#not that i expect y'all to not be but you get it

[er1nne]

blurred lines

⸝⸝⸝ ⑅ —໒ྀི ִֶָ rafe cameron is kown for throwing the best parties, so of course your best friend had to attend, but who'd guess she'd leave you alone with him to take care of you

word count: 6.4k sorry lol

warnings : roofing / slight drug use, mostly fluff, misunderstood rafe as usual lol, also not proofread unfortunately so excuse any mistakes

AN: the problem is left ambiguous & left to the imagination so you can make up the problem, you guys loved the last one lol :) i have plenty more in the vault so let me know if y'all want them. enjoy!

(please do not copy or plagiarize, this is my original work subject to copyright)

You don’t know why you’re here.

The party is overwhelming, a pulsing, chaotic blend of music, voices, and movement that sets your nerves on edge. The heat of too many bodies pressed into one space makes the air thick, suffocating.

You hadn’t even wanted to come, but your friend had convinced you, promising it would be fun, promising she’d stay by your side. Your friend had dragged you along, practically vibrating with excitement at the idea of getting into a this party in particular for some reason. You don’t understand, she had gushed, fingers tight around your wrist, her eyes wide with something close to desperation. People would kill to be invited to one of these. She had promised it would be fun, that she wouldn’t leave your side, that this was a once-in-a-lifetime kind of night.

All lies. And just as quickly as you arrived, she had disappeared into the crowd, swallowed whole by the chaos, leaving you stranded in a place you had no business being. That promise had shattered the moment you stepped through the door. See, what she didn't tell you however, that it was at the famous Cameron Estate. As quickly as you both arrives, she had disappeared into the crowd, leaving you stranded in a sea of unfamiliar faces.

You don’t belong here. Not among the drunken recklessness, the glossy, carefree people who thrive on excess. Not in a house where money drips from every surface, where the air itself feels steeped in entitlement. You’ve heard the stories—everyone has. Rafe Cameron’s parties are one of a kind. But you're not the type to be interested in the whispers and gossip everyone spreads about them on campus.

Now, you hover near the wall, gripping a red solo cup with fingers that feel too tight, the plastic bending under the pressure of your grip. You're not normally a drinker, but given your nerves right now, you definitely needed the drink. You take a slow breath, exhaling through your nose. You’re not here to have a bad time. Maybe you just need to loosen up. One drink to take the edge off. You bring the cup to your lips, letting the liquid burn as it slides down your throat. It’s stronger than you expected, too sharp, making you cough slightly. You grimace, the burn lingering on your tongue, but you swallow it down anyway, hoping the warmth will spread, will make you feel like you belong here. You roll your shoulders, forcing yourself to relax, but the tension in your body remains stubborn, coiling tight in your muscles.

The bass reverberates through the floor, through your chest, making your pulse feel off-rhythm. People are laughing, shouting, clinking drinks together in messy toasts that spill onto the already sticky floors. Someone stumbles past you, knocking into your shoulder hard enough to make you stumble. You flinch, pressing yourself closer to the wall, hoping to make yourself smaller.

Still, you scan the room, searching for your friend, but she’s nowhere in sight. Irritation flickers through you—how could she just abandon you like this? You shift on your feet, debating whether to go find her or just leave altogether. But then, you feel it. A prickle at the back of your neck. It’s faint, barely noticeable at first, like the sensation of a cool breeze brushing your skin. Goosebumps rise along your arms, but you tell yourself it’s just the temperature shift from the packed, overheated room. The feeling lingers, subtle and nagging, trickling down your spine before settling deep in your gut. You shake it off, shifting your weight from foot to foot, convincing yourself it’s nothing more than the side effect of being in a crowded space with unfamiliar faces. But as the seconds stretch, so does the discomfort. The undeniable feeling of being watched. A vague, creeping unease, like an itch beneath your skin.

At first, you ignore it. The party is crowded, filled with wandering gazes and fleeting glances. It’s probably nothing. Probably just your imagination. But as the moments stretch, the feeling lingers, heavy and persistent. You force yourself to move, to look natural. You take another sip of your drink, even though the taste is sharp and acrid against your tongue, even though your stomach twists in protest. The burn should be grounding, but it only heightens the awareness prickling along your spine. You scan the room carefully, slower this time, more deliberate. Your gaze drifts past groups of people caught in conversation, past the drunken laughter and the messy dancing, past the flickering glow of the chandeliers overhead. Your fingers tighten around your cup as you look toward the bar, toward the far end of the room where the shadows stretch just a little deeper.

And then you see him.

Rafe Cameron.

He’s across the room, leaning against the bar like he belongs there, like he owns the place -- oh wait he does. Shit. You're the one who doesn't belong here. A drink dangles loosely in his fingers, but he doesn’t bring it to his lips. He’s not talking to anyone, not engaged in the revelry like everyone else. He’s just watching.

Watching you.

His gaze is a weight, heavier than it should be, anchoring you in place even as every nerve in your body is telling you to move. To look away. To do something. But you don’t. You can’t. The darkness in his gaze draws you in too close. The dim lighting carves deep shadows along the sharp edges of his face, accentuating the sharp lines of his jaw, the cool detachment in his features. He looks almost statuesque, like he was placed there, perfectly sculpted, perfectly still. And yet, despite the stillness, despite the casual way he leans against the bar, drink loose in his grasp, his presence feels anything but passive. It almost feels like an accusatory stare, but something in your gut tells you it's something else.

You swallow hard, pulse flickering unevenly as you force yourself to breathe. He’s like a fixture in the room, unmoving, his presence both effortless and overwhelming. The dim light carves shadows along the sharp lines of his face, accentuating the cool detachment in his gaze. He isn’t smiling. He isn’t pretending not to stare. Doesn’t break the stare. He just is.

You look away, but your body betrays you. A shiver traces your spine, and your fingers tighten around your cup. The weight of his attention settles over you, thick and suffocating. You shift from foot to foot, adjusting your stance, suddenly unsure of yourself in a way you hadn’t been moments before. Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe he’s just bored. Maybe he’s not even looking at you. But when you glance back, just for a second, his gaze hasn’t wavered. The space between you feels charged, stretching taut like a thread ready to snap.

Your throat is dry, so you take another sip of your drink, trying to dispel the tension. The burn should be grounding, but it only adds to the growing warmth pooling low in your stomach. The room feels different now, like you’ve slipped into another layer of reality where things happen slower, where every movement matters. The ice in your glass has long since melted, leaving behind a diluted, lackluster drink that won’t do anything to soothe the warmth pooling low in your stomach. It’s the perfect excuse. A reason to step away, to put some much-needed space between you and the weight of his gaze, still heavy, still unwavering. The kind of look that sinks beneath your skin and stays there.

A group of people pass between you, momentarily breaking his line of sight. The spell should break. It doesn’t. Your heartbeat presses against your ribs, too fast, too shallow. He’s still watching, still waiting. You tell yourself you’re overreacting.

The other side of the bar feels farther than it should. The walk is a slow unraveling, each step meant to shake off the feeling of his eyes still following you, still holding on even when there’s distance. But it doesn’t work. Your heartbeat presses too hard against your ribs, too shallow, too quick, the way it does when something isn’t quite right. You tell yourself you’re imagining it, that it’s just in your head, that you’re overreacting.

But then your head starts to feel heavy.

Your fingers feel a little looser around your cup, but you barely register it. You take another sip, but the taste is wrong now—bitter, artificial. The warmth that had been pleasant before now sits heavily in your stomach, slow, syrupy. A strange warmth spreads through your limbs, slow and unfamiliar. Your vision feels sharper and blurrier at the same time. The music presses against your eardrums, a dull, throbbing hum that no longer matches the rhythm in your chest. The music distorts, stretching and bending at the edges. The lights seem dimmer, then too bright, flickering as if they’re keeping time with your unsteady pulse. The conversations around you feel distant, layered on top of one another like a badly tuned radio. Your breath catches, sharp and uneven. The sensation is gradual, creeping, and for a moment, you convince yourself you’re just tired, or maybe you drank too fast.

You steady yourself, shifting against the wall. But the floor feels different beneath you—less solid, somehow. Your limbs feel lighter, and at the same time, unbearably heavy. A cold sweat beads at the back of your neck. Something isn’t right. But it takes longer for your mind to catch up with your body, to connect the dots between the warmth in your stomach and the sluggish, detached feeling seeping into your bones. Panic claws at your throat. You try to take another step, force yourself to move, but your limbs feel detached, foreign.

You squeeze your eyes shut, hoping to shake the feeling, but it only makes the vertigo worse. The heat of the room presses in on you, suffocating, and the sound of laughter and music stretches, distorts, becomes something distant and hollow. You want to move, want to breathe, but it feels like you’re wading through thick fog, each step heavier than the last.

A bead of sweat trails down the back of your neck. Your heartbeat slams against your ribs, erratic and deafening. A sickly nausea curls in your stomach, spreading outward in slow, unbearable waves. The cup in your hand feels impossibly heavy, the plastic slick against your palm. You let it slip from your fingers, hear it hit the floor, but the sound is muffled, insignificant against the chaotic hum surrounding you.

Your vision tunnels, and for the first time, real fear grips you. The once vibrant room is now a mess of shadow and movement, colors bleeding together, voices rising and falling like waves crashing against the shore. You open your mouth, trying to call for your friend, but the words die before they leave your lips, dissolving into a breathless whisper. The realization is slow, unfurling like a nightmare you’re just starting to understand.

Your drink. Something is wrong with your drink.

Your breathing quickens, shallow and uneven, your chest rising and falling too fast, too tight. Your fingers twitch, grasping at nothing, muscles sluggish and unresponsive. The walls seem to bend and stretch around you, the lights overhead shifting like distant stars, too bright, too sharp. You blink rapidly, but it only makes the dizziness worse. The edges of your sight blur further, darkening. The room feels impossibly far away, your awareness slipping, slipping—

And then there’s a presence beside you.

A firm grip on your arm. The touch is steady, grounding, but you barely have the strength to turn your head and see who it is. You don’t have to.

You don’t know who it is.

The scent reaches you first—something clean, sharp, expensive, mixed faintly with alcohol. A voice cuts through the fog, low and steady, but the words slip past your understanding. The presence is steady, firm, an anchor against the overwhelming sensation that you’re floating, weightless. A name—your name?—is spoken again, but it barely registers, as if it belongs to someone else.

You part your lips to respond, but the words slip away before they can form. A strong arm curls around your waist, another against your shoulder. The world tilts, and you realize you’re being lifted. Your body feels light, unmoored, like a doll in someone’s grasp. Your head lolls against a broad chest, the steady rhythm of a heartbeat against your ear, grounding but distant. Footsteps echo—slow, purposeful—but you barely process them. The lights of the party blur into a smear of gold and shadow, flickering at the edges of your vision as you’re carried away.

The voices, the music, the chaos—it all drifts into silence. The world fades. Everything dissolves into black.

Dawn arrives in fractured light and warmth. The first thing you register is the persistent press of sunlight against your closed eyelids, insistent and intrusive. The dull ache in your skull pulses in synchronicity with your heartbeat. The silences of the space unsettles you—too stark a contrast to the last thing you remember.

A scent infiltrates your awareness—rich, savory. Coffee. Bacon. The comforting familiarity should soothe, but instead, it feeds the dissonance pooling in your gut. The weight of the blankets drapes over you, cool fabric against your overheated skin. Your limbs remain sluggish, burdened by an inexplicable fatigue.

Blinking against the light, you lift a hand to rub at your eyes. The motion feels distant, disconnected, as though your own body resists you. A tremor skates along your fingertips. A creeping unease slithers through you.

The room resolves in pieces. Soft, sun-dappled sheets. A nightstand, its dark wood surface adorned with a solitary glass of water. The low murmur of movement, distant yet present, beyond a partially ajar door. Every detail unfamiliar.

You sit up too fast.

The dizziness crashes into you, rendering the world momentarily unsteady. Your stomach churns in protest. A cold sweat prickles along your spine as you press your palm to your forehead, struggling to tether yourself to the present.

Where are you?

Your breaths come faster, shallower. The space surrounding you—spacious, curated, the kind of elegance that exudes wealth—does not belong to you. The bed is too large, the sheets too luxurious. The walls are adorned with artwork that suggests taste and affluence. This is not yours.

And you do not remember how you got here.

Your stomach knots, nausea clawing its way up your throat. Fragments of the night attempt to surface—the party, the music, the sensation of liquid sliding down your throat, the slow unraveling of your control. A pair of eyes lingering in the distance.

And then—

Nothing.

An abyss where your memory should be.

A new sound pulls you back—footsteps, nearing, steady. Your pulse stutters, skittering in your chest. Fear coils tight in your ribs, an instinctual response to the unknown.

The door swings open.

The figure standing there is silhouetted against the morning light, their presence filling the doorway with an unsettling quiet. You try to focus, to piece together something recognizable—an outline, a familiar stance—but the fog in your mind is thick, unrelenting. Your hands grip the sheets, fingers curling into the fabric as your breath catches, morning crust still coating your eyes, blurring your vision.

“Good morning.” The voice is smooth, calm, too composed. It should be comforting. It is not.

Your throat tightens as the memory gap yawns wider. Who is this? And why are you here?

The scent of coffee lingers in the air, mingling with something else—something darker, something you can’t yet name.

And then the figure takes a step forward, slow and deliberate. The weight of their presence fills the space, shifting the atmosphere in an unplaceable way. Shadows stretch and contract in the morning light, their silhouette still obscured by the glare of the sunlit doorway. Your heartbeat pounds in your ears, each thud a heavy punctuation against the silence.

Your fingers tighten against the sheets, as if their fabric might tether you to some semblance of control. But control is slipping. Your breath catches in your throat as they advance further, their posture unreadable, their face still hidden from view. The scent of coffee lingers, but now it’s mixed with something else—something faintly metallic, almost sterile, unsettling in a way you can’t name.

They pause just short of the bed, standing over you now. A tension lingers in the air between you, thick, expectant. And then—finally—their voice cuts through the quiet again, smooth and even, but carrying an undercurrent of something you can’t yet define.

"You’re awake."

The voice sends a shiver down your spine. Familiar, yet distant. Your eyes finally adjust, your surroundings sharpening into something tangible. The deep mahogany furniture, the neatly pressed linens, the faint scent of cologne woven into the fabric of the room. Recognition dawns in pieces, fragments of memory slipping through the haze like sand through fingers.

Your breath stutters. This is Rafe Cameron’s bedroom.

Panic blooms in your chest, sharp and unrelenting. Your fingers clutch at the sheets, grounding yourself as the weight of realization crashes over you. How did you get here? The last thing you remember—the party, the drink, the slow, dizzying descent into something dark and consuming. Everything after that is a blur, an abyss where memories should be.

The tension in your limbs loosens, but a strange warmth replaces it—one you can’t quite define. The proximity, the realization that he had carried you, that he had seen you at your most vulnerable. A rush of heat blooms beneath your skin.

You shift against the pillows, suddenly hyperaware of the way the fabric clings to your skin. The weight of the night presses down on you, something heavy and lingering, something you can’t shake off. Your arms pull in close to your body, shrinking in on yourself instinctively, the way you might if you were trying to disappear. The feeling creeps in, insidious and unspoken, settling in your chest like an ache.

Rafe notices.

He exhales, his posture shifting as he takes a step closer, then hesitates, watching your reaction. "Nothing happened," he adds, quieter this time, as if anticipating your thoughts. "I just... made sure you were okay."

You swallow, your throat dry. Your fingers twist into the sheets as you nod, the weight of the moment settling over you. He moves again, this time toward the bed, lowering himself onto the edge. The mattress dips under his weight, closing the space between you in an intimate proximity that makes your pulse stutter.

Your breath catches. He took care of you.

For a moment, neither of you speak. The silence is heavy, charged, filled with unspoken questions neither of you seems willing to voice. Your gaze flickers to his hands, resting loosely on his lap, his fingers curled slightly as if he’s resisting the impulse to reach out.

You should say something, anything. But all you can do is sit there, the warmth in your cheeks betraying you, your heart hammering against your ribs as you struggle to process what this moment means.

And Rafe just watches, waiting.

"Why?" The word leaves your lips before you can stop it, barely more than a whisper but sharp enough to cut through the quiet. It lingers between you, heavier than you intended, like it carries more meaning than just the question itself.

He glances at you then, something unreadable flickering across his face before he looks away again. There’s something about the way he won’t meet your eyes, the way his fingers press into his palms like he’s holding something back.

"You don’t remember much, do you?" His voice is quieter this time, like he already knows the answer.

You shake your head, swallowing around the lump forming in your throat. "Not after a certain point. Just… flashes."

You think you see something in his expression shift, something fleeting. His jaw clenches for half a second before he nods, just once, like that was what he expected. And then he looks past you, toward the window, like there’s something out there more bearable to face than this conversation. Like maybe he doesn’t want to see the way you’re looking at him now.

