said, putting his agent in a headlock to rub his knuckles back and forth over his smooth, bald head.
“Dammit, Hank,” Charlie complained, slapping at Hank’s arm.  
“What?  It’s not like I’m gonna mess up your hair.”  Hank pressed his lips to the top of Charlie’s head before he released him.
“No, but you’ll wrinkle me.”  Charlie pushed himself across the car seat, away from Hank, smoothing his tie down his chest.
“Same Runkle, still as tightly clenched as a nun’s twat.”
“This is a big deal, Hank.  Netflix has more money than God and they want your book.  Maybe they want a whole development deal.  I could retire.  I could spend the rest of my days sipping mai tais on a lanai in Florida.”
“Florida is where rich assholes go to die, Charlie.”
“Hank, I’m telling you, I think this is big.  They fly you out here, they put you up at the Roosevelt, they’re sending private cars, they don’t just do that for a lowball offer.”
“I know how much dollar signs get you hard, Charlie, but try not to nut before we even get to the meeting.  Besides, I’m probably not even going to say yes.”
“Ohhhhhh…”  Charlie bent his head back and put a hand over his chest.  “Hank, you say things like that and it triggers my agita.”
“They’re gonna want to change the ending, which is a nonstarter for me, and they’re gonna want to cast some…some America’s sweetheart like Reese fucking Witherspoon as Miranda, which tells me that they haven’t even read the book at all, they had some intern pass on a synopsis and they don’t give a fuck about the actual material, they just want content.  They’re just a fucking content factory shitting out turdburgers that only like five percent of is even watchable.”
“What’s wrong with Reese Witherspoon?”
“Nothing’s wrong with Reese Witherspoon except you can’t cast Reese Witherspoon in a part that should go to…I don’t know who, but the opposite of Reese Witherspoon.”
“I think you’re really underestimating Reese Witherspoon here, Hank, she’s a fantastic actress, you know she’s an Academy Award winner.”
“Jesus, Runkle, you’re missing the point.”
“Okay, okay.”  Charlie put his hands up in surrender.  “No Reese Witherspoon.”
Hank closed his eyes.  It’d been years since he smoked, but he wanted a cigarette.  Every time he came back to LA it was more and more apparent what a hostile, toxic environment it was for him.  He didn’t want to go to the meeting anymore, he just wanted to have the driver turn the car around and take him back to Stella.  Take him back to New York.  He never should have come.  It would have been a lot less time consuming to just tell them to fuck off over Zoom.
After they arrived at the studio lot, Hank and Charlie were escorted to the production offices by a young PA whose voice had probably just cracked, but was eager to please.  He brought them bottles of water and a tray of snacks which Hank refused and Charlie happily dug into and ripped open a bag of peanuts.  The conference room they were left in had a long, sleek table made of solid oak and a view of Sunset Boulevard.
Minutes later, a young woman entered the room through a side door and an entourage of assistants, all women, filed in behind her, all sitting in chairs along one wall as she approached Hank and Charlie.  She was tall and angular and looked as though she’d stepped off of the latest cover of Vogue.  Her long dark hair was pulled into a slick ponytail and her heels were as sharp as her nails, painted black.
“Eloise Lambert,” she said, extending her hand to Hank.  “We appreciate you coming down.  Did Paul offer you tea or espresso or is there anything else we can get for you?”
“An espresso sounds nice,” Charlie said.
“You must be the agent,” Eloise said, shifting her handshake to Charlie.  “We spoke on the phone.”
“Charles Runkle.  Love the set up here.  Great production house you’ve got.”
“Settle down, Charlie, they’re supposed to be kissing our asses here, not the other way around.”
Eloise smiled and moved away to take a seat across from the two of them at the short side of the table.  One of the assistants slid an espresso in front of Charlie while another slid an ipad in front of Eloise.
“You know I was a PA on A Crazy Little Thing Called Love,” Eloise said, referring to the movie that had been made of Hank’s breakout best seller, God Hates Us All.  “It was the first film set I was ever on.”
“Oh?” Hank said, keeping himself as relaxed as possible as visions of sexual harassment charges started dancing in his head.
“And it’s when I vowed that one day I would be an executive producer.  It’s criminal how that was adapted.  It makes sense to me why you’ve turned down all the other offers for this.”
“I may or may not have punched the director in the dick at a screening, but I got over it, eventually.”
“Todd Carr.  Decent guy.  Shit director.”
“I take it he’s not on the shortlist for this?”
“I think he’s working on industrials these days.”  