Rafe leans forward, resting his chin slightly down as if in deep thought. His jaw tightens, like he’s considering his words carefully. "Because that party wasn’t for you. You’re not like them."

His voice is steady, but there’s something beneath it, something almost reluctant. As if he’s saying more than just that, as if there’s something else sitting on the edge of his tongue, something he won’t let himself say out loud. Your breath hitches. He noticed you. Not just that you were there, but that you didn’t belong there, that you weren’t the kind of girl who let herself get lost in that world.

His fingers tap absently against his elbow before he exhales through his nose, slow and measured. Without a word, he reaches toward the nightstand, fingers closing around a small, amber bottle. He twists off the cap and shakes out two pills into his palm before handing them to you along with a glass of water.

You don’t know what to say, don’t know how to respond to the weight of his words. A thousand questions press at the back of your mind, but none of them make it past your lips. So instead, you just look at him, studying the way his shoulders stay tense, the way his fingers twitch slightly where they rest.

You hesitate, glancing between him and the offering. The silence lingers, thick and unspoken, but he doesn’t push. Just watches, unreadable, until you take them from his hand. The cool glass feels solid in your grip, the only thing grounding you in the moment.

"It'll help," he finally says, voice low, controlled. Not an explanation, not an insistence—just a fact. And then he looks away again, like the moment never happened.

Your heart stutters, warmth creeping up your neck. You aren’t used to this side of him, this quiet sincerity. It makes your stomach twist in a way that has nothing to do with fear.

You clear your throat softly, fingers tightening around the blanket as you shift. you murmur a quick thank you to him, the words barely above a whisper, like you’re afraid to break the fragile quiet between you, you must have lost your voice last night.

Rafe doesn’t react at first, doesn’t acknowledge it right away. He just sits there, staring at a fixed point on the floor like he’s lost in something too deep to name. And then, finally, he nods—just once, a subtle dip of his chin. No arrogance, no teasing. Just acceptance.

The silence stretches, thick and unmoving, pressing against the walls of the room. The air between you is charged with something neither of you is willing to name, a slow, smoldering tension that lingers in the way he breathes, in the way his fingers twitch just slightly where they rest against his knee. The world beyond the bedroom feels impossibly distant, like something you left behind the moment you opened your eyes.

You can hear your own breathing, the slow, measured inhales that feel too loud in the quiet, the way your pulse thrums against the side of your throat. Everything is heightened, magnified—the subtle shift of the mattress beneath his weight, the faint scent of his cologne clinging to the fabric of the sheets, the way the sunlight spilling through the curtains catches in his hair, illuminating the sharp angles of his face.

Rafe doesn’t move. He hasn’t since he handed you the water, since he watched you take the painkillers without a word. He just sits there, his posture loose but intent, his forearms resting against lightly against his body, as if he’s waiting for something. You don’t know what. You don’t know if he does either.

Your fingers tighten around the glass, the condensation cool against your skin. The weight of his attention is suffocating, not because it unsettles you, but because it’s steady. Because he’s not watching you the way other people do—not with expectation, not with scrutiny, but with something quieter, something that feels like it belongs entirely to this moment.

You shift beneath the covers, suddenly aware of the space between you, of how small the room feels despite its size. There’s no rush, no urgency, but the tension coils slow and tight in the air between you, a pull that neither of you acknowledges, but neither of you breaks.

You should say something. Maybe to fill the silence, maybe to push away the weight of whatever is settling over the two of you, but the words don’t come. Instead, you glance at him, at the way his jaw is set, the way his gaze flickers—just for a moment—to the space where your hands curl into the blanket, to the way your shoulders have drawn inward, like you’re bracing yourself for something.

The realization lands heavily: he’s waiting for you to be okay.

You exhale, slow, measured. It should ease some of the pressure in your chest, but it doesn’t. The sheets smell like him. The realization makes your stomach twist, sharp and unexpected, and you inhale quickly, trying to steady yourself, to push it away. But it’s everywhere. His scent, his presence, the ghost of the weight of his gaze on you.

Rafe leans back slightly, his movements deliberate, unrushed. He shifts, settling more comfortably, but it does nothing to loosen the tension laced through the room. If anything, it solidifies it, makes it more tangible, makes it something that feels like it could snap at the slightest provocation.

The past few hours are a blur, a haze of flashing lights and distorted sound, of the world tilting beneath your feet, of a hand—his hand—steadying you before everything went dark. And now you’re here, in his bed, wrapped in the lingering remnants of a night you can barely piece together, but one thing is painfully clear: Rafe Cameron didn’t leave you behind.

And that fact, that certainty, makes your stomach twist.

Your fingers toy absently with the edge of the blanket, your gaze trained on nothing in particular. You can feel him watching you, can feel the weight of it in the space between you, in the air that crackles with something unspoken, something slow-burning and unrelenting.

It’s infuriating, the way he’s so still, so quiet, like he has all the time in the world to wait for you to make sense of whatever is unraveling inside you. Like he doesn’t care how long it takes.

Another beat of silence.

Then, finally, he shifts, pushing himself up from the bed with a slow, fluid motion. His presence doesn’t leave with him, though—it lingers, draped over you like a second skin, woven into the air you’re breathing, into the space he just vacated. He pauses near the door, his hand resting loosely on the frame, his body turned slightly like he’s debating whether or not to say something.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he looks at you, a glance that lasts only a second but feels like it stretches forever, before he turns and disappears into the hallway, leaving you alone with nothing but the ghost of his presence and the steady, relentless pounding of your own heart.

For a long moment, neither of you says anything. You just stand there, staring at each other, something unspoken stretching the space between you like a frayed wire. His gaze is steady, unreadable, but there’s something in the way he looks at you that makes your breath catch, makes your fingers twitch at your sides.

The weight of the night still lingers between you, thick like smoke, curling around the edges of whatever fragile thing this is. The silence isn’t empty—it’s full, layered with everything that wasn’t said. The flicker of his throat as he swallows, the way his fingers flex against the counter like he needs something to hold onto. His presence is a solid thing, inescapable.

He clears his throat, breaking the stillness like shattering glass. "I should take you home," he says, voice low, even. "You probably want to get out of here."

You nod automatically, but the motion feels disconnected, like it doesn’t belong to you. The truth is, you don’t know if you want to leave. You don’t know if you’re ready to walk out of this moment, out of this strange and suffocating thing pressing against your ribs. But it’s the logical choice. The right thing to do. So you shift your weight, stepping further into the room as if that will make it easier, as if that will make it feel real.

Rafe watches you for a second longer before pushing off the surface he was leaning on. He moves with the same careful deliberation he always does, like he’s in control of everything, like nothing touches him unless he lets it.

But then, as he reaches for his keys, his jaw tightens. His movements slow. His grip on the metal rings shifts slightly, like he’s debating something, like something about this moment doesn’t sit right with him. And then he looks at you again, his eyes catching yours, something flickering in his expression—something restrained, something almost unreadable.

"Be more careful next time." His voice is quieter now, rougher at the edges. "

You swallow, the weight of his words settling in your chest as a slight warmness fills your cheeks, even if he can't see it. The words settle between you, heavy. He’s not scolding you, not angry. But there’s something else beneath it, something darker. Like he hated seeing you like that. Like he doesn’t want to have to do this again. Like he hated seeing you like that. Like he doesn’t want to have to do this again. But maybe it's all in your head.

A part of you wants to say something—to defend yourself, to explain—but nothing comes out. You just nod, barely, the movement almost imperceptible. He watches the way your fingers tighten around the hem of your shirt, the way your shoulders tense like you’re bracing for something.

He exhales sharply, turns toward the door, and motions for you to follow.

But the moment doesn’t end there. The shift in the air is subtle, but it’s there. His fingers flex around the keys, his body pausing for just a second longer than necessary before he moves. Like he’s giving you the chance to say something. Like he’s waiting.

You don’t take it.

The cold air hits you the second you step outside, sharp and biting against your skin. It’s the kind of morning that lingers somewhere between the last remnants of night and the hesitant promise of day, the sky washed in pale hues of blue and gray, the world still and quiet.

You don’t say anything, but the shiver that rolls through you betrays you, your body instinctively curling inward as if you can escape the chill. Rafe notices. Of course he does. He hesitates for a second, just a fraction of a beat, then lets out a slow breath, as if he’s annoyed at something—himself, maybe.

Without a word, he shrugs off his jacket.

It’s heavier than you expect when he drapes it over your shoulders, the thick, well-worn material settling around you like a second skin. The scent of him lingers in the fabric—something clean but deep, a mix of faded cologne and the unmistakable warmth of skin, like the kind of comfort you don’t realize you need until it’s there.

The jacket is old, but not in a neglected way. More like it carries weight, history. It’s a varsity jacket, dark navy with white leather sleeves, the kind that looks like it’s seen late-night drives, fights behind stadium bleachers, and moments that don’t belong to you. His name is stitched into the fabric on the chest, subtle but undeniable: Cameron. The embroidered lettering is slightly frayed at the edges, as if it’s been touched too many times, traced over absentmindedly. On the sleeve, a faded championship patch clings to the leather, the numbers slightly worn, a quiet reminder of a past you know nothing about.

But he doesn’t just let it fall into place. His hands stay there, gripping the edges just beneath your collarbone, holding it closed, holding you—if only for a second too long. His touch is light, almost hesitant, but deliberate in a way that sends a shiver down your spine, one that has nothing to do with the cold.

The space between you feels smaller now, the tension stretched taut, humming like a wire between you. His fingers shift slightly, his knuckles grazing your collarbone through the fabric, his touch warm even against the cold bite of the night air. You can feel the heat radiating from him, the way his breath ghosts over your cheek, close enough that if either of you leaned in—just a fraction—you’d close the distance entirely.

Rafe’s eyes flicker down to meet yours, something unreadable passing through them, something almost thoughtful, almost careful. It’s a contradiction—the way he holds the jacket like he’s reluctant to let go, yet his jaw is set, his expression betraying nothing.

You swallow, fingers curling around the edges, your hands on top of his, pulling it tighter around yourself. It’s warm, warmer than his hands. Too warm, maybe, but you don’t push it off.

Rafe watches you, his expression unreadable, but there’s something in the way his gaze lingers on you that makes your breath come slower, makes your chest feel too tight and your hands are touching before he reluctantly pulls away, almost as if not to scare you off or harm you.

"It’s cold," he mutters, like that explains it, like that’s the only reason he did it.

You don’t challenge it. Because maybe that’s the reason you don’t take it off, either.

And just like that, whatever this moment was slips away, fading into the morning light as he leads you to his car.

The world beyond the house feels different, like the air is thinner, lighter, no longer weighed down by the silence between you. The gravel crunches beneath your feet as you follow him toward his car, your steps feeling almost mechanical. The sky is still streaked with soft shades of dawn, a nostalgic blue still coating the sky, the edges of the horizon tinged with the last remnants of night. The streetlights on the corner on still on,

He unlocks the door, pulling it open for you, but you hesitate. Just for a second. Just long enough for him to notice.

His fingers tighten around the top of the door, his gaze flickering to yours. But he doesn’t say anything. He just waits.

You don’t know what you’re looking for. Some kind of confirmation. Some kind of explanation. But there’s nothing. Just him. Just you. And the space between that feels too charged to make sense of.

You step inside, settling into the seat, the leather cool and smooth beneath you, molded from years of use, broken in but still exuding something undeniably expensive. The scent of rich leather and faint motor oil lingers in the air, a combination of luxury and the kind of careful work that doesn't come from a mechanic’s shop.

The dashboard glows with a soft luminescence, highlighting the precision of the controls—sleek buttons, polished chrome accents, the faint imprint of his hands worn into the steering wheel. The passenger seat, by contrast, is almost untouched. The leather is stiff, uncreased, lacking the wear and shape molded by frequent use. There are no stray belongings, no faint imprints of past passengers, no lingering signs that anyone else has ever sat there. It feels untouched, almost foreign, as though this space was never meant for anyone else. The thought makes your stomach twist, the realization settling in like a whisper you can't quite decipher. For all the history his car carries, for all the work and time poured into every inch of it, this seat feels like it doesn’t belong to anyone—except maybe, just maybe, to you now. The seats cradle you, low and firm, the kind of comfort designed for control at high speeds. A faint scuff on the door panel catches your eye, and you can almost imagine him there, late at night, sleeves pushed up as he worked under dim garage lights, fine-tuning something only he could perfect.

The convertible top is locked in place for now, but the idea of wind rushing past, of the open road stretching ahead, lingers in the air like a promise. This isn’t just a car. It’s his, in every sense of the word. And now, for the first time, you’re inside it.

You grip your hands together in your lap as he closes the door with a quiet click. The sound lingers in the air, final in a way that makes your stomach twist.

The car is dimly lit, the dashboard casting a faint glow across his face, sharpening the lines of his jaw, the slight furrow between his brows. He doesn’t look at you right away, just exhales slowly, fingers tightening around the steering wheel. The movement is small, restrained, but you notice it. You notice everything.

The drive is silent. Not uncomfortable, but not easy either. The road stretches ahead, the faint hum of the tires against the asphalt the only sound between you. The air feels heavy, charged, like the moment before a storm, thick with something unsaid.

Your fingers twitch slightly, pressing into the fabric of his jacket still draped over your shoulders. It’s too big on you, the sleeves hanging long past your wrists, the collar brushing against your cheek. The warmth of it, of him, lingers against your skin, a constant reminder that he was close, that he chose to put it there. You could give it back. You should. But you don’t.

The leather of the steering wheel creaks as his hands flex, his grip tightening like he’s forcing himself to keep steady. You steal a glance at him, at the way his jaw tenses, the muscle there twitching slightly. The way his fingers tap once against the wheel before stilling. He’s holding something back, something weighted, and you don’t know if you want him to let it go or keep it buried between you, a secret neither of you knows how to say out loud.

The headlights cast long shadows across the empty road, the outside world slipping by in streaks of gray and muted gold. But inside the car, it’s different. It’s just the two of you, wrapped in a silence that feels almost sacred, like speaking would break something fragile, something delicate.

You shift slightly, the fabric of the seat cool beneath your legs, your knee brushing against the center console. The touch is barely there, a whisper of contact, but his fingers flex again, his grip tightening like he felt it too. Like he’s trying not to react.

You turn your gaze back to the window, but you don’t really see the passing streets. Not when every part of you is aware of him, of the tension strung between you like a wire ready to snap. It hums beneath your skin, lingers in the space between your breaths, curls in the air between you like smoke.

A red light slows the car to a stop. For a moment, the world outside is still, painted in the muted glow of streetlights. You chance another look at him, catching the way his fingers drum lightly against the gear shift, restless. His eyes stay forward, locked on the road, but his shoulders are stiff, coiled with something unreadable.

Then, without looking at you, without taking his eyes off the road, he exhales, slow and measured. "You warm enough?"

It’s nothing. Just words. Just an excuse for something else. But the way he says it, low and rough, makes your stomach twist, makes your fingers curl tighter around the sleeves of his jacket.

"Yeah," you murmur, voice softer than you mean for it to be. "I’m fine."

He doesn’t believe you. You feel it before you see it—the weight of his gaze settling over you, careful but unrelenting. When you finally look at him, his eyes are already on you, studying, assessing, searching for something in your face that you’re not sure you even understand yourself.

His grip on the wheel loosens slightly, but he doesn’t look away. It’s not just concern. It’s something quieter, deeper, something that lingers in the way his brows draw together just enough to show he’s holding back words he doesn’t know how to say.

His mouth parts, just slightly, like he’s about to speak, but he doesn’t. Instead, his fingers shift against the gear shift again, as if grounding himself, as if trying to keep some sort of distance between whatever is happening between the two of you. But it’s there.

You feel it in the way his throat moves when he swallows, in the way his shoulders seem to tense and relax all at once. And suddenly, the car feels smaller, the air thinner, the space between you pressing in from all angles.

The light turns green, and he finally looks away, jaw tight as he presses down on the gas. But the moment lingers, stretching across the quiet miles, settling somewhere neither of you wants to name.

His fingers drum against the gear shift again, once, twice, before stilling. The light turns green, and the car moves forward, but the moment stays, lingers between you like an unanswered question.

Another mile passes in silence. Another breath held too long before being released. The weight of the night still clings to you, woven into your skin, into the spaces between your ribs. And you know, without him saying it, without needing to ask, that he feels it too.

You tighten his jacket around yourself, pressing your fingers into the thick material. You don’t want to acknowledge how it feels like something you weren’t supposed to have, like something borrowed but not meant to be returned. But neither of you moves to change it.

The distance between you and the night before stretches, but it doesn’t fade. Whatever this is—whatever happened back in that house, in that room, in the space between breaths and silence—it isn’t over.