“Too bad.”
“I’m going to have Sabrina here take over with the pitch.”  Eloise pulled out the empty chair that was next to her and one of the women came over to sit beside her.  She was almost a carbon copy of her boss with her dark, slick-backed hair and sharp heels, but she also resembled a child playing dress up.  
“Mr. Moody,” Sabrina said, nodding at Hank.  “Mr. Runkle.  I’m sure the two of you know Reese Witherspoon.”
Hank pressed his lips together and shot his agent a look.  Charlie’s eyes were wide, but he kept them forward.  Hank felt like kicking him under the table, but refrained.
“Uh, yeah,” Hank said.  “I’ve heard of her.”
“It’s not really a secret that her book club has been a major success and that most of her picks have then gone on to be developed from there.”
“Mmhm.”
“We’d like to do something similar, but we want to cultivate a selection that has a bit more…edge, let’s say.”
Hank relaxed a little.  “So you’re not looking at Reese for…casting?”
“Casting?”  It was Sabrina that tensed now.  “That would be a very interesting choice.  Is that…is that who you had in mind for Miranda?”
“God, no.”
“Okay, great.”  Sabrina nodded and then gestured at someone over her shoulder.  “We do have a few choices in mind, if you’d like to take a look.”
“Yeah, sure.”
One of the women gave some papers to Sabrina and then she slid them across the desk to Hank and Charlie.  It was a standard breakdown of the characters and the first name on the list under Miranda was Catherine Keener.  He could see that.  He could even get behind that.
“Okay,” Hank said.  “Back to the anti-Witherspoon book club.”
“Not anti, just…alt.  Material that might have a bit more grit and that may not always have the neat little happy endings tied up in a bow.”
“So you’re okay with the ending?” Hank asked.
“We’re not trying to give this the A Crazy Little Thing Called Love treatment,” Eloise said.  “There’s no reason to not be faithful to the material.”
“Which is why we’d like you to write the scripts,” Sabrina added.  “Be the showrunner.”
“Wait, what?  Showrunner?”
“Hank would make a great showrunner,” Charlie said.  “I think this sounds like a fantastic idea.”
“Shut up, Charlie.  What do you mean, showrunner?”
“We’d like to shoot this as a limited series,” Eloise answered.  “Eight episodes, possibly ten.”
Hank managed not to fidget through the rest of the pitch as they explained what they wanted from him in terms of scripts, the responsibilities of casting, hiring directors, even the minutiae of costuming and set decoration would fall on his shoulders.  The weight of it freaked him out, but the opportunity to maintain creative control over one of his works was enticing.  He was suddenly taking this offer very seriously.
“And what about location?” he asked.
“What about it?” Eloise inquired.
“The novel’s set in New York.  I’m in New York.  I’m not spending eight months in Atlanta or wherever the fuck the tax break du jour is for filming these days.”
“We have relationships with the studios in Queens, not to mention a plethora of east coast based line managers and location scouts to choose from.  That won’t be a problem.”
“I don’t know the first fucking thing about running a show.”
“Fortunately, we do.”  
Hank felt backed into a corner.  He had no good reason not to say no to such a deal.  He looked to Charlie, who had the same panic written on his face as that time he’d stupidly thought he could handle a chili dog with sauerkraut from a street vendor on Melrose.  His silence was loud.
“There is one other potential offer we’d like to make,” Sabrina said, cutting the tension that suddenly seemed to fill the room.  “The daughter in the novel, Paige, she isn’t really part of the story, but she’s mentioned quite often.”
“Yeah.”
“We were thinking that, if this were to be successful, that maybe we could do a second series exploring her perspective.”
“I don’t know that I care to explore Paige’s POV.”
“Not you, necessarily.  Isn’t your daughter also a writer?”
“I don’t know that Becca would be interested in Paige’s POV either.  You’d have to ask her.”
“Just food for thought,” Eloise said.  “A father-daughter created series might make for a potentially interesting gimmick from a marketing perspective.”
“And lucrative,” Charlie suddenly piped up.
“You’ll have to excuse him,” Hank said, glaring at Charlie.  “He’s got his sights set on a condo in a golf cart community in Florida.”
“Wouldn’t be a very good agent if he wasn’t interested in numbers,” Eloise answered, gesturing over her shoulder at another woman who passed her what Hank recognized as a set of contracts.  “I’ll presume you’ll want your lawyer to look things over.”
Charlie immediately started flipping through the pages as soon as the contract was in his hands and Hank stepped on his toes under the table.  He stood up, and Eloise stood as well, coming towards him with her hand outstretched.