And somehow, you don’t think it ever will be.

© ER1NNE est. 2024. all rights reserved. unauthorized use, duplication, or reposting of any original content from this blog without explicit permission is prohibited. please respect the creator’s work.

[covid-safer-hotties]

I think it's criminal that instead of allowing kids to have sick days when so many students and teachers are out sick that they have to shut down the school. The fact that instead of having a break to rest and recuperate, sick staff and students are expected to still attend class remotely is inhumane and probably more of the reason that kid's test scores keep dipping: They're tired. Y'all are working them so hard to achieve so much for no reward, and they see it, and they don't care. Give them a fucking break. Holy shit. No snow days, no sick days. Trying to get them gets you marked as truant and gets your mom put in jail. Hell country. Hell society. It should burn as fuel to create a better world.

[cherrypuff111]

The truth about embodying your manifested self:

You visualize. You affirm. You script. You do everything manifestation coaches tell you to do.

But when it comes to actually living as the version of you who already has it?

You freeze. You doubt. You slip back into old patterns.

And suddenly, it feels like you’re faking it instead of being it.

Sound familiar? Then keep reading. Because this is where most people get stuck.

Your current reality—the version of you that struggles, doubts, and overthinks? It doesn’t exist because you want it to.

It exists because it’s familiar.

Your mind clings to the known, even when the known is uncomfortable. That’s why:

You affirm confidence but still avoid eye contact.

You say you’re wealthy but hesitate before buying something.

You manifest love but keep checking if they texted first.

Not because you don’t believe in your manifestation—but because your nervous system isn’t used to it yet.

But here’s the thing—every version of you felt "unnatural" at first.

Eventually, what once felt fake will feel effortless.

Your job? Keep going until your nervous system catches up.

Remember the first time you tried driving? It felt awkward. Forced. Unnatural.

But now? You don’t even think about it.

The same thing happens with your manifested self.

Right now, confidence might feel fake. But the more you move as if it’s already you, the more it becomes your normal.

Wealth feels unnatural—until you stop second-guessing your worth.

Most people quit because they expect their new identity to feel real immediately.

But here’s the catch— it won’t.

At least, not at first.

Your dream life will feel like a fantasy—until it’s not.

Your new self will feel fake—until you become it.

The people around you might be confused—until they see the shift.

And then?

One day, you wake up and realize…

You’re not faking it anymore.

It’s just who you are now.

Embodying your manifested self starts with small, intentional shifts in how you think, act, and carry yourself daily. Instead of hoping for change, speak and think as if it’s already yours. Make choices the way your ideal self would—whether it’s how you respond to challenges, present yourself, or navigate opportunities. Adjust your body language to reflect confidence and ease, and surround yourself with things that align with your new reality, from music to daily habits. Most importantly, notice when old patterns resurface and choose differently. Over time, these subtle shifts make your new identity feel natural and effortless.

The fastest way to embody your new self immediately is to make a definitive decision that you are that person right now—no waiting, no trying. Shift your inner dialogue from “I’m becoming” to “I already am.” Move through your day as if your manifestation is undeniably real. Speak, walk, and make choices from that mindset. The moment you stop questioning and fully claim it, your energy shifts—and so does your reality.

"If you assume your desire and live there as though it were true, no power in the world can stop it from becoming a fact." - Neville Goddard

hope this post was helpful for y'all!!!!

- xoxo 💋

With love, Celeste

[lamentationsofalonelypotato]

Promise Not To Fall In Love With Me

Pairing: Soldier Boy x f!reader and a little bit of Billy Butcher x f!reader

Prompt: "I find him very attractive." /"I'm standing right here"/ "I know."

Requested by: @angrydragon90

Tropes: Fake Dating, Pining.

Summary:  When you first joined Butcher's team the last thing you expected was to develop a crush on him, but after two years of pining, you get a proposition from the last person you'd expect to care.

Word Count: 5K

Warnings: I'm gonna label this 18+ just in case (I don't really think it is). Some cursing, Sexual innuendo, References to sex, Over glorification of a man's shirtless body (I'm not complaining) Reader is a little anxious/anxiety/socially awkward? Drug use/Drinking (Soldier Boy), Soldier Boy being Soldier Boy (He's a warning, we all know it and somehow still love him for it).

Note: This is told from Reader's perspective. Any references to the reader is made using you or your. I tried my best to proofread, but nobody's perfect. If you don’t like, don’t read, but if you do like, you’re my favorite!

Internal monologue is in italics and is in first person.

Main Masterlist

Dean Winchester Masterlist

Prompt Celebration Masterlist

A/N: This is the third fic for my prompt celebration! This one was requested the incredible @angrydragon90 💗 Had to do something with a little bit of Valentine's Day spirit, but I'm going to be honest, this one turned into something that I didn't expect... let me know what y'all think. I also was thinking about @zepskies fic As Tradition Dictates for the more *ahem* gratuitous descriptions of Butcher 😉

Butcher’s muscles rippled over his bare chest and broad shoulders with every swing of the mighty axe down to the earth. Each strike of the axe against wood sent chips of bark flickering in the air around him like sparks. Sweat rolled down his sun kissed skin curving in the dips of his muscular torso, along the tensing muscles of his back, and through the dusting of hair on his torso, before disappearing into the waistband of the dark jeans hung low on his hips. 

Heat kisses your cheeks and darkens the skin the longer you watch him and you bite your lip hard to keep the appreciative sigh of the scene in front of you at bay. But it does little to stop your eyes which rove over the rugged man chopping wood. 

No man his age should look that good. 

Butcher props one of his feet up on the tree stump he’s been using as a table oblivious to your attention, shouldering the axe for a moment to glance at the stack of firewood he’d chopped, looking like a mighty warrior surveying his lands. 

Your mind starts to slip into a fantasy of a shirtless Butcher riding horseback across a desolate plain, his dark hair long, and a sword strapped to his saddle commanding a group of riders behind him to his every whim. Before scooping you up onto his saddle to ride with him, his strong arm wrapped around your waist, and his face buried in the soft skin of your neck, his rough whisper in your ear a grating caress as he-

You clear your throat, cheeks darkening crimson, and take in a shaky breath to dissipate the daydream that usually starred in several of your fantasies. The same ones that probably came from the romantasy book that you’d brought along on this trip and were too embarrassed to read when anyone else was awake.

He raises a hand to wipe the sweat from his brow, shuffling it back through his hair that turns a chestnut brown in the light of the setting sun that flickered through the thick forest surrounding the small cabin you were all staying in.

Oh to be a drop of sweat.

You think mournfully, taking a long sip of your lemonade out of a brightly colored bendy straw, the same lemonade that you’d made in hopes of enticing Butcher over for a break.

It had worked, but only for twenty seconds.

Twenty glorious seconds that you got to bask in Butcher’s presence so close that you could smell the familiar cologne and the scent of sweat clinging to his skin while he drank the lemonade and you tried not to stare at his bare chest for too long. You hoped that Butcher thought the flush on your cheeks had everything to do with the heat and nothing to do with all the things you were imagining him doing to you. 

And then there had been an additional two seconds when Butcher smiled at you and said “Thanks poppet” in the swoon worthy accent of his that made your knees weak before he sauntered back over to the woodpile and you watched him go shamelessly. 

Hughie says something to Butcher you can’t hear, but it makes Butcher laugh. He throws his head back with a wide grin that makes you sigh to yourself again, hands tensing where they sit poised over the tangle of wires in your lap. 

You were supposed to be working on a new gadget to help grapple up buildings, one that you and Frenchie had designed together, but you were distracted by Butcher. 

You were always distracted by him. 

It had been three days since Butcher, Soldier Boy, Hughie, and you arrived at the cabin in the middle of nowhere after a mission went wrong. The specifics weren’t important, let’s just say that there was a miscommunication and what the four of you thought was a supe who could turn into a single locust, was actually able to turn into a swarm of locust so thick you couldn’t see an inch in front of your face. 

You had a sneaking suspicion that MM and Frenchie had something to do with the miscommunication, given how eager they had been to stay behind at headquarters and do paperwork, and the secretive smiles they had shared at the briefing before your team left.

But needless to say, none of you had been eager to live through a reenactment of the eighth plague and all decided to lay low to consider your options, while hoping the locust supe didn’t decimate all of the corn in the midwest.

You shudder remembering the crawl of the scratchy legs along your skin, the flapping of millions of wings like the beat of a drum, the crunch of locusts underfoot, and the low pitched hum of the swarm that vibrated so loud it made you feel your body shaking from the inside out. 

At this point I would have taken a swarm of guinea pigs.

The cabin wasn’t the worst place you’d stayed at in all the time you’d worked with Butcher. There was running water and several rooms inside including two bedrooms with lumpy pillows and mattresses with creaking springs, a living room with a sagging floral couch, and a threadbare kitchen with dusty cabinets and doors that fell off whenever someone tried to open one. 

Outside the cabin there was a small patch of wildflowers that fluttered in the strong wind that blew from the East, an overgrown garden where tomato plants, potatoes, and herbs grew without care, and a small front yard that was more of a grassy clearing. 

Sure the cabin had it’s quirks, but the real problem was that the four of you were trapped here in the middle of summer with a generator that only did so much for electricity, but had no air conditioning whatsoever, which meant it was cooler to sit outside on the porch than inside the sweltering cabin. 

Overall, it had been three days of nothing, but listening to Soldier Boy bitch about the lack of extracurricular activities, three days of nothing but hearing the soft chuckle under Hughie’s breath when he texted Annie, and three days of nothing but you lusting after a man who was twice your age chopping wood.

Why was he chopping wood when it was so hot and none of you needed it… You had no idea, but you figured that the universe was finally throwing you a bone because you got to watch him do it.

The porch was cooler than sitting inside. There were two creaky rocking chairs that faced the overgrown “front yard” that was more of a clearing and the breeze did weave under the overhang of the roof to wick the sweat that gathered at the back of your neck, but the problem was, it was impossible for you to feel anything but warm, especially with what was unfolding in front of you. 

The weather isn’t the only thing heating up.

You think to yourself watching Butcher lean down to pick up another piece of wood, admiring the way his worn dark jeans cup his muscular ass.

Fuck, I’m just as bad as Soldier Boy. 

The truth was, you’d been crushing on Butcher for the better part of two years since the moment the two of you met on your first day when you’d tripped and dropped the giant pile of blueprints you were carrying to your desk and he was the only one who stopped to help you pick them up. 

After Homelander had been stripped of his powers and exposed for the narcissistic psychotic freak he was, you’d started working at Supe Affairs, thinking that it was the perfect way for you to make a difference in a world reeling from the revelation. It had shaken quite a few people to know that the so-called heroes they looked up to were in fact just as crooked as a line drawn by an elephant on a tricycle. 

But you liked your job… sometimes. 

Sure, the pay sucked, the benefits were dismal and the hours were long, but you didn’t care about any of that. You felt like you were making a difference, using the engineering degree that your dad had insisted on for something other than trying to figure out how to build a bridge that withstood the force of a punch from someone as strong as Homelander. 

And you hadn’t meant to develop a crush on William Butcher of all people, you swore that each day to yourself, but it happened without warning. He was nice to you, he always had your back on missions, and sometimes when you were working on something after hours on a mission- like the gadget in your lap- Butcher would sit with you while everyone else slept, nursing a glass of whatever it was he had, and he always made you feel like a valued member of the team.

Yes, he might be a little rough around the edges, but you liked that about him, that he didn’t pull punches, rather he told it like it was. It was refreshing in the world you lived in when everyone else was so afraid of offending someone that they just kept their mouths shut. 

But the problem was that you were younger than him and a little inexperienced. 

Well… a lot inexperienced. You’d never been in a relationship before, never really done anything before because there wasn’t time when you were in school getting your degree, not to mention you had spent the last two years imagining yourself in a relationship with a man who didn’t know you existed.

That might be a little harsh, he knew you existed, obviously, but rather he didn’t see you as anything more than a teammate or at least like a little sister. The nicknames that he called you were all some form of “kiddo” or “poppet.” Nothing like the things you’d read about men calling the women they loved in books or heard in movies. 

The most experience you had in the realm of love and relationships was binge watching Sex and The City (you could quote it by heart), flipping through Cosmopolitan Magazine and other articles about love on the internet like they were opioids, and reading through romance novels reverently as if they held the secrets of the universe. 

Not to mention the draft of the romance novel on your computer… but you’d go to the grave before anyone ever saw that, and if they did see it you’d take them with you. 

Reading about relationships was easier than having one, at least that was what you told yourself to feel better. It also didn’t help that you’d seen two out of three sisters married with kids, with the third one getting married in a few weeks and you without even a shadow of a date for the wedding.

That meant you would be stuck at the awkward reject table again with your weird fourth cousin who always came on to you and tried to show you the rooster tattoo he had on his hip bone, your dad’s brother who cleaned his dentures in public after he ate and his wife who always asked you what you were “doing” with your life and curled her lip up in distaste no matter what you said, and the gaggle of their ungrateful children who were always sticky for some reason and chewed with their mouths open while spilling food all over the table like cavemen.

Sitting there with them made facing the locust supe more appealing.

But even with the pressure of trying to find someone, anyone to take, you couldn’t muster up the courage to tell Butcher how you felt about him. 

Butcher glances over as if he can sense you and you immediately drop your eyes to the bundle of gears and wires in your lap pretending to fiddle with something that doesn’t need to be fixed.

Yes, because that’s the way I’m going to win him over, by making absolutely no eye contact. Perfect, masterful. What can go wrong?

What the books, magazines, tv shows, and movies didn’t prepare you for was how to find the courage to talk to someone of the opposite sex without feeling like your tongue was going to drop out of your mouth or like you were going to throw up. 

You wait a few beats until you’re sure that he’s no longer looking at you before you raise your head to watch Butcher again. 

Ben chuckles under his breath where he sits beside you in the other rocking chair, leaning back with one of his hands behind his head. His muscles tense in the black t-shirt as he adjusts his arm. 

“What?” You ask him. 

He exhales a long and obnoxious cloud of foul smelling smoke from the joint he has in his hand. “I think you’re a hypocrite.”

“And why is that?”

“Because you’re out here eye-fucking that asshole and you yell at me for staring at you.” He chuckles with a wide smirk as he takes another hit from the blunt.

How can he smoke that? It’s like 100 degrees out here!

“I am not!” You reply as loudly as you dare, glancing over to Butcher to make sure that he didn’t hear Ben’s comment, anxiety prickling along the back of your neck, but he’s still talking to Hughie about something. “And you don’t just stare at me! You come up behind me like some gremlin out of hell, with your big hands and-”

“We both know how much you like the attention doll.”

“I do not!” Your cheeks flare bright red. 

The only downside to working on Butcher’s team was sitting directly next to you. When you found out that you’d be working with Soldier Boy, one of your dad’s favorite heroes, you were excited to meet him, and then you had and he turned into another giant disappointment. He was loud, brash, short-tempered, rude, and was always either ogling you, coming on to you, smoking something, or drinking. 

You supposed it could be worse. You didn’t hate him, and you got along with him, but he was always around. The plus side was that Ben was the one of the only people you didn’t have a hard time talking to.

Yes, he was attractive, but his particular lifestyle didn’t appeal to you and for that reason whatever nerves you had about talking to attractive men of the opposite sex evaporated when it came to Ben. 

It was unfortunate that such a skill was wasted on him of all people.

“I just-” You hesitate, eyes dropping back down to the grappling device in your lap, not sure why you’re about to admit this to Soldier Boy when you haven’t been able to admit it to anyone else. 

Probably because I’m sick of singing the line from Frozen “conceal don’t feel” over and over in my head.

“I find him extremely attractive.” You mumble on a shaky breath. 

“I’m sitting right here.” The frown in Ben’s voice is prominent, but it only makes you roll your eyes at him. 

“I know.” Your eyebrows furrow together. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Why are you looking at him when you could have my full attention.” He leans forward, dark hair falling forward into his eyes, mouth pulling up in a confident smirk. "I mean there's nothing else to fucking do, might as well do me."

Your cheeks flush with his words, but you tilt your head to the side to study him, eyes slipping over his rugged features. Tracing over the neatly trimmed beard on his cheeks, the brilliant green eyes that seemed to glow, the way his muscular body filled out his black t-shirt and blue jeans, the soft dusting of freckles that contrasted the hardness of the man he was flecked over his skin, and his full lips that are curved up in a sinful smirk that would make even the strongest woman crumble. 

But not you. Ben was… Ben. He was brash, obnoxious, handsy, impatient, and disrespectful. 

At least, that’s what you thought.

Sure you didn’t work with him often, but you believed you had a pretty good grasp on the kind of person he was. You did, right?

“You’re not my type Benny.” Your eyes flick back to the project in your lap, moving your fingers deftly through the wires of the internal mechanism.

Ben recoils at the use of his nickname, but he recovers with a low chuckle. “Don’t call me that and I’m everybody's type.”

“Not mine. I don’t like supes.”

You weren’t sure if that was 100% true. You liked Kimiko. What you meant to say was that you didn’t like supes like him. Supes that used his powers without care for the consequences, Supes like Homelander who didn’t give a shit who got hurt as long as the job was done. 

And you weren’t a supe, which meant that if you were with a supe there was always the possibility of you dying during sex or dying before you had sex in the first place. Your job also presented the possibility of you dying before you’d had sex, but you weren’t going to let that hold you back.

“But Butcher has-” Ben begins to say.

“Temporary powers. Not all the time.” You correct, unable to stop your eyes from drifting back over to where Butcher has begun to start swinging the axe again. “And look at him. Fuck, he’s over there like Paul Bunyan, rugged, chopping wood-” You sigh continuing to watch the man who probably has no idea you exist.

Ben rolls his eyes. “I could do that.”

You don’t pay Ben any attention, because Butcher is bending over again and you bite the inside of your cheek hard. 

Ben sits there for another few beats watching you watch Butcher. The wind chimes that hang above your heads jingle merrily as the breeze picks up once more bringing the smell of the wild flowers and wet earth from the forest surrounding the cabin. 

“You know I could help you.” Ben says slowly.

Your eyes flick back to Ben from Butcher in confusion. “Help me?”

What is he talking about? Does he think he can figure out how to fix the grapple gun? The other day he couldn’t figure out how to open the automatic trunk of a car and he just ripped the trunk door right off.

“Get him.” Ben nods his head in Butcher’s direction, but you’re still confused.

“How?”

And why? Why does Soldier Boy want to help me of all people?

“Well, I could help you make him jealous.” Ben leans towards you, his eyes sweeping once over you as he does, lingering too long on your chest and the edge of the jean shorts you were wearing.

“And how would you do that?”

“Well for starters you could come sit on my lap baby, see how you like it.” Ben winks. “Take me for a little ride.”

“Pass.” You roll your eyes. 

“Oh I see you want to have a more advanced lesson.” He smiles, scooting his chair towards yours, a dull scrape of wood on wood, so now his knee is touching yours. “He could catch an earful of us tonight. I’d be happy to fuck you. It’d give me something to do.” Ben takes another hit of his joint, the smoke making you scrunch your nose in distaste, while he gives you an appreciative once over. “Fuck knows the only entertainment I’ve had for three fucking days is my hand and it would be good to have a nice tight-“

“No thanks.” You interrupt, face flushing when you imagine what he was about to say.

Ben stiffens in surprise. “What?”

“I’m good.” You shrug. “I’m gonna get him the old fashioned way.”

The same old fashioned way that I’ve been using for the past two years and had absolutely no results.

“And what way is that? Pining after him and hoping that one day he’ll finally notice you?” Ben scoffs. “I can see how well that’s working for you doll-face. How long have you been working with him?”

“Two years-”

“Fuck, two years?” Ben sputters. “You should just tell him that you want him to fuck you.” 

“That won’t work.”

Ben’s face scrunches in confusion, the joint clasped in between his thumb and forefinger forgotten. “Why the hell not?”

“Because-” You glance down at your hands, thumb running along the jagged edge of the grappling hook slightly embarrassed. The last thing you wanted to tell Soldier Boy was that you were a virgin. The guy would mock you endlessly. “Because I’m younger than him and he’s-”

He’s experienced. 

“So? You think that he hasn’t thought about fucking you?” Ben takes a long sip from the whiskey sitting beside his chair. “He’d be lucky to have a little piece like you.”

You blink in surprise. It was the closest to a compliment that Ben had ever given you. He did tend to compliment your figure whenever you were around, but you usually ignored that because he did that to everyone. 

Truthfully, the thought of dating Ben didn’t appeal to you at all, but the thought of using him to make Butcher jealous was not a terrible one. And at this point, you didn’t have anything to lose. 

Well… except THAT, but you wanted it to be special, at least that’s what you’d always told yourself.

You sigh, a little frustrated, watching Butcher out of the corner of your eye swing the axe in a glorious arch to the earth. You weren’t sure how to get Butcher’s attention. You’d tried the usual things…

Leaving the room as soon as he walked in to avoid a conversation.

Gone completely mute when he asked you a question.

Pretended you didn’t see him whenever he walked into a room.

Tried to bring him coffee, but then chickened out and drank his and yours and then immediately had to go to the bathroom to avoid shitting your pants while having heart palpitations.

Basically the social anxiety was working wonders on the office romance you wanted so badly. 

“Ben?” You say tentatively, hands tightening on the contraption in your lap. At this rate you were never going to fix it and Butcher was going to have to figure out how to fly. 

“Yes, gorgeous?” Ben raises an eyebrow. The blunt is between his lips now and he’s looking at you curiously.

“If we did pretend to be…” You swallow nervously. 

“Fucking?” He leans forward eagerly, eyes twinkling with interest.

Well… I’ve never understood what it meant when someone wrote “his eyes darkened” until this very moment. 

“Dating” You correct holding up a finger.

Does his mind always go to the gutter?

You remember everything you think you know about Ben.

Yes. Yes it does.

Ben leans back with a frown. “I don’t date.”

“Well it wouldn’t be real! You’d just be helping me make him jealous and it would be nice to have a little practice maybe…”

“Practice?” He looks confused. It wasn’t the first time he had in this conversation or within the last five minutes, but like hell you were about to admit without at least one drink to Soldier Boy the extent of your dating life.

“Yeah. I’m not the best at talking to people or-”

“You’re talking just fine right now.”

“You’re different.”

“Why is that?”

“Because you annoy me and I don’t know you’re easier to talk to for some reason!” 

“Thanks.” Ben says dryly. 

By now all the anxious energy has begun to pop and crackle against your skin at the thought of what the two of you could be doing and at the thought of you two actually pulling this off and you having a shot with Butcher. Not just a shot in hell, a real shot.

“But if you’re serious about helping me get him-“ You continue.

“I was.”

It was odd that he was the one who had suggested this in the first place, and even weirder that he didn’t seem hesitant at all to be doing this. 

Maybe he thinks that we’re going to have sex. Your throat tightened at the thought, eyes widening, your nerve endings electrifying with anxiety. Oh holy fuck what if he thinks that if we do this he’ll get to do whatever he wants to me?

You clear your throat, heart beating just a little bit harder in your chest. The entire situation was making you regret the extra cup of coffee you had this morning. “What exactly would I have to do?” You don’t recognize your voice. It comes out a little more wobbly and just a little more tentative than it was. 

You didn’t know what Ben was expecting you to do and you didn’t want to say yes, only for him to force you into sleeping with him like he’d suggested earlier, the most you'd thought the two of you would do is just make out a little-

Oh holy fuck then we’d have to kiss and I don’t know if I’m a good kisser and he’s definitely kissed more than one person not to mention he’s-

The thought made you flush to the roots of your hair. 

Ben hesitates, eyeing you and you wonder if he can hear the deranged monologue inside your head or if he can hear just how hard your heart was beating. You hoped not. 

“You wouldn’t have to do anything, doll. I’m not going to force you to do anything that makes you uncomfortable.” There’s something genuine in his eyes when he answers your question, something that you’d never noticed before. 

Your mouth drops open in surprise. 

It wasn’t that you believed that Ben was that kind of man, but rather that what he just said to you might have been the most caring thing that he’d ever uttered in front of you. He was the last person that you’d expect to care about someone being uncomfortable or care if someone else was okay with everything that was happening in the bedroom.

Maybe I don’t know him as well as I think I do.

In all honesty you only knew the way Ben acted, you didn’t know anything about his life. The man kept his cards closer to his chest than a well-seasoned card player and his poker face, forget it. You couldn’t crack that combination even if you wanted to. 

Everything else you'd heard about him was through the grapevine of gossip at work. None of it was first hand.

Ben sighs and shakes his head at you as if he’s a little annoyed with himself for saying that out loud. “But I still think it would be easier if you just told him that you wanted him to fuck you. Would’ve worked on me.”

“I’m not good at that sort of thing.”

And it was true. You could take down a target, diffuse a bomb in less than ten seconds with a thin mint and a bobby pin, but saying something out loud like that to something else made you feel nauseous.

Ben hesitates again and in his hesitation the anxiety and embarrassment starts to come soaring back into your chest.

You were asking Soldier Boy, Soldier Boy, to pretend to date you so Billy Butcher would fall in love with you. 

Well kids, this must be what rock bottom feels like. I might as well just pray that the locusts come back to take me away. 

“Fine.” Ben states. 

“Really?” Your eyes widen.

He shrugs, but doesn’t answer.

“We’d have to have rules.” You blurt, and Ben makes a face.

“Rules? Never been too good with those, Sweetheart.”

“And I’d need you to promise that you wouldn’t-” 

You lose your train of thought in the wind chimes that rattle over your head and the sound of Butcher’s laugh.

“Wouldn’t?” He arches an eyebrow.

“Lose control.”

Honestly, sometimes you were a little afraid of Ben. You’d never say that out loud or admit it, but he was stronger than Homelander.

You knew Ben's reputation around the office- heard the hushed whispers of the women in the break room who said he was the best fuck of their lives, heard the horror stories of what he did to his old team, and had seen first hand what his temper was like. You also knew about his powers and worried that Ben might have a little bit of a control problem or at the very least anger management issues.

“I’m not going to fucking hurt you if that’s what you think.” Ben growls, his eyes narrowing at your insinuation. “I’m not some fucking monster, doll.”

“I don’t think you’re a monster Ben.” You sigh. “I just- I don’t have powers and you’re kinda strong and I-.” You take a deep breath to steady your voice. “I don’t think that you’d hurt me on purpose. But-”

Ben’s hand comes out to touch your chin, tilting your gaze up to him and stopping the bicycle of babbling you were about to ride around the block. Your eyes widen slightly with the contact, you weren’t used to people touching you, certainly not like this. 

Keep it together… 

“I wouldn’t hurt you by accident either.” Ben’s green eyes are focused on yours, and you can see just a sliver of emotion behind them that you can’t identify. “But if we’re going to do this you gotta promise me one thing.”

“What?” Your voice comes out like a squeak.

“You’ve got to promise not to fall in love with me.” He sends you a saucy wink that makes you want to punch the strongest man on earth, instead you settle for pushing him back from you.

But you’re not prepared for the wave of disappointment you feel when he lets go of your chin. 

“I’m not in any danger of that Benny. You’re not half as smooth as you think you are.” You start to lean back in your chair, but Ben reaches out to grab your wrist, his touch surprisingly gentle, the contact burning through your body, as he pulls you forward, so close you can smell his cologne. Somehow it's something that smells classic and modern at the same time, a hint of spice that tickles your nose and makes your throat tight. 

His voice lowers into a purr that vibrates through his chest, his next words expelled on a warm breath that weaves through the air between the two of you. 

“Sweetheart, you’re about to find out just how smooth I am.” 

What have I gotten myself into?

A/N: Again, not what I was expecting, but I really love this one y'all and I probably laughed way too hard at bits when I was writing it.

Thank you so much for reading! Likes, Reblogs, and Comments are not required, but are always appreciated! I love hearing what y'all think! 😊 If you'd liked to be added to my taglist please let me know!

Taglist

@roseblue373 @livya99 @mrsjenniferwinchester @zepskies @waynes-multiverse

@jollyhunter

[bump1nthen1ght]

The Family Jewels (Pt. 3/4)

Pairing: M!Vampire!Father-In-Law x F!Reader x M!Vampire!Husband

Genre: Regency, Gothic, Dark, Yandere, Pining

Chapter Summary: You didn't think your new home could become any stranger. Shadows have started to follow you, the night no longer the safe haven it once was. It leads you to the one person who may be able to help.

Series Warnings: Obsessive + Controlling Behavior, Fucked up Family Dynamics, Confinement, Misogyny, Future Non-Con, Degradation, Angst, Jealousy

Chapter Warnings: Stalking, Isolation, Slight Infantilization of Reader

A/N: The penultimate chapter 👀. Had a lot of fun with this series and I hope y'all have too! Last Chapter should be coming out sometime later this week/early this week. It's gonna be quite a doozy 😈

Part 1 Part 2

You think someone is watching you.

You didn’t think the eeriness of your home could be more uncomfortable, but the unmistakable feeling of attention has made it so. Only worsened by the fact you have no understanding of whose attention it is. Your first thought was perhaps the staff, but you can’t imagine months of your droll day-to-day life would suddenly gain their attention. Not when they skirt around you, ignoring all attempts to make conversations or eye contact, just as they’ve always done.

You’d learned to enjoy the solitude of your home, to be content with your own company. Reading, wandering the grounds, pondering the sky was now your beloved routine, not a prison of listlessness. But now you whip your head around at the slightest shadow. Something prickles on the back of your neck at odd moments, uneasy shivers coming down your spine when you turn the corner, your fight-or-flight instincts expecting something there.

The only other two options would be your father-in-law and your husband. The prior is an obvious no, well aware he confines himself to his study during the day so he may work in peace. The latter is absent during the daytime, supposedly sticking to his habit of sleeping with the sun, so you’re left with no clues.

To make it all worse is the fact that your husband has been present for dinner lately; Every night for the past week, to be precise. It seems to be the one meal he deems worthy of being awake for. But you figured that this was another kink to get used too, surely a momentary lapse before he returned to the routine.

But then he started talking to you.

—

“Was your day enjoyable?”

Your husband opened with, as if this was a normal dinner and you were in a normal marriage.

You hesitate to respond, convincing yourself that you had misheard one of the servants. Caleb isn’t even looking you in the eye, focused instead on cutting his steak.

“Well?” He juts in, right before taking a large bite. It's only then you realize it was in fact him speaking and in fact you who he was speaking to.

“I suppose so.” You finally deign as a well enough response. A suitably polite answer. “It was nothing remarkable.”

“Hmm.” He says, chewing on his wad of meat as he takes a sip of that curious wine of his. You return to your food, figuring that is the end of that. One of your husband's many irregularities, that was all. “What did you partake in?”

That brings you pause, halting your fork, currently being used to awkwardly move around fingerling potatoes. Your appetite starts to leave you.

“...Some of the books from the library.” Your stab at a potato, wishing you could dissent from proprietary like he could and eat through this conversation. “The estate has quite a robust collection. Especially the astronomy section.”

The sound of cutlery scraping against porcelain makes you wince, draws your full attention to your husband. For a second, you swear his eyebrow twitches.

“I see.” He stabs his steak like it’s a vicious enemy, and rips away another piece. “Anything else?”

Why are you doing this?

You desperately want to ask. You swallow that urge down.

“I began a new cross stitch today.” You swallow. “My skills are unfortunately unrefined, but I found some beautiful thread I forgot my sister had packed away when-” I was shipped off “-when I first moved in. I’m planning to embroider a Mourning Dove.”

It had been more comforting than you expected, cross-stitching. Forever it had been a habit your mother forced upon you, imploring that good embroidery was only right for a proper lady to know. Now, all alone and homesick, it felt nice to create something that could fly away.

“Hmm.” Caleb says, and that is the end of it. What follows is uncomfortable minutes of silence. Too uncomfortable to eat, you gently push your plate away and stand up, another informal curtsy and a “good night”, hoping that would be the end.

It unfortunately was not.

Edric had let you know the night prior that he’d be busier these upcoming weeks, several meetings with important men or something of that matter keeping him away for the nights as well as the days. You told him it was no issue, even though your heart had tugged at the idea of spending those dark hours alone.

To your great shock, upon arriving at your favorite spot in the garden, your husband is there. Not lounging as he did before, but sitting on the bench. Your bench.

“I did not know you had finished dinner.” You remark, trying to act less flustered than you were. Months ago you would have rejoiced at this change of pace, so bored and listless. But now it left you feeling more than a little aggravated.

“I did shortly after you.” He says, actually acknowledging you with a look over his shoulder. Weirdly, a bottle does not accompany his side. “Thought I’d go for a walk. It is quite a big garden.”

I’m not here for you. He seemed to scream with every word, his very soul. You don’t why know he’s being so insistent, he’s made that opinion very clear in every other interaction so far.

“I see.” You parrot, a surge of obstinance making you bolder than normal, sitting down next to him. This was your favorite spot, you refuse to give it up to him on a whim.

It brings great satisfaction when he scoots away, his body jerking, clearly surprised by you being so close. You’re sure he thought you all figured out, some girl he could walk over whenever he pleased.

You don’t bother speaking first, figuring his stint during dinner was a temporary lapse in judgement. His sheer disinterest made it clear it was from a source of boredom, not genuine curiosity, which spurred this change. Surely, that was the end-

“That’s Cassiopeia.” Caleb says, his long hand, usually adorned with a bottle, points at the night sky. When you don’t respond immediately, he goes to lengths of drawing the ‘W’ shape with his finger.