“I think you’ll find our offer more than satisfactory,” she said, shaking Hank’s hand.  “But, if there’s anything we’ve left off the table, I’m sure Mr. Runkle will be in touch to let us know.”
“I am a little disappointed you didn’t even try to hit on me.  I thought that’s what all the big Hollywood executives did.”
“My wife probably wouldn’t appreciate it if I did.”
He shrugged.  “Neither would mine.”
Hank left the offices in a cloud of quiet dread.  Once upon a time he would’ve just signed the contract without giving it much thought as to how he would pull it off, but the older he’d gotten, the more contemplative he’d become, less impulsive.  While his agent may have been ready to open a good bottle of champagne, he wasn’t quite there yet.  There was only one person’s input that mattered to him.  
Wanting to avoid what was sure to be his Charlie’s incessant babbling on the ride back to the hotel, Hank opted to walk.  He thought his agent would put up a protest, but Charlie waved to him from the back seat, already on the phone with their lawyer.  He watched the Escalade pull away and made his way west on Sunset.  The too blue skies and palm trees lining the streets fed into Hank’s already contemplative mood by adding a dose of nostalgia and melancholy.  
At Vine Street, Hank turned right, wanting to catch a glimpse of Capitol Records on the way up to Hollywood Boulevard.  He casually browsed the walk of fame stars that lined the side street, tallying up how many were dead and gone and were largely forgotten.  He had to pull out his phone to take a photo of the star of Richard Dix and set a reminder to himself to search for a wikipedia page later and find out if the man was a porn star or his real name was Dick Dix.  
He crossed Hollywood to go stand in front of the famous recording studio building and daydream about what his life might look like if he’d went into music instead.  Probably dead.  He snapped a photo of the building and texted it to Fish.  As he put his phone back in his pocket, he paused as his attention was drawn back to the sidewalk.  
“I’m a writer,” he mumbled to himself as he crouched down over the star of Billy Wilder.  “But then, nobody’s perfect.”
Hank had made it no secret that a lot of his career had been driven by money and he’d always found it to be a more honest, less vulgar motivator than fame, but secretly, deep down, he’d always admired the real storytellers of the world, the ones driven by passion and need to express.  Even more, he’d always admired the ones that could make their art last.  He had the soul of a tortured artist, all he was ever lacking was the brain brimming with stories.  He took a photo of the star and made no other stops on the rest of the walk to the hotel.
The same check-in clerk from hours before nodded to him as he headed to the elevators.  He double-checked the room number written on the keycard holder and punched the number three.  A fully-stocked wet bar greeted him beside the door and he called out Stella’s name as he grabbed a glass and looked for the whiskey.  His wife emerged from the bedroom door in a plush robe, looking more than freshly showered.  Her hair was pulled back, but fluffed.  Her face was dewy and her cheeks were pink.
“Netflix spring for the deluxe spa package?” he asked, pouring himself a drink.
“A lovely facial and a wonderful Swedish massage,” she answered.
“Happy ending included?”
“I was waiting for you for that.”
Hank grinned as he took a sip of whiskey and opened up one arm as Stella slipped her arms around his waist.  “Good answer,” he murmured, and lowered his glass to kiss her.  She licked a drop of whiskey off his bottom lip when he pulled away.
“How did it go?” she asked.
Hank grunted and took one of Stella’s hands, crossing his arm over her chest as he shuffled them out to the main area.  He caught a glance of the pool over the balcony view from the wall to wall sliding glass doors as he pulled her down onto the black leather couch.  He crossed both feet on the coffee table that looked like it had been carved from driftwood and she put her hand under the side of his jacket to run her hand across his chest.
“They want to give me everything I never knew I even wanted,” he said.
“How very unsatisfying for you.”
He grunted again and took another sip of whiskey before he handed her the glass to sit up and pull his jacket off.  She tucked her feet up under her and balanced the glass on her knee as he leaned back and sighed, crossing his feet on the table again and lacing his fingers behind his head.
“They don’t want to change the ending?” she asked.
“Nope.”
“Did they share their thoughts on casting?”
“I saw a list.”
“And there was no Reese Witherspoon, I take it?”
He chuckled and then turned his head towards her.  “No, they seemed to be spot on with the breakdown.  And, they were thinking a limited series format, not a movie.”
“For television?”
“More or less.  Eight to ten episodes.”
“Is that preferable?”
“They want me to develop it.  Be the showrunner.”