“..Ah, yes it is.” You say, surprised that he has continued talking to you and that he knows any constellation. “She is quite beautiful. Though, I suppose that is part of why she is in the sky in the first place.” You chuckle at the joke, the mood quickly souring when Caleb doesn’t, looking at you like a strange sort of insect.

Edric would’ve laughed.

“And from her,” Caleb traces his hands away from Cassiopeia to another, “-You can find her daughter, Andromache.”

“Andromeda.” The words whip out immediately, before you can think better of it, although your tone is gentle. Caleb turns to look at you, wordlessly once more. For a second, you wonder if he’ll snap at your correction. “Her daughter is Andromeda, not Andromache. Andromache was Hector’s wife.”

Caleb pauses for a moment, retracting his hand.

“Hm.” He hums and turns away.

The awkward atmosphere lingers afterwards, and you almost feel bad for correcting him. You hadn't meant it as a criticism, just as a reminder.

But that just makes you more upset. Why should you care how Caleb feels about your words, unintentional or not? He has made no such consideration for your feelings during your time here, nor does he seem to intend to anytime in the future. He’s a cad, a rake, he could stand to be knocked down a peg or too.

Luckily, the rest of the night is blissfully quiet. You try your best to bat away any lingering feelings of anxiety or awkwardness, simply savoring what you could.

—

Caleb isn’t sure what he is doing.

It was bad enough foregoing his rest and haunting you like a phantom, chasing this incessant new urge of his. Like picking at a scab you know would be healed if left alone, he can’t seem to resist. His body follows you naturally now, using his more inhuman qualities to blend in the shadows, avoiding the poisonous daylight and lingering on your every move. You make it too easy with your rhythmic movements, keeping regular in your entertainment about the house. If not in the library, you were in the garden having tea. If not in the garden having tea, you were embroidering on the lounge. What should be so dreadfully boring is now enrapturing, although it is wounding it feels too good to stop.

Look at him now, bumbling around like a fool, words falling out his mouth like hail against your soft skin. Even when he does catch your attention and get a genuine response, he loses himself in the memories of said moments, reimagining it as vividly as he saw it from the shadows. He remembers the jump of excitement when you found a new book on Greek Mythology on the shelf, having thought you had already read them all. He remembers the look you made when you had made a mistake in your embroidery, your brow furrowed as you undid your stitches. When focused on your work, a tiny sliver of your tongue would sit out at your mouth, something he’s sure your mother scolded you for time and time again. By the time his mind got back to him you were leaving, the same curt response and rigid curtsy as before.

Desperate for a fix, he even ambushed you at your stargazing spot. He could barely look you in the eye, too nervous you would see through his ruse, point and laugh at his boyishness. It was made even worse when you sat near him, tantalizing him with your blood and the beating of your heart, which sang to his very ears.

“That’s Cassiopeia.” Caleb attempts, wondering if this will have greater success. Given your silence, he wondered if perhaps his maker hadn’t pointed it out to you yet. Pride fills his chest as he traces out her shape, wondering what look you have in your eyes.

“..Ah, yes it is.” You reply, and Caleb’s monstrous heart skips a beat. “She is quite beautiful. Though, I suppose that is part of why she is in the sky in the first place.”

Caleb freezes, caught off his rhythm, you giggle making him realize that he isn’t understanding something. The disappointed look on your face feels like a blade in his stomach.

He should be angry, furious even. It had been years since anyone had made him feel this way, this inferiority. He had outgrown that, had ripped it out with his own bleeding heart and tossed it outside.

“And from her,” Caleb pivots, hoping the skills of aloofness can work in favor “-You can find her daughter, Andromache.”

“Andromeda.” Caleb’s stomach turns. Frozen in his best laid plans, this windstorm of his wife has blown them away. “Her daughter is Andromeda, not Andromache. Andromache was Hector’s wife.”

It’s all he can do to not scream at that moment. But he fears that too will be as awkward and foolish as the rest of his words, choosing instead to say nothing. To his consternation and relief, you follow suit and do not speak as well, returning to your own stargazing.

When you eventually retire, Caleb should go out. He should find the nearest beast and rip their throat, soak in their blood and be reminded that he was the fearsome beast. He was not the stupid farm boy, he was an unholy abomination built to feast and terrorize.

Instead he paces around his room, wondering what he should say. He looks in the mirror at his facade self, the beautiful face that makes ladies of all classes swoon, and wonders what would catch your eye.

You were smart, clearly, smarter than he anticipated. He thinks you might be catching onto his voyeur-tendencies, once or twice hiding around a corner and popping out, as if to confront your own shadow. Once, when he had left your book an inch or two over from where you had left it, you returned to the room with a quirk in your eyebrow. You had searched the room up and down, even flagged down a servant to ask if anyone had cleaned the library recently.

He had assumed your quietness came from a dull demeanor, just as boring as one would expect from the “wife.” But you had good humor. He saw you joking around with his creator, possibly the stodgiest vampire to ever roam the world, and even make jests of your own. You had tried with him tonight, although it seemed to fly over his head. And you seemed to enjoy dancing, like most ladies, if the way you hummed and swayed down the halls when you thought you were alone was enough indication. These were all things he was used to; Wining and dining ladies with his good charm and superb dancing skills, yet he found himself at a standstill.

His head falls into his hands, a frustrated hunger stirring in his gut. He needs to feed. At least that was an aching he could satisfy.

—

A whole fortnight of this. No peace, no privacy, no respite from the dreadfulness of the estate. During the day you tremored, aware that someone followed in your footsteps but not who it was. During the night all sense of comfort was robbed by him, your husband who, after several months of blissful avoidance, could not leave your side.

The conversations had not gotten better since the first. Mostly one sided, your husband seemed to force himself through every word, barely listening when it was your turn to speak. You don’t know why he bothers with the painful effort, his head off in the clouds, clearly wishing he was somewhere else. It's worse than the silence by a landslide, and you find yourself begging for your husband to start ignoring you again.

But like every one before it, your wishes go unanswered. The pain of it all forces you to focus, to try and find the source of this newfound vigor for this falsehood of a marriage.

All your hypotheses lead you back to one person. One person whom, unlike your husband, could hopefully be reasoned with.

—

You make quick work to scurry out of the dining hall after another painful dinner, hoping the distraction of his meal will keep your husband from noticing your divergence from routine.

Striding deeper into the bowels of the estate reminds you of just how unsettling the rest of the house feels. Each hallway is cleaned too perfectly, each decoration too precisely placed. You never knew furniture could feel so cold, that the sterility of a cleanliness would be so unnerving. It felt as if no one had ever really walked these halls, not for a long, long time.

But you push on, too determined in your mission. You had finally been able to corner a maid during the day, making up a vague excuse for returning a book to have her point the way to the Earl’s office. You’re happy you had the forethought to write it down, sure the enticing darkness around each corner and the amount of turns would’ve befuddled you. But with your trusty papers, you're able to navigate yourself to a beautiful mahogany door, befit with a golden knob and intimidating presence.

Why must everything in this place feel so hostile?

You ponder, wondering if the architect of this place had a hatred of joy and fresh air. But you digress, rapping your knuckles onto the thick door frame. Through the wood you can faintly hear the scribbles of an ink pen and the focused voice of The Earl.

“You may enter.”

His tone lacks the familiarity you’ve grown used to. For a discomforting second it reminds you of Caleb, not of these past two weeks but the months before. You banish that thought away. They are father and son, it is only natural.

“Sir?” You default to polite terms, peaking your head past the grand entrance. Even now the study feels untouchable, makes you hesitant to walk inside so boldly.

The Earl quickly leans his head up, shoulders falling down and a smile gracing his lips. You smother your fluttering heart, reminding yourself of your mission.

“My dear, I was not expecting you.” Edric stands with a dramatic push of his chair, setting his ink pen into its pot. “I apologize, but I fear I cannot join you again tonight. There is still much work to be done.” Edric taps his fingers against his desk.

“Oh it is no issue, Si-Edric. I understand completely.” Finally comfortable enough, you enter the room completely and shut the door behind you. Though this does little to calm your nerves, both for the conversation you must have and the idea of being alone in a room with him. As silly as it is, the hesitance of being alone with a man who is not your husband lingers, even if it is someone proper like your father-in-law. “I actually wish-” You words catch, but you will the butterflies in your stomach away, “-I wish to talk to you about something else. If you are available to it.”

Edric’s brow quirks, a minor change in his usually flawless face. For the very first time, he looks caught off guard.

“Of course, my dear.” Edric pulls out a chair for you to sit, moving his own so the desk won’t block you from each other. You nod in thanks, knees knocking together. You were never great at confrontation, and after finally finding peace in your new home, you fear disturbing and ruining what you have.

But Caleb is doing a fine job of that all on his own.

Your hands fiddle with each other in your lap, forcefully distracting you from making eye contact with Edric. He sits now with his ankles crossed, his arms resting on the sides, looking all like a king receiving his subject. Given his authority and your desperation, he might as well be.

“Now, what would you like to speak about?”

“I-” You swallow the lump in your throat, “I would like to start with my appreciation for your kind intentions, as I know it is what most likely drove you to act in such a way.” Your finger bones ache with how tightly you clench them. “That I appreciate you taking the effort to…encourage Caleb to spend more time with me.” Encourage is probably the incorrect word. If you knew anything about your husband ‘bribed’ was most definitely more accurate. It is the only thing that would make sense given recent circumstances. “But while I understand why you would think such a move was for the best, I’d like to implore that it is not necessary.”

You can hear a pin drop, your father-in-law quiet as the dead. It urges you to keep speaking, to fill the uncomfortable silence with something. At the least to release the issues from your mind, to get them off your chest.

“I know you are a good and honorable man, and that from the outside I must look so pitiful to you. That my lonesome nature most likely urged you to aid in my companionship, but I have found much happiness in this place in these past months. I see it as my home, and I do not mind the quiet.” You’ve released the fabric of your dress, moving instead to the fascinating shapes of your palm lines. Still, you proceed. “As…uncouth as my husbands, they seem to make him happy. He does not seem to enjoy the quiet nights like you and I do.”

A heat decorates the apples of your cheeks, spreading all the way down your neck and up to the tips of your ears. It seems silly looking back on it, having more in common with a man no doubt twice your age than your own husband.

“So, if you could speak to him and let him know that he is free to live as he likes, that he should not feel responsible for me, I would most appreciate it. Please tell him that I am quite happy with the way things were before.”

With you.

Your twisting heart does not know if it wants Edric to understand that unspoken sentiment.

The tapping of Edric’s fingernails on the chair arm finally pulls you attention, sounding cacophonous in the void created. It draws your eyes to finally look Edric head on, to gauge his reaction. Unfortunately, his reserved face leaves it difficult for you to do so.

“I see.” Edric finally breaks it, his fingers speeding up in their rapping. Something squeezes in your chest, wondering if perhaps you’ve offended him with your presumptions.

“I did not-” You bluster, trying to explain before he assumes anything. But a wave of Edric hands stops you in your tracks.

“I am not offended, dear.” The Early gives a gentle smile, a nod to show the truth of his word. Relief washes over you. “I am simply…surprised.”

You swallow your response. As attentive and understanding as Edric is, he is still a man, still subject to misunderstandings of a woman’s true heart. While Caleb is quite handsome, it takes much more good looks and the bare minimum to curry your favor.

“I shall speak to him.” Edric finally commands, standing up from his seat and sending you scurrying to do so on your own. A bubbling feeling fills your chest, the relief of knowing things will finally return to normal. At least the nights.

“Thank you, Edric.”

“It is no problem.” Edric says with a wave of his hand. “I commend you for bringing it up with me promptly. I understand that can be a difficult feat, especially when I am such a recluse.”

That lightens your mood even more, giving you a gentle giggle.

“I think you presume too much of your intimidation, good sir.” You lie, as if you were not petrified of facing him not 10 minutes ago. That fear seems silly now. Of course Edric would listen, when hasn’t he?

You don’t notice the way Edric’s tongue flicks out to wet his lips, the way his eyes for only a second dip down to your collarbone.

“Perhaps I do.” Edric pats the back of his seat. “Well, while I do enjoy your company, I'm afraid I must get back to work. Shall I escort you to your room?”

“Oh that won’t be necessary. I wouldn’t want to disturb and I am quite confident I can find my way.” You weren’t really, but you also were not ready to admit that to him.

“Then I bid you goodnight, my dear.” Edric nods his head, quickly moving his chair back behind his desk, no doubt to resume his business. You drop into a small curtsy yourself, a new energy in your steps as you leave. Even with the labyrinthine task of returning to your room ahead of you, you can’t be despondent.

You have a feeling things are taking a change for the better.

—

It takes everything in Edric’s immortal power to not burst into laughter the second the door closes behind you. Even with the thick wood as a barrier and your inferior human hearing, Edric is sure his cackling could be heard from miles away.

He had planned to court you slowly. Push the boundaries of his affection with every visit, subtly make you dependent on his touch and his closeness. Then, he would pull away, make you truly long for him. It would make his return all the more dramatic, hopefully swell your emotions to such a size that you would not turn away more uncouth behavior. A hug, a kiss to the cheek, maybe even a peck to your soft lips.

But now his son had revealed his hand, clumsily so. Scrambling to hold on to the toy now that it was being swept away, every bit the petulant child. He had made his own desperate move for your affections and was failing miserably.

It's cruel how much glee that gives him, Edric thinks, chuckling into his hands. He needs to remind his son that such obvious peacocking is hardly a foolproof strategy, teach him subtler ways of luring and ensnaring prey, nonetheless a partner. The boy had been riding on his good looks and inhuman charm for too long.

Ahh yes, and you. Who came to him, who chose him. Who ran into his arms and pleaded for safety. How could he not give it to you? His sweet dearest, his darling future. Edric’s nails dig into his palms and he’s sure if his heart still beated, it’d be racing a mile a minute. A palpable thirst burns in the back of his throat, one Edric knows won't be satisfied by any half-thought meal.

This has all but confirmed it: plans are changing. It seems the timeline for his machinations are moving up, given your clear displeasure. Who is he to deny you?

[hcneymooners]

⋆ up until the very last ember of my heart extinguishes, i will be thinking of you.

dj!mel x best friend!fem!reader. men & minors dni.

synopsis: you & mel have always been thick as thieves, and things have yet to change. but lately, you've been thinking of mel differently and, well—maybe you want more. cw: dj!mel, best friend!reader, female!reader, no age gap i fear, you guys are in your twenties, modern!au, resolved sexual tension, pining, friends to lovers, clubbing, not actually unrequited love, explicit sexual content, dom!mel, sub!reader, lowkey y'all are switches, wall sex, tender sex, vaginal fingering, edging, cunnilingius, oral sex (r!receiving), couch sex, mel is actually insane about you, obsession, possessive behavior, squirting, face riding, pet names, you guys are very soft for each other.

notes: i love her so much guys; i'm gonna be sick. hope you enjoy. this is really rough for my first time back in a while but it is what it is, hmm?

“you’re loyal to her. i’ve never gone a night without seeing you here.”

the words are screamed directly into your ear and you stumble a bit, already off kilter thanks to the lychee martinis you’ve been sipping since the beginning of the evening. the world is beautiful like this: slurred into soft strobes of turquoise, gold, green that caress the sweaty gleaming bodies of the people spinning within it. the set for tonight is still danceable but decidedly slower than usual, honing in on the loneliness and escapism other people may desire on valentine’s eve.

you blink blearily at the girl vibrating next to you. she shakes with a jitter you know belongs either to ketamine or cocaine—or perhaps both. ck-ing was a popular method of dressing up a club night in london. you stop swaying to the beat, body still as you focus on her completely. mel once told you that this was your pull—this ability to make whomever was in front of you feel as though they were the most important thing in the world to you.

“sorry, what?” you finally push out.

“mel,” the girl shouts again, gesturing to the stage way up front. “whenever she’s performing, you’re here!”

you glance up at the woman in question, face softening as you watch the way her body flows into her highly practiced routine of dance. tonight the movements are more minimal, courtesy of her dress—a masterpiece of fanned peacock feathers that catch and scatter light with every subtle movement. the feathers are arranged in a mesmerizing spiral from the jeweled clasp beneath her arm, each eye seeming to watch the crowd as she moves. it's shorter than her usual style, ending mid-thigh in a flutter of iridescent tips that make her look like some rare, exotic bird. every time the bass drops, the feathers tremble in response, creating a hypnotic dance of green-blue shadows across her skin.

it’s not typical for a dj-ing outfit, but mel has cemented herself as a rich girl with a talent. everyone knows who she is, who her mother is. they love that she comes down to their level during the weekends, covers herself in glitter and spins together a beat like some kind of opulent spider.

"yeah," you shout back, your voice still managing to sound tender. "she's my best friend."

the words feel both true and incomplete in your mouth - they always do. you've been "best friends" since you quite literally crashed into her at university, spilling your coffee all over her white hermès sweater. instead of the fury you'd expected, she'd laughed, dragged you shopping for a replacement, and somehow ended up buying you three sweaters instead.

that was mel all over: excessive, generous, impossible to refuse.

"lucky!" your momentary friend shouts back and your mouth dips into a smile that doesn't quite reach your eyes.

lucky. right. lucky to be the one who holds her hair back after bad nights, who listens to her practice sets until dawn, who knows exactly how she likes her tea when she's stressed (earl grey, splash of oat milk, two sugars). lucky to be the one who gets to love her from this careful distance, never quite close enough to risk everything.

the girl disappears into the crowd, leaving you alone with your thoughts and the music again. mel's current track winds down, bleeding into something slower, more haunting. you recognize it immediately—it's one of her original pieces, the one she'd made you listen to first, cross-legged on her bedroom floor at 3 am, her face anxious and hopeful in the low light.

the memory makes your chest ache. up on stage, she's different from that vulnerable version of herself. her movements are precise and controlled, even in that impossible dress. you watch as she adjusts something on her deck, the feathers shifting across her back like ripples in dark water. when she reaches up to adjust her headphones, the dress catches the light in a way that makes your breath catch.

you're not the only one watching. the crowd around you is entranced, and you hear snippets of their whispered appreciation. the warmth of your tipsiness is starting to wear off. you’re suddenly so much more aware of yourself, of the differences between you and the luminescent girl on stage.

tonight you’ve chosen a simple black midi dress with a scoop neck that cups your chest gently. the tops of your breasts swell up softly at the mouth of the fabric, gleaming with a golden sheen that could only belong to your beloved diamond shimmer bath and body works mist. your hair has been longer by a copious number of extensions, the bundles pooling together at your lower back. tinsel is strung artfully in-between some strands, a careful layering courtesy of mel.

as you look around at the people around you, you feel boring and a bit underdressed. everyone is suddenly so much cooler than you and the thought brings a rush of warmth to your cheeks, the embarrassment strong in its resurgence. you shift in place as the song changes to something a bit more fast-paced. there’s a chorus of screams, shouts of pleasure, and the floor begins to shake as people flood it to dance. you smile tightly as someone slams into you rather harshly, their apology half-assed and unfocused.

you clutch the top of your mother’s vintage ysl clutch, the chain a bit rusted and the body bulging with a combination of your house keys, your lip combo, some shit from work you didn’t take out in time, and the normally slim body of your phone which as been made bigger by the chunky sides of your artisan bedazzled phone case. the multiple polaroids of you and mel in the back didn’t help the situation in any way, the glossy memories slightly distended by the rolled bills you’ve tucked back there for emergencies.

as you turn to navigate the sudden pit of people, the music lowers just enough so that mel’s soft steady voice bleeds through. the lights flash once, twice, a third time; the bulbs are hot and pink. you know what’s coming, but you still don’t turn around, though your mouth twitches in a smile.

"hey, london," mel croons and the crowd screams back at her, eager to greet the woman soundtracking what is probably just another tuesday evening. "i have a question before i finish up. i don't want to forget."

your heart stutters in your chest. she does this sometimes, turns you into an unwitting participant in her performances. you remember the first time she did it, six months ago, how your knees had gone weak at the way she'd claimed you so publicly, so casually. how dangerous it had felt, how thrilling.

"has anyone seen my girl?"

the crowd goes crazy and you lift a hand to your mouth to hide your smile, heat flooding your cheeks. you hate how easily she can undo you, how these little moments of possession—even if they're just part of her show—make your pulse race. your free hand unconsciously touches the delicate gold chain around your neck—her birthday gift from last year, a tiny hextech crystal pendant that she'd said "reminded her of home."

"i came in with her. you know her, right? gorgeous little thing in a short black dress. kind of looks like…"

you close your eyes, remembering how she'd fussed over you earlier tonight, her fingers gentle as she wove tinsel through your hair. 'perfect,' she'd murmured, her breath warm against your ear, and you'd had to suppress a shiver. now, surrounded by strangers who are about to echo what you've felt for years, the irony isn't lost on you.

she trails off, holds out her mic to a group of girls right below her who giggle out the finishing portion of her sentence.

“…the love of my life!” they sing, drawing out the ‘i’ for a long while.

mel’s laugh echoes through the speakers, the sound throaty and raw. on cue, the music begins: “please don’t be love of my life” by caitvi, (calvin harris mix). they were a rock band that accidentally stumbled into becoming the summer muses for every edm fiend in existence.

you clutch your empty martini glass with a renewed strength, fighting until you manage to clutch a hand on the bar. the bartender smiles at you, complimenting your perfume which you don’t even think is still on your skin. you say thank you anyway, laughing openly as they tease you about your fondness for lychee. you’ve always been this way, you want to say, always holding on to what you know in the hopes that it’ll eventually love you back.

instead, you look over your shoulder at mel’s far off silhouette. there’s a moment where she looks up, seems to look at you. you don’t know if she really sees you, given your distance and the disorienting nature of the club. you smile regardless, raise a hand to wave lightly. the chrome bow on your acrylics flashes meanly, signaling your position.

she looks way, smiles earnestly at the crowd, and you drop your hand. the moment is broken, like always. as you move to pull your refreshed martini by the stem, mel’s dj tag sounds: sounds of birds of paradise, interwoven into one another over a damagingly sad violin sample. it’s her way of letting the people know that this will be her last couple of songs for the evening.

the birds’ calls fade into the melancholy beginning of “healing” by gordo featuring drake. the opening notes reverberate through you and you press your lips together, body thrumming with the effect of being noticed. she had seen you. that was the only reason she was playing this song. it had been your favorite for the past month, and now here it was on blast at one of the most elite clubs in the city.

‘i want to see you dance to this,’ she’d told you one evening, her mouth trailing against your shoulder. you were twisted together in your bed, the blankets plush around you as the two of you shared her airpods. ‘i want to see you have fun, lose yourself.’

‘i can’t lose myself,’ you’d said back, mouth rising in a secretive smile.

mel had lifted your hand teasingly, bit it gently, and then interlinked her fingers with yours.

‘don’t worry. i’ll find you.’

you look back at her, find her leaning over her deck with a finger pressed pensively to her mouth. she quirks an eyebrow and gestures to the crowd, as if asking why you’re not inside of it. you smile despite it all and abandon your martini, wiggling through the gaps of people until you're up front.

the bass drops and the crowd surges forward, but you hold your ground, eyes locked on mel. she's watching you now, really watching you, her movements more deliberate as she works the deck. you recognize this version of the song; it's her own remix, the one she'd been perfecting for weeks in her home studio. she'd added layers of ethereal synths that make it feel like you're floating, like you're the only person in the room who really understands what she's trying to say.

she gestures to her security guard, a subtle movement that you've seen countless times before. within moments, strong hands are parting the crowd, creating a path to the booth. your heart pounds as you're ushered up the steps, into her domain of switches and lights and pulsing energy. the peacock feathers of her dress brush against your arm as she pulls you close, her free hand settling on your waist.

"dance with me," she murmurs into your ear, her voice carrying despite the thundering music. her fingers trace patterns on your hip, and you wonder if she can feel you trembling. "show them what this song was made for."

you let your body move with hers, falling into the rhythm she's created. the feathers of her dress catch the light with each movement, creating a private light show just for the two of you. she keeps one hand on the deck, maintaining the perfect flow of music, but her other hand never leaves your body, guiding you through the dance like she's afraid you might disappear if she lets go.

the crowd below is going wild, but you barely notice them. all you can focus on is the way mel's breath catches when you press closer, the way her fingers tighten on your waist when you roll your hips. the tinsel in your hair catches the light, mixing with the iridescent shimmer of her dress until you're both wrapped in a cocoon of glitter and sound.

"see?" she whispers, and you can hear the smile in her voice. "i told you i'd find you."

the words send a shiver down your spine, and you turn your head slightly, catching her gaze. there's something different in her eyes tonight, something that makes your breath catch in your throat. maybe it's the valentine's eve atmosphere, or maybe it's the way the lights are hitting her face, but for a moment, you let yourself believe that the look she's giving you means what you want it to mean.

she transitions into the next song seamlessly, but keeps you close, as if she's forgotten that this isn't how she usually ends her sets. as if she's forgotten that you're supposed to be just her best friend, watching from the crowd like always. as if, just for tonight, you could be something more.

the spell breaks when you catch a glimpse of your reflection in one of the booth's chrome panels. you see yourself pressed against her, see the way you're looking at her: desperate, obvious, completely transparent. the music suddenly feels too loud, the lights too bright, your skin too tight. you're acutely aware of every place her body touches yours, and it's simultaneously too much and not enough.

"i need—" you start, but can't finish. mel's hand tightens on your waist for a fraction of a second before you pull away. you gesture vaguely toward the floor, not meeting her eyes. "sorry, i just—"

you don't wait for her response, practically stumbling down the booth steps. the crowd that had been watching your dance parts easily, perhaps sensing your urgency. you hear the next dj's tag start to play—some remix of a taylor swift song—which means mel's set is over. which means she might follow you. the thought makes you move faster.

you trip over your feet, your heel catching on the bone of your ankle as it lifts and you fall. your knees crack against the ground, but you regain your momentum. your neck is warm and you lift your hair with one hand as you spin, eventually locating the flickering neon sign denoting the bathroom.

the bathroom is mercifully empty when you burst in, all perfectly-cut marble and deep blue lighting that makes your reflection look expensive and almost admirably tragic. you press your palms against the cool counter, letting your head hang down as you try to steady your breathing. the bass from the club thrums through the walls, muffled but persistent, like a heartbeat.

“you’re always so fucking stupid,” you whisper to yourself, watching a tear splash onto the marble. you'd let yourself get carried away, let yourself pretend. but mel is mel. this is the girl who turns heads when she walks into rooms, who has fashion houses begging to dress her, who could have anyone she wants. and you're just… someone else.

her best friend, you suppose. the girl who’s responsible for holding her hair back when she's sick, who listens to her practice sets, who loves her so strongly that it feels akin to having a spear sunk through your chest.

the bathroom door opens with a soft whoosh, and you know it's her before she speaks. you can smell her perfume. it’s something custom-made in paris, a mix of lily, amber, and caramel. you don't look up.

"hey," mel says softly, and you hear the click of her heels on the marble floor as she approaches. "what happened up there?"

you close your eyes, trying to ignore how the marble feels like ice beneath your palms, how your body still burns where she touched you in the booth. "nothing happened, melly. i just needed some air."

you use your nickname for her as a way to disarm her, but mel has always been immovable when it came to getting something that she wants. the silence that follows feels incredibly long, but you know it hasn’t even been ten seconds. you lean forward, splash water on your face. blindly, you search for a paper towel but you’re handed a small hand towel instead. your makeup transfers onto the fabric, staining it with the traces of your exhaustion and loneliness.

"[name], look at me." her voice is gentle but firm, the same tone she uses when she knows you're lying. when you don't move, you hear her sigh, the sound followed by the soft rustle of feathers. then her hand is on your shoulder, turning you around.

she's closer than you expected, close enough that you can see the individual glitter particles scattered across her collarbones, catch the faint sheen of sweat at her temples from performing. the peacock dress seems alive in the bathroom's soft lighting, each feather shifting with her breath. you try to step back, but the counter prevents your retreat.

"you were crying," she observes, reaching up to brush her thumb beneath your eye. her touch lingers longer than necessary, and you hate how your body betrays you, leaning into her hand like a flower seeking sun. "why were you crying?"

"i wasn't," you lie, even as another tear escapes. "it's just the vodka. you know how i get."

"yeah," she says, and now both her hands are cupping your face, forcing you to meet her gaze. her eyes are dark, intent, stripped of their usual playful gleam. "i know how you get when you're drunk, and this isn't it. this is something else."

you try to laugh but it comes out choked. "melly, please—"

"when you were up there with me," she interrupts, one hand sliding down to rest against your neck, her thumb pressed gently against your pulse point, "what were you thinking about?"

the question hangs between you, heavy with possibility. you can feel your heartbeat racing beneath her thumb, wonder if she can feel it too. the bathroom suddenly seems smaller, the air thicker. somewhere outside, the music has changed to something slower, more intimate. the bass line crawls up through the floor and into your bones.

this is how love always finds you, corners you. it's a snake that's flat enough to slide underneath the door. you always watch it passively as it slides up your body, only crying out when it bites.

"i was thinking," you start, then stop, swallowing hard. her eyes track the movement of your throat. "i was thinking about how great you were tonight, how—how beautiful you are. ‘nd i was thinking about how some things can look real without being real. like stage lights. or club nights. or best friends who—"

you cut yourself off, but her grip on your neck tightens slightly, just enough to make your breath catch. the feathers of her dress brush against your thighs, a whisper of sensation that makes you shiver.

"or best friends who what?" she prompts, her voice low, almost dangerous. she's close enough now that you can feel her breath against your lips, can smell the champagne she'd been sipping between sets.

the door to the bathroom opens, the sound of the club surging in, and you both freeze. mel doesn't move away, doesn't drop her hands. instead, she leans closer, her lips brushing your ear.

"we're not done with this conversation," she murmurs, the words a promise that distills heat through your body. "come on."

she pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, and the look in hers makes your knees weak. you open your mouth to respond, but—

the bathroom door swings shut again, leaving you both in that suspended moment. your "okay" comes out barely above a whisper, but she hears it. of course she hears it. she’s always heard you, even when you chose not to speak.

♤

the ride home is thick with unspoken words.

mel's driver, marcus, keeps his eyes professionally forward as you slide into the back of the bentley, the leather seats cool against your bare legs. mel follows, close enough that the feathers of her dress spill over onto your thigh. neither of you speak, but her pinky finger finds yours in the darkness between your bodies, hooking together like you used to do in university when one of you needed grounding.

london slides past the tinted windows in a blur of neon and shadow. you watch the reflections of passing streetlights play across mel's profile, catching the sharp edge of her jaw, the elegant line of her neck. she’s removed her performance jewelry, but missed a spot of glitter near her ear. without thinking, you reach up to brush it away.

she catches your wrist before you can retreat, her thumb pressing into your pulse point again. the car feels smaller in a matter of minutes, the air between you charged with electricity. she turns to fully face you, bringing your hand up to her mouth so that she can slide your pointer finger into her mouth. the suck of her lips is gentle, tender. you watch her head bob as she slides down further, then pulls off.

she doesn't let go of your wrist for the rest of the ride.

when the car pulls up to her mayfair townhouse, you feel like you're moving through a dream. the click of her heels on the steps echoes in the quiet street. to you, they're like gunshots and you have the irrational thought of the neighbors coming out to complain, to tell you that your desire is choking them in the same way you feel now. your own steps are less sure, thanks to the martinis and the way your whole body seems to be humming with anticipation.

she fumbles with her keys briefly, something you've never seen her do, and then you're inside. the door closes behind you with a soft click that seems to echo in the darkness. neither of you move to turn on the lights. the moonlight filtering through her floor-to-ceiling windows is enough to see by, casting everything in shades of silver.

she looks unreal, like a figment of your imagination. you pinch the inside of your thigh, letting out a hiss of air from in-between your teeth. she moves closer, fingers the indentation where your nails had dug into the skin.

you shake, but she only steadies you.

"melly," you start, but she shakes her head, settling both hands on your waist.

gently, she maneuvers you until your back meets the wall. a hand lifts to settle at the base of your neck, her lithe fingers threading into your hair so that she can cup the back of your head. she’s making sure your head doesn’t hit the stone, sacrificing her own skin to ensure your comfort. the thought makes you warmer than before.

mel watches your face, her eyes almost erratic as she searches for whatever sign she needs. she comes flush against you and your legs part instinctively to make room for her, spread to accommodate the whole of her.

she lowers her head, mouth coming to burn against your neck as she presses a kiss there. you let out a small, weeping sound as if her lips have enabled a release inside of you. in a way they have. you soften, melt into her and find the strength to touch her.

your hands grasp at mel’s neck and she hums in satisfaction, working her teeth into the meat of your neck like a vampire. she pulls back only to look down, freeing a hand from your waist to inch the hem of your dress up.

you moan brokenly as you grow more exposed, your cunt wet against the baby blue lace that holds it. the moonlight sneaks between the both of you and renders the fabric practically translucent, the blue so light in its glow that it seems closer to white.

“you’re so beautiful, baby,” mel whispers and you blink at her, your throat tight. “you always say it about me, and i never understand it. when i look at our pictures, i don’t see anyone else.”

your eyes slip low, going tender, and you cup her face.

“you’re perfect, mel.”