“What does that mean?”
“Write it, cast it, set decorate the fucking thing if I want to, basically be the czar of the show.”
“I see.”  She hummed and then her expression turned pensive.  
Hank took the glass of whiskey out of Stella’s hand for another drink and then offered it to her.  She shook her head so he quickly downed the rest, coughed once from the sting of it and pounded a fist lightly against his sternum.  Sometimes he forgot that he couldn’t drink the way he used to.  She took the glass from him and put it on the table and then settled next to him again, her hand on his chest.
“What are you thinking?” he asked.
“Is this something you want to do?”
“I’ve never had full creative control over a project before.  It’s tempting.”
“Hm.”
She was quiet again.  He slumped towards her to nuzzle his face against her neck and closed his eyes as he breathed her in.  She smelled like coconut and her skin was warm and slick as he slipped his hand through the gap in her robe to caress her breast.  “God, you smell good,” he mumbled.  He dragged his bottom lip back and forth across her collarbone and she finally reached up and put her fingers in his hair, scratching her nails up the back of his head how he liked it, but didn’t say anything.  
“Tell me what you think I should do, Sherlock.”
“I think it sounds as though you want to say yes, don’t you?”
“I want to know what you think,” he murmured, tipping his chin down and opening his eyes to gaze at her half-exposed breast.  He circled his fingertip around her areola in the way he knew she liked, very lightly, counterclockwise.  “Be my voice of reason.  Talk me out of it, maybe.”
“I would never talk you out of something you want to do.”
“But?”
“What will the timeline of this be like?  I have exams approaching and I don’t know how flexible I can be with the time I can take, not like previously when I was in London.  If it meant weeks apart…months, even…”
“Mmm say flexible again, but let me get my dick in my hand first.”  He pulled back with a smile to let her know he was teasing before she could develop a frown or chastise him for not taking her seriously.  She frowned anyway and he began massaging her breast as penance.  “Not to worry, Sherlock, I’ve already made it conditional that I wouldn’t even consider agreeing to their offer if they weren’t willing to shoot the show in New York.”
Stella shifted and pulled on Hank’s hair so that he had to tip his head back to look up at her.  “Are you telling me they’ve offered to let you write your own show, cast it, direct it, shoot the ser-”
“Don’t forget set decorate the fucking thing if I wanted to,” he interrupted.
“Set decorate the fucking thing, and shoot the series in New York.  You who has no experience with any of these things?”
“I thought I was going to have to pinch myself, but no one offered to blow me, so it was pretty obvious it wasn’t a dream.”
“You actually want to do all those things?  Be responsible for all of it?”
Hank sobered and sighed as he pulled his hand free from Stella’s robe.  “Take the hits if it’s a failure, you mean?”
“No, that isn’t what I meant at all, though it would be something to think about.  Trust me, being in charge of a number of people can seem alluring, but it’s also a heavy burden.”
“You don’t think I can carry the load?”  He put his hand up and scrunched his face.  “Wait, don’t answer that.”
Stella wove her fingers through Hank’s and pressed her palm against his.  All he had to do was give her a gentle pull and she lifted up onto her knees.  He held onto her as she straddled his thighs and he slouched into the back of the couch.  He took her other hand and for a few quiet moments, she stretched her fingers between his as he rubbed circles over the insides of her wrist with his thumbs.  She finally twisted her hands free and then brought them to the back of his neck and laced her fingers together. 
“This is a massive offer,” she said.  “It will mean a lot of time and work and energy.”
“I know that,” he answered, unknotting her robe.  Her breasts were bare, but she had plain white cotton panties on.  Nothing fancy or lacy, but a view he could still appreciate for the dark shadow of pubic hair through the thin material and the wet spot that hinted at her arousal.    
“It’s a huge commitment.”
He let his thumbs drift down and dip into the waistband of her panties.  “I think I’m pretty good at commitment,” he murmured.  “Don’t you?”   
“Very, very good,” she whispered, thighs clenching against his legs.
He took a deep breath and moved his hands up her body, over her breasts to her shoulders and back down again.  “Do you know who Billy Wilder is, Sherlock?”
“Should I?”
“Golden age of Hollywood filmmaker.  Wrote and directed Sunset Boulevard, Some Like it Hot.  On his tombstone, he had them put ‘I’m a writer, but then, nobody’s perfect.’”
“Ah, I see.”
Hank cocked his head at her.
“Some Like it Hot,” she said.  “Paraphrasing the last line of his own film.”
“Your well of knowledge never ceases to impress.”