“i guess we’re a good match,” she murmurs and then she’s in you.

the motion is so smooth, so quick. you hadn’t realized she’d peeled the fabric of your panties back, pushed them to the side. you know nothing now except for the steady pump of her fingers. there are two working deep into the heart of you, searching and spreading your slick heat.

you cry out, eyes wide like a doe’s. mel only smiles, predatory and slow. her teeth gleam, two rows of perfect pearls. you feel out of your body, but she brings you back in with every stroke inside of you. her breathing is becoming heavy, labored. her eyes seem a little wild and the hand on your neck moves briefly to squeeze tightly at your waist until you let out a deep “unh.”

mel grins again at the sound and it makes you surge forward, crushing her mouth into a bruising kiss. you bite at her bottom lip until she opens and lets you in, your tongue lapping all over as if to consume her. she slips a third finger inside of you, curling at the walls of your cunt to make you clench down.

you continue to kiss her, tilting your head so that angle is better. you slot together perfectly and she moans into your mouth, increasing the speed of her thrusts. you break away from her and study her face, taking in the way her lip gloss is smeared wickedly around her mouth. her lips are swollen and dark and she takes one in between her teeth as she works deeper into you.

your head falls back and she returns her hand to the nape of your neck, catching you before you can hit the wall.

“you’re okay, mama,” she murmurs and you nod, eyes focused somewhere distant on the ceiling.

she knows how you get, how disassociative you can become when you’re overwhelmed with emotion. she watches as you go somewhere she’s unable to follow. your chest heaves with every exhale and she leans forward to press a kiss to the top of your tits, then another right in the middle of them. her mouth is dusted with glitter when she pulls away.

you fuck down on her hand, an animalistic moan crawling from somewhere deep in your chest. mel fucks you harder, grunting as she shifts you bodily up and down with the effort. you keen as she uses her thumb to rub your clit, the circles tight and concentrated. pleasure arcs white and hot up your spine and you close your eyes, mouth falling open silently.

“that’s it,” she says. “come on, baby. come on.”

“mel,” you gasp and she laughs lowly.

“what happened to melly?” she teases and you whine, a foot kicking out as she presses against your g-spot.

“melly, please,” you whisper. “fuck, please.”

“please what?”

"just please.”

nothing changes. she only watches you squirm and beg like a whore, her face impassive. it was moments like these where you were reminded of her mother. the thought sends another shot of arousal to your cunt and it drools down mel’s wrist, sticky and warm.

“mel, fuck. fuck, i can feel it. i’m almost—i’m right there. just please, baby.” you’re crying now, disoriented and breaking apart with every push of her fingers. “please. please, melly, please."

you drag your eyes from the ceiling to her face, your pupils dilated and bright like stars. her face suffers through a range of emotion before she curses and yanks her fingers out of you.

“no,” you sob, and she sushes you.

“just hang on a minute, mama. hold on,” she soothes, her hands coming to lift you from beneath your thighs.

mel moves quickly and you take comfort in the fact that she needs this as much as you do.

you find yourself draped over the couch, your stomach resting on the arm of the chair. there’s a slight application of pressure as mel forces you into an arch, your ass and cunt pushed up. she nudges your legs apart and then gets on her knees, her hands coming to rest on the back of your thighs as she leans in and puts her mouth on you.

“oh,” you moan and she hums into you.

she’s methodical and precise, her tongue slipping into the mix and filling you as best she can. her pace increases as she licks you front to back, twisting so she can suck and nip on your clit. you let out a high mewl as she grips the plush flesh of your ass, rocking you slowly until you’re able to continue the rhythm on your own.

the heat returns, spirals up from your stomach into your chest and throat. you whimper, letting your head fall forward and down. your eyes squeeze shut as you focus on riding her face, swiveling your hips in small circles to better grind your clit against her nose.

again you can feel it, that call to somewhere distant. mel feels the way you tighten around her tongue, the sudden stiffening of your thighs. she knows you’re just there, right at the golden gate of your private paradise so she removes her mouth and focuses completely on stimulating your clit with her fingers.

“mel,” you breathe. “melly—”

“i know, mama. you can do it. cum on my face. cum all over me, princess. mess me up, hmm?”

you reach down and she reaches up, instinctively understanding what you’re aching for. just as your fingers intertwine, you fall apart. your arch drops and mel hums, closing her eyes as you squirt over her. she can feel you trembling and she opens her mouth lazily, letting your cum drip into it as if it was some sort of sacred rain.

her fingers lace with yours properly now, no more tentative pinky holds. you grip back with the strength of a soldier at war, your eyes rolling shut as you hump against her face and ride out your high. mel only lets you use her, dragging her other hand down to grope at her throbbing pussy.

eventually, you settle and she tugs you down so that you’re sitting dazed and lax in her lap. her hands squeeze your ass as she noses at your cheek, slipping a light kiss onto your cheek.

"hey. hey, baby, look at me. are you with me?”

“ye—yeah,” you get out. “‘m with you.”

“let’s go upstairs," she says softly, and it's not quite a question. "unless—"

"yes," you interrupt, squeezing her hand. "yes."

mel makes no move to get up, however, and you watch her face.

“melly?”

"i need you to know," she says, a hand coming up to trace your jawline, "that whatever happens next… this isn't just because. this isn't just because we were dancing, or drinking, or—"

"i know," you whisper, even though you don't, not really. but you want to believe. god, how you want to believe.

mel shifts, tilts you so that you’re on your back. her braids have fallen from her signature bun, and they block out the little light spilling in from the window.

“baby, i want you. i love you, i need you, and i can’t—i can’t tell you enough how much i’ve wanted this. nothing matters to me more than you.”

“i know, melly. trust me, i understand.”

she shakes her head, opens her mouth. you lift a hand, dig your nails into the sides of her throat as you clutch at it for just one second.

“i understand.”

it feels like she’s been the only thing on your mind since the day you were born. you’ve been waiting for her ever since.

© hcneymooners.

⚚ wife tag: @s-4pphics

[bloomzone]

2025 : #18 THE ALL YOU NEED TO KNOW ABOUT BURNOUT

i feel exhausted. And I don’t mean like "Oh, I need a nap" exhausted y'all know exhaustion that sits in ur bones that makes even the smallest tasks feel like moving a mountain Even when I do get some rest like sleeping for 8h do breathing techniques I still wake up feeling like I’ve been hit by a truck. And not a small one I'm talking an 18-wheeler, full speed (call it whatever u want) . I was tired all the time yet somehow also restless. I wanted to do something, but I also didn’t want to do anything. I was stuck in this weird, miserable limbo where everything felt pointless, but at the same time, I was stressed about not doing enough. Like, how does that even make sense?And honestly, it got to a point where I wasn’t even living anymore I was just existing. Just floating through days waiting for the next one hoping I’d feel better but never really doing anything about it. Because when you’re that deep in burnout, it’s hard to even believe that you can feel better.

But you can. And I know that sounds cliché as hell but listen to me for a second. If I could drag myself out of that deep, dark hole, you definitely can too. And I’m not saying it’s gonna be easy, but I swear to you, it’s possible.

ᡣ𐭩 sᴛᴇᴘ ᴏɴᴇ: sᴛᴏᴘ ᴛᴀʟᴋɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ʏᴏᴜʀsᴇʟғ ʟɪᴋᴇ ʏᴏᴜ’ʀᴇ ᴀ ғᴀɪʟᴜʀᴇ

If someone talked to you the way you talk to yourself you’d probably wanna fight them Like imagine your younger self sitting right in front of you. If they were struggling, feeling drained, feeling like a failure, would you yell at them to “get their shit together” and call them lazy? No, right? You’d probably comfort them, tell them it’s okay, tell them they don’t have to be perfect.

So why the hell are you so mean to yourself?

Burnout doesn’t happen because you’re weak or lazy but it happens because you’ve been pushing yourself too hard for too long bu experience cuz when I study every single day like NOO stop wake up early,homeworks,school and the same loop go for 1 month I burn out for maybe 15days after (like rn) And let’s be honest, most of us don’t even realize it’s happening until we’re knee-deep in exhaustion. You keep telling yourself, “Oh, I’ll rest once I finish this” or “I just need to push through a little more,” until one day, your body and brain just quit on you.

So the first step? Start being nice to yourself. Start talking to yourself the way you’d talk to a best friend who’s struggling. Because you are not the problem burnout is.

ᡣ𐭩sᴛᴇᴘ ᴛᴡᴏ: ʀᴇsᴛ ʟɪᴋᴇ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʟɪғᴇ ᴅᴇᴘᴇɴᴅs ᴏɴ ɪᴛ (ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜsᴇ ɪᴛ ᴋɪɴᴅ ᴏғ ᴅᴏᴇs)

I know resting sounds like the most obvious advice ever, but do you actually do it? Because scrolling on your phone for five hours doesn’t count as rest. Lying in bed while spiraling about everything you should be doing? Also not rest.

Real rest means giving yourself permission to slow down without feeling guilty. It means doing things that actually recharge you so don't force urself to do ur hard tasks like intense workout at 6am saying yes to extra tasks or project ... But say yes to take walks , listening to music, watching a comfort show DO ANYTHING THAT MAKE U HAPPY not everyone have the same (happiness detox) so yeah . And most importantly, it means not punishing yourself for needing a break.Because pooks you’re not a machine. You weren’t built to be productive 24/7. Even your phone needs to be charged, and you’re out here expecting yourself to run on 2% battery every day? Yeah, no wonder you feel like shit.

ᡣ𐭩sᴛᴇᴘ ᴛʜʀᴇᴇ: ᴛᴀᴋᴇ ᴀ ᴅᴀᴍɴ ʙʀᴇᴀᴋ ғʀᴏᴍ sᴏᴄɪᴀʟ ᴍᴇᴅɪᴀ

i know. "But I just use it to relax." Do you? Do you really? Because last time u checked, scrolling through Instagram or tiktok for hours and comparing your life to a bunch of people who only post their highlight reels doesn’t exactly scream relaxation.

Social media is draining u .fr u don’t even realize it half the time, but it’s constantly feeding your brain unrealistic expectations. One second you’re watching someone’s “That Girl” morning routine, and the next, you feel like a failure because you don’t wake up at 5 AM to drink matcha and do yoga on a balcony.

And don’t even get me started on doomscrolling. Like, do I need to know every bad thing happening in the world the second I wake up? No. But do I do it anyway? Also yes. And then I wonder why I feel like shit before my day even starts.

So hear me out pookie log off. Even for just a day. Delete the apps if you have to limit time . Go touch some grass. Read a book. Hell stare at the ceiling if you want. Just give your brain a break from the constant noise. Trust me, you’ll feel a million times lighter.

ᡣ𐭩sᴛᴇᴘ ғᴏᴜʀ: sᴛᴏᴘ ᴍᴇᴀsᴜʀɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴡᴏʀᴛʜ ʙʏ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴘʀᴏᴅᴜᴄᴛɪᴠɪᴛʏ

I used to think that if I wasn’t being productive, I wasn’t worth anything. Like, if I wasn’t working, studying, or doing something “useful,” I was just wasting my life. And if I had a day where I didn’t get anything done? the self-hate would kick in.

But fr your value is not based on how much you do. You are not just a machine made to produce work and complete tasks. You are a human being who deserves to exist without constantly proving yourself.

Think about it .. do you judge your friends based on how productive they are? Do you stop loving someone just because they took a lazy day? No. So why do you do it to yourself?Taking a break doesn’t make you a failure. Resting doesn’t make you lazy. And slowing down doesn’t mean you’re falling behind. Sometimes, the most productive thing you can do is give yourself space to breathe.

ᡣ𐭩 ᴛʜᴇ 𝟷-ʜᴏᴜʀ ᴍᴇᴛʜᴏᴅ: ɢᴇᴛᴛɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʟɪғᴇ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴀғᴛᴇʀ ʙᴜʀɴᴏᴜᴛ

U feel exhausted, unmotivated, and even simple tasks feel like a challenge. You know you need to do something, but damn you can’t even bring yourself to move. I get it.

So here’s the deal We’re not fixing your whole life in one day buuuut Instead, we’re using the 1-Hour Method—because when you’re burnt out, committing to an entire day of productivity feels impossible. But one hour? That’s doable.

Step 1: The One-Hour Reset

You don’t need to “fix” everything. Just commit to one hour of doing something that will make you feel 1% better. That’s it.

⏳ The Rules:

Set a timer for 60 minutes.

Pick 2-3 small things that will make you feel lighter.

Do them with zero pressure. Imperfect action > no action.

Examples:

⏰ Minute 0-10: Get out of bed. Wash your face. Brush your teeth. You don’t need a full “that girl” routine, just refresh yourself.

⏰ Minute 10-20: Make your space 5% cleaner. Not a full deep clean—just clear the trash, fold a blanket, or open the window. Small changes, big difference.

⏰ Minute 20-40: Do one small productive task—answer an email, write one sentence of an essay, organize one folder. Just something that reminds you that you can do things.

⏰ Minute 40-60: Move your body. Stretch, walk around, dance to a song—anything to shake off the mental fog.

One hour down, and I guarantee you’ll feel even slightly better than before.

Step 2: The 1-Hour Rule for Self-Comparison

Nothing drains your energy more than constantly feeling behind in life. Comparing yourself to others? Yeah, that’s a fast track to burnout.But the people u’re comparing yourself to? They have bad days too. They feel lost too. They struggle too. You just don’t see it.

So for the next hour try this:

Write down 3 things you’ve accomplished last days or months No matter how small. Maybe you learned a new skill, took care of yourself on a rough day, or simply kept going when you wanted to quit. That counts.

Unfollow or mute accounts that make you feel “less than.” If it doesn’t inspire you, it’s draining you Simple.

Shift your mindset. Instead of “Why am I not there yet?” ask “How can I grow at my own pace?”

You’re doing better than you think. You don’t need to rush. Your journey is yours.

Step 3: The 1-Hour Rule for Overwhelm

Burnout often comes from having too much on your plate. So, instead of drowning in to-do lists, use this:

→ Pick 1 hour a day to focus on just ONE thing. No multitasking. No distractions. Just one task that actually matters.When you train your brain to handle things one at a time, everything feels less overwhelming.

You don’t have to “get your life together” overnight. You just have to start.

ᡣ𐭩sᴛᴇᴘ ғɪᴠᴇ: ғɪɴᴅ ᴊᴏʏ ᴀɢᴀɪɴ (ᴇᴠᴇɴ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ sᴍᴀʟʟᴇsᴛ ᴛʜɪɴɢs)

I know what you’re thinking “ I don’t even remember what joy feels like.” And I get it. When you’re burnt out, everything feels dull, like life lost its color.But you can bring it back. And no, I’m not saying you need to go on some self-discovery journey. Sometimes, it starts with the smallest things listening to a song you used to love, rewatching a movie that made you happy, making a dumb inside joke with a friend, buying yourself a little treat just because , go through ur old photos, remember ur high grades or whatever makes u joyful and full of love

Joy isn’t always some big Sometimes it’s just a tiny moment that reminds you life isn’t all stress and exhaustion.And the more you find those small moments, the more you start to feel alive again.

ᡣ𐭩 ʟᴀsᴛ sᴛᴇᴘ : ʏᴏᴜ’ʀᴇ ɢᴏɴɴᴀ ᴍᴀᴋᴇ ɪᴛ, ɪ sᴡᴇᴀʀ

If you’re reading this and thinking, “Damn, I don’t even know where to start,” that’s okay. Just start small. Start with one thing whether it’s being kinder to yourself, taking an actual rest day, stepping away from social media, or just reminding yourself that burnout does not define you.Because you will get through this. You’re stronger than you think. And one day, you’re gonna look back at this version of yourself and be so damn proud that you kept going.

Until then? Take it one step at a time or even an hour at the time be gentle with yourself pookie and remember: you are not alone in this.

@bloomzone

[dckweed]

ROSIE!, alpha!simon riley x omega reader

in which captain price sends alpha simon on a much needed vacation to his secluded countryside cabin, but leaves out a most important detail- he has a live in omega caretaker to care for his little cabin when he’s away! and she’s the prettiest, sweetest little thing that simon ever did see..

warnings: alpha/omega universe, mentions/depictions of abuse, smut, pregnancy, kind of forced proximity?, ill add as i go...please note that i know NOTHING about COD but i am in love with the 141 guys and this has been rotting in my brain. absolute fucking filth. simon fucks us good and proper okay? size kink kinda? whatever that kink is where hes so big you can feel him your belly, raw dogging, mating press, slight choking i think, finger sucking, bed breaking, mind shattering smut, mama/papa kink kinda?

hello my slutty little friends :) i miss y'all. work has been absolutely kicking my ass, i love what i do (pet groomer) but there are days when i walk out of my salon and damn near collapse here lately from how exhausted my body is. how have y'all been? whats new in y'alls worlds?? lemme know what you think!

series masterlist!

CHAPTER FOUR: mine?