“It’s a rather shallow well, I’m afraid, but I do know that one.”
He hummed and ran the flat of his hand down the front of her chest to her navel.  “I don’t know what they did to you in that spa, but I don’t think you’ve ever felt so soft.”
“All but the happy ending.”
“Oh yeah, let’s not forget about that.”  He made a move to slip his hand back between her legs but she grabbed it and pushed it away.
“Finish your story,” she said.
“And I saw his star on the walk of fame today, the end.”  He tried to touch her again, but she pushed him away again and raised her brow.  He sighed.  “And I saw his star on the walk of fame today and it made me think about how lucky he was to have been able to put his words out there and that we can sit here what, sixty years later, and remember what he wrote.”  
“I’ve been snobbish about it in the past,” he continued, “and thought that people who could quote novels were somehow superior to people who could quote movies, but honestly, so what?  Someone had to write it first for someone to say.  And then someone out there thought it worthy of their grey matter.  I have always wondered what it could be like to see something through from page to screen.  Not have to complain when they inevitably get it so fucking wrong.  So, if Netflix has faith in me, maybe I should have faith in myself and take the chance.  No, I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing, but I never know what the fuck I’m doing so it’ll just be another day ending in ‘y’.”
Stella’s eyes, dark blue and piercing, softened and lightened.  She smiled and her mouth descended onto Hank’s in a firm kiss.  He squeaked in surprise and then chuckled.  He managed to grasp her hips again and pull her firmly down against his chest.
“My brief affair with an existential crisis turn you on, Sherlock?”
“No, but your commitment does.”
He grinned and then flipped her down to the couch.  “Now, then,” he said.  “I finished my story.  I’d say it’s time for your happy ending.”
“About damn time.”
The End
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kitsuneisi ¡ 6 months ago
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All the characters that are going to appear on DDVAU!!
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lpsgirl109 ¡ 6 months ago
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Im actually never forgiving Descendants: The Royal Wedding for being all silly goofy happy cartoon and then out of fucking NOWHERE just dropping "I really miss Carlos guys" HEY DISNEY WHAT THE FUCK IS YOUR PROBLEM
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starrysharks ¡ 1 year ago
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i wonder if white people specifically white progressives realise that black people are only ever seen as their skin color first and foremost
#this goes for all poc but im talking about black people here#black people are constantly connected to their skin color and tone in good ways and in not good ways#people will always see you as your race first because white is considered the default#like if someone wanted to insult me the first thing they would go for is my race or gender presentation#whenever an actor is cast for a role people see the fact that they are black before anything else - talent. style. etc is ignored#black people are othered in society to put it bluntly . that is why white people get so upset when black people are cast as any role#or when they uuuuuh you know exist#and if the other becomes the majority - say a movie with mostly black people or a black-exclusive setting#then white people will get uncomfortable and complain#maybe the way i explained it is weird idk im not good at explaining#what im trying to say is that blackness is not something you can hide unless you are able to pass as white/are biracial etc.#and so the many stereotypes about black people are what people see first#what i'm trying to get at is that the way people percive black people completely changes our experiences esp if we're queer or women#a white and visibly queer person will have a different experience than a black and visibly queer person#and white progressives often forget that#sorry if this was explained weird im not a good explainer and also some bad shit happened today so my head is not really in the game#do people even say that god#whatever man
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keeps-ache ¡ 8 months ago
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HEY
#art#my art#artists on tumblr#digital art#oc#pink space#i really like the subtract glitch i've been doing recently - so here's some of that again lol :3#the way it interacts with their palettes is so fun i like it a lot ehegh :33#//anyway do you ever consider just tossing out any part the human body you've learned to draw and just drawing dumb little guys with arms#like pipecleaners forever or what hfhs#//oh this is was doobled in traditional originally#i need to digitize more of these. Because#though aura's hair was more extreme in the second panel in that version - i'm tired though and 3 days ago it was the same so no feelings to#change that lol :)#also i didn't shrink the noise enough so it didn't look right - and i was not going to reimport it so Bon Voyage my dude hfhs#was Supposed to fit on a 900x900 canvas but i made the panels a liiiiitle bit too big so it's 950x950#which is Fine it's a round number but it's not a Round-Round number so [gesturing]#1000x1000 was way too big for this little thing so she sits at a pleasant halfway point :>#//anyway i was also up til 3 a.m. last night doing ?? something ?? i genuinely don't even know what lmfhsbvh#nice though maybe my brain'll get a reset lol :3#stay up really late some random nights and jumpstart your brain!! it's foolproof!! never fails!! [<- these statements have not been reviewe#by the FDA or the Center for Sleep Control]#//ANywho now i'm going to be on my way#/oh i also forgot to post the oath n aura refs i made for artfight lol-#i'll prolly put those up w/ the kira and hid ones though :>>#i like to have the whole ensemble :D i Do feel bad when one of them gets left out hghsfh - like forgetting a stuffed animal somewhere#even though they're all together for small portion of the story it still feels off lol#i should prolly introduce the rest of the cast at some point. .... ......... ..........hm yea prolly. maybe one day hfhs#//anyway NOW i'm going i've run out of tag space i think hfhs - toodles !! :>
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sonknuxadow ¡ 9 months ago
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im generally not a fan of the idea of any of the early 2000s sonic games being remastered because i think those games not having the most updated looking graphics or the best voice acting ever is part of the charm i dont want them to be changed to look and sound exactly like every other sonic game thats come out in the past 14 years
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futurefreedomau ¡ 2 years ago
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Here are the designs for the main gang for my AU
(These are the absolute youngest age of these characters and can be in the Au be aware that they can be depicted as older)
Sonic: 25
Tails:18
Knuckles:26
Amy:23
Cream:16
Here's a poll too
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bmpmp3 ¡ 5 months ago
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the really beautiful landscape/skyscape animation in makoto shinkai's works tends to be the big thing i see focused on and that is understandable and deserved like the weather and lighting effects are unREAL but i do think we should also appreciate how absolute insane the plotlines of his original movies get. at least two movies with in universe catastrophes with major ecological implications. the guns and explosions. theres that one movie i havent seen yet with the guy who turns into a chair (?)
#just watched weathering with you. it was really good. REALLY good#i remember when it came out people were saying it was better than your name. but now it seems the general opinion switched?#your name changed my brain chemistry and outlook on life. i think weathering with you may do the same#so to me i think they're like on pare with eachother. i dont know if i can choose which is my fav now LOL#they are sisters to me..... sisters to me...... quick review below watch out for spoilers#i dont think i'll be too detailed but i do also just recommend watching it its a great movie#I DID like the soundtrack in your name a BIT better like the score had a few more hooks for me and i loved all the insert songs#while in wwy i liked the last three inserts but the first couple didnt really grab me. but its all radwimps so its all good LOL#the side characters in wwy were so good tho like i loved all the cast so much#of course i adored the main characters of your name and wwy both. but the side cast in wwy ruled i think i'll remember them for a long time#the taki jumpscare was also great. my boy was here. my boy was here. just for a minute#i also adored how unhinged the main character of wwy was. hodaka was like. a bit unwell? HJKDJHKFD i thought it was great#weird and quiet but desperately a bit violent in a way that i think was very relatable#i also loved the like. message? sorry that sounds sappy but i liked that like the story was kind of like#coming to hina who is working so hard and forced by herself and circumstance to grow up so early and sacrifice so much#and grabbing her by the shoulders and telling her YOU CAN LIVE!!! YOU CAN HAVE FUN!!! ITS OKAY!!!!!!#i think it was so sweet and such a strong sentiment. wonderful movie. also there was guns and i was so scared#i think that might actually by why i love how high stakes the plots get in these movies like the character design and personalities are so#real and down to earth so when you go to the beautiful planetary skyscapes and also the exploding vehicals you get like so in awe or scared#it does also make me laugh tho now thinking about the your name nendos. you can just barely make nendos of them. you cannot make a nendo of#hodaka. hina maybe. but not hodaka. he is. some guy. the most some guy. visually at least. mentally hes got. something happening <3#loved him so much. hes normal. hes normal. oh they did make some popup parades thats cute#altho it is a bit funny looking. that is just like two normal teenagers JHKLDSHKFDLSafdjksd#anyway next up i'll probably watch the chair movie. ive heard a couple songs from it and they were pretty good so im excited#it also makes me realize i need to watch more of his back catalogue other than 5cm.... he has way more movies than i remembered#i hope someday he gets to make the yuri movie he wanted to. it would be unreal. huge beautiful skys. ecological disasters. girls kissing#oh i hope he gets to do it one day..... one day.....#EDIT: WAIT THEY DID MAKE A NENDO OF HODAKA AND HINA.... LIKE FULL NENDOS NOT EVEN PETITE.....#HODAKA REALLY DOES JUST LOOK LIKE SOME DUDE.... AWESOME
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