The warmth that had lulled you into sleep hadn’t left, but something had changed. You stirred, blinking groggily as your body registered the shift—Simon was no longer beneath you. Instead, the scent of him still lingered, thick in the sheets, a heady mix of spice and earth that made your Omega whimper at the loss of his warmth. You let out a soft noise of protest, stretching, only to realize how sore you were. Not unpleasantly so, but enough to remind you exactly what had transpired before you’d passed out.

Your thighs still trembled slightly as you tried to press them together, but they were held apart by the weight of an arm draped lazily over your waist. You startled slightly, before turning your head to see Simon lying next to you, propped up on one elbow, watching you. His eyes were sharp, studying you intently, darkened with something unreadable.

“Mornin’, babygirl.” His voice was thick with sleep, raspy and deep in a way that sent a shiver down your spine. His lips quirked slightly when he saw the way you clenched your thighs together at the sound. “Still sore?”

You swallowed thickly, nodding slightly, your body still pliant from exhaustion. His smirk widened, but there was something else in his expression too—something softer, something bordering on concern.

“Didn’t mean to wear you out too much,” he muttered, voice still rough as his hand slid over the curve of your hip, his thumb rubbing slow, soothing circles against your skin. “You alright?”

You should be embarrassed. Should be shy about how easily you’d fallen apart for him, how you’d given yourself over so completely in the throes of your heat—but you weren’t. Not when Simon looked at you like this, like he was already planning to do it all over again, but only if you wanted him to.

Your Omega purred at the touch, leaning into his warmth instinctively. “M’okay,” you murmured, letting your fingers curl against his chest. You felt the steady rise and fall of his breathing, the quiet rumble of his wolf just beneath the surface. “Jus’... didn’t think you’d still be here.”

His brow furrowed slightly at that. “Where else would I be?”

You hesitated, looking away, but he didn’t let you. A firm hand caught your chin, turning your face back towards him. His eyes were molten, burning with something unreadable.

“You thought I’d leave?”

Your lips parted, but no words came. You weren’t sure how to explain it—the fear that always lingered in the back of your mind, the expectation that any Alpha who touched you would eventually get bored, would walk away and never look back. It had happened before. It would happen again.

But Simon didn’t look amused. In fact, he looked… pissed.

“You really think I’m that kind of man?” he asked, voice dangerously low. His grip on your chin wasn’t painful, but it was firm, forcing you to look at him, to see the raw honesty in his expression. “That I’d just fuck off and leave you after that?”

You bit your lip, fighting the urge to shrink away. “I don’t know…”

A muscle ticked in his jaw. His wolf bristled, displeased with your uncertainty. “That’s not how this works, Rosie. Not with me.”

His hand slid down, wrapping around the back of your neck, his fingers threading into the fine hairs at your nape. It was possessive, grounding, making your Omega preen beneath his touch.

“You’re mine now,” he murmured, voice a low growl that sent a jolt of heat straight to your core. “You understand that?”

You swallowed thickly. “Mine?”

He nodded once, firm, unwavering. “Mine.” His thumb brushed against your pulse point, feeling the way it thrummed wildly beneath his touch. “And I take care of what’s mine.”

Your breath hitched. The weight of his words settled deep in your bones, heavy and absolute. You should be scared. Should be wary of how quickly he was claiming you, of how easily your wolf accepted it.

But you weren’t.

Instead, you shuddered, nodding as a quiet whimper left your lips. “Okay.”

A satisfied growl rumbled through his chest as he tugged you closer, pressing his nose against your scent gland, inhaling deeply. “Good girl.”

You melted into his touch, letting yourself be held, letting yourself believe—for once—that maybe, just maybe, this Alpha wouldn’t leave you behind.

That maybe, this time, you’d finally found someone who would stay.

Simon’s lips brushed against your scent gland, slow and deliberate, sending a shiver down your spine. He inhaled deeply, letting your scent seep into him, filling his lungs as his wolf preened in satisfaction. His mouth moved lower, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses against your skin, each one more insistent than the last. His teeth scraped along the sensitive gland, and you whined, tilting your head further to the side, giving him full access.

“That’s it, babygirl,” he murmured against your skin, voice thick with want. “Let me mark you up proper.”

His lips latched onto your throat, sucking harshly, leaving bruises blooming against your soft skin. Hickeys littered your scent gland, dark and possessive, his claim on you made clear. You trembled in his arms, whimpering softly, your Omega utterly pliant beneath him. His hands held you firm, pressing you closer, keeping you right where he wanted you.

And then, he bit down.

Sharp pain blossomed for a brief moment before it was drowned out by pleasure so intense it stole the breath from your lungs. You gasped, body arching against him as his fangs sank into you, claiming you in the most primal way possible. His growl reverberated through your very core, a deep, possessive sound that sent a thrill through you.

Simon didn’t let go right away. He held you there, his teeth still buried in your flesh as he let his scent mix with yours, branding you as his. When he finally pulled back, he licked over the wound, soothing the sting, his eyes heavy-lidded, filled with something deep and raw.

“There,” he muttered, his voice rough. “Now, everyone knows who you belong to.”

You barely had the strength to respond, lost in the haze of his claim, the warmth of his presence, and the undeniable truth that you were his now.

Completely and utterly his.

Simon’s hand slipped down your body, slow and deliberate, exploring the dips and curves as if memorizing you. His lips trailed lower, kissing over your collarbone, down to the swell of your breasts, his tongue flicking over sensitive skin. You gasped, fingers tangling in his hair as he nipped and sucked, his touch growing more insistent, more reverent.

He guided you onto your back, his weight pressing against you, strong and steady. “Gonna make love to you now, babygirl,” he murmured, his voice like molten honey. “Gonna take my time, make sure you feel just how much you mean to me.”

And as he moved against you, slow but intense, every touch, every kiss, every whispered praise made it clear—you were his. Fully, completely, irrevocably his.

He started with your breasts, tearing the shirt you wore, an old one of John’s that you’d borrowed once upon a time and never gave back, with a satisfied growl your juicy tits bouncing as the fabric is torn away from them, released from their confines. You whimper as you watch him lick his lips, could swear that there’s slobber around his mouth as he dives in, tongue giving a long hot stripe from the underside of your left breast to the top of your peaked nipple, teeth pulling at it in the gentlest of ways as he stared at you, eyes never leaving yours as his hand, large and warm and callused cups your right breast, kneading the soft and supple flesh between his fingers, rolling the peaking nipple between his finger tips, tugging and pulling at it until you whimper, your chest pushing up farther into his mouth before he releases the one his mouth is on with a pop, having sucked a hickey around it without you even realizing, the skin puffed and purple and absolutely divine looking with the mark of his passions etched onto it. You whimper, missing the warmth of his mouth almost instantaneously, the hormones of your heat surging through you so messily that you needed him, needed to feel him everywhere, anywhere even..the slick coating your pussy was messy, leaking down onto your thighs and probably even onto the sheets beneath you, it would be a mess to clean out of the fabric, but you didn’t care not when he was between those thighs, his broad, thick frame making his way farther and farther down the valley of your pudgy belly, hands gripping onto the bits of fat above your hips as if he’s holding on for dear life as your hips buck up involuntarily, inviting him in of their own accord. 

You swear that you see his amber eyes roll into the back of his head, swear you see that wolf in him take the forefront. A growl comes from the back of his throat and with no warning he buries himself in your cunt, taking in the biggest breath you’d ever seen a wolf take, as if committing the sent of your heat to memory, as if there might be a time where he has nothing but the memory of the way your pussy smells..you realize that maybe there will be, that he’ll have to go back to his work with the military at some point and you start to feel sad, worried even though the feelings are fleeting as he munches down on your mound, embedding his teeth into the skin above your clit as if he’s trying to mark you there too, as if you would dare let another alpha see it after this. 

“S-si-” You stutter out, breathless as you feel his tongue lap at your pulsing hole, waiting for him to feast on you like he had the night before. His large hand is splayed over your pussy, holding you down as he growls, eyes shooting up to look at you as he starts eating, like he’s feasting on the most delicious meal he’s ever had. You throw your head back, hand shooting out to grasp at the hair on top of his head, to hold him there as your hips buck up against his face, stubble of his beard rubbing against the still sensitive skin from the night before as his tongue splays out on your folds, your messy, hot slick coating his buds. “Mmphf, please-please-” 

A low growl vibrating against your achy pussy, tears already near spilling form your eyes, oversensitive and he hadn’t even fucked you yet, hadn’t buried his surely long and thick cock into your weeping hole, bred you full of his seed.. “Already beggin’ f’me, lovie?” His voice his husky, bringing you back to the present, pulling your mind from your thoughts as he does, his other hand gently rubbing your supple thigh. “A’vent even done anything to y’ yet..” 

You sigh at his words, your hips still bucking up, as if chasing his mouth. Part of you wondered if it was your wolf controlling you, if she was such a horny little slut that she would chase his mouth with your pussy..it was nearly laughable. “Jus’ need you Si, please?” You preen, looking at the man with watery eyes and you could have sworn his chest had swelled with some kind of pride at the level of undone you already were. “Please..wanna feel you, want it so bad, please, please?” You were whining now, could cry even, and your wolf was whining oh so loudly, begging even for you to beg more. He rose up, fingers digging into the meaty flesh of your hips as he did, on his knees now, hard chest glistening with a sheen of sweat as he pulled you towards him, your legs spreading wider to accommodate the width of his waist, wrapping around him, caging him in as your thighs rested over his, you could feel the head of his hard cock brushing against your bareskin through his sweatpants, where it was stuffed down to one side. It felt..huge..too huge, even..it had been so long since you’d..been fucked, been stuffed properly and you weren’t sure if you could even fit the size of him inside of yo- ‘he’ll fit! I swear he’ll fit, we’ll make him..make it fit nice and good!’ goddess she was right. “Please, alpha, need you in me..i’ll be a good girl, i promise!” 

The grip on your hips tightened, and you saw him suck in a breath deep into his chest as he looked down at you, looking at you as if you were the only thing worth looking at in that moment. “Yeah,” He breathed, eyes darker than you’d ever seen them. “Y’gonna be good f’me?” One of his hands left your hips, sinking down to the waistband of his gray sweatpants to slide it down somehow getting them halfway down his thighs in one swift motion, his cock springing free. If your pussy could have fainted, you’re sure it would have. He was big, so gloriously thick and long that your mouth watered at the sight, cunt dripping more slick down your thighs. He groaned at the sight, eyes never leaving your cunt as he watched his cock slide over the glistening mound, back and forth, coating himself in your slick. “G’nna let me fuck this pretty little pussy? Fill it full with my cum? Get you nice and fat with my pups, hmm babygirl, tha’ what you wan’?” 

You whimper, nodding vigorously as you watch him, wolf howling in your head so loudly that you wanted to punch her. Your hips rocked every time he moved his cock upwards, dragging it across your already sensitive bud, as if you were chasing it, wanting to suck it into your pulsing, dripping hole.. “Please, please, plea-oh!” You were in the midst of begging again, chasing it again when you felt him notch his head in your opening, felt him push it in just the littlest of bits. “More, more!” You demanded, whining,  only to be met with a sharp smack to your thigh, causing you to yelp and jump, moaning as the motion pulled his cock into you deeper. 

“Aht aht, babygirl,” He says, voice husky, strained as if trying to control himself. “Y’not the one in charge ‘ere, yeah?” You pout and you can see his eyes widen, his hand comes up to grip you chin tightly, thumb rubbing gently against your lips. “None a’that now, yeah? Tryna make you a mama right now, right babygirl?” You nod, preening at his words, wanting him to fill you up just like your wolf wanted, wanted to make him proud, make him a papa. You gasp as he pushes himself in more, another inch of him notched so perfectly inside you, his thumb dipping into your mouth now that it’s open and on instinct you wrap your plump lips around the thick digit, swirling your tongue and sucking, moaning as he pushes in even farther, rocking his hips back and forth despite not even being fully buried in you. You don’t miss the moan, the way he has to scrunch his shut as you suck on his finger, as you clench down on his cock, already close to cuming all over it. 

“S’good, si, so good..” You groan, voice high pitched around his thumb as he gives you a particularly rough thrust, and you swear you feel his pelvis kiss yours, feel his cockhead brushing against your spongey cervix, ready for his seed. Your hips buck up again, sucking him in farther and you hear him mutter under his breath, feel his self control break. You can see the wolf come out and you’re so absolutely pleased with yourself when he growls so loudly, when he pulls his thumb out of your mouth you whine, though the loss only affects you for a moment. 

Before you know it, he’s gripped the back of your thighs with both hands,  spreading them wider a he pulls you up so that your ass is fully seating on his thighs, legs thrown over his shoulder as he bends you practically in half in one swift movement, pistoning his cock in you with what you know is superhuman speed, dragging little uh-uh-uhs out of you, completely rearranging your insides as he fucks you properly, arms wrapped around your knees, holding them to his chest as he bends your hips, plugging you so full of his cock that the two of you could’ve become one person, holding you so that you cant pull away. And why would you even want to? Why would you want this to stop? You didn’t, wouldn’t, not when he’s so deep in your pussy that you can feel him in your belly, can see him pushing in and out. Can feel it “righ’ he-re,” You whine, vision blurring as you fucks you so close to the edge of an orgasm that you know you’re done for. Somehow you find the strength to move your arm, lift your hand so it’s on your belly. Yes, yes, feel it! Oh he feels so good!  You press down when he thrusts back into you, hardly pulling out before your pussy sucks him right back in, and you buck, whining at the pressure of you touching him from the outside while he’s inside of you. It must feel good for him too because he practically roared when you did it, and now he’s got you fully bent in half, your knees up by your head even though they’re still thrown over his shoulders, his hands on either side of your head as he fucks you so hard you can feel your bed frame breaking, can feel the head board as it cracks in half, the new dip in the mattress as it buckles. “I-ung-si-feel…right..here-” You’re cumming before you can finish the sentence, pussy clamping down on him so hard that you feel him stagger, try to pull back from the vice you have on him. You’re breathless, panting even though you’ve done none of the work, tears that you didn’t even remember crying leaking from the corners of your eyes. “Feel you right here Alpha, so deep..so big..” You’re  babbling mess at this point, cant even comprehend the words coming out of your own mouth with you feel his cock start to swell, feel your pussy grip down on it harder, as if you’re about to cum again. 

“Thas’ it babygirl,” He pants, lips trailing across your tits, biting down every so often as he works his cock in and out of you, knot swelling as he watches the length of him in your stomach, feels you pressing down on him again. “Bein’ such a good fuckin’ girl, my perfect little omega huh?” You nod, whimpering, clawing at his shoulders as your thighs shake, overstimulated as he fucks you even harder than he had been before. The bed frame cracks even louder and you swear the bed jolts as it collapses, though it does nothing to Simon besides pushing him somehow even deeper into you, cock kissing your womb with such precision that there's no way you wont be knocked up after this. “Feel that? Feel my knot?” You nod vigorously, nails dug into his shoulders as tears of pleasure stream from your eyes, you feel something wet and hot on your cheeks, his tongue lapping at the salty liquid streaming from your ducts. “Fuckin’ gonna fill you up so good, hm? Wanna give me little babies? Wanna be a mama for me?”

“Please! Yes, yes, yes!” You keep chanting it, chant his name somewhere in there too and he keeps fucking you so hard as you chant to him some more “wanna make you papa, please, please!” so deep and raw that you swear you see stars, swear that you’re going to pass out until he stills, a low growl rumbling from his chest before you feel it, the hot ropes of his seed coursing through you, coating your insides, marking you as his somehow even more so than the mark now permanently on your neck. He moans your name, stilling inside of you once you’ve milked him as much as you can, your cunt squeezing him dry. He’s panting, you’re panting, your legs still over his shoulders when you feel his large hands caressing the back of your thighs, rubbing them as if to soothe the shaking, his thumbs moving back and forth over the heated, flushed skin, his lips kissing every bit of skin that he can find on your face. 

You fade in and out, your body thoroughly fucked and exhausted. You’re not sure when you pass out, or when he finally pulls himself out of you, albeit with a sad whine from you, but eventually he does, even much to his own dismay..

“I need a new bed..” You mumble as he pulls you up onto his chest, laying you on top of him so you can rest some more, your heat making your body exhausted from even the smallest of movements, he could only imagine how tired you were after being fucked properly like that. He chuckles at your words, at the fact that you thought you’d be sleeping anywhere but in his bed from now on. 

A while later, Simon lay on his side, watching you sleep, completely still save for the slow rise and fall of your chest. His wolf, for once, was calm, thoroughly satisfied by the scent of his Omega wrapped up in his arms, marked, and entirely his. His fingertips traced along your shoulder lightly, memorizing every inch of you.

Then your stomach rumbled, breaking the peaceful silence.

His wolf immediately snarled in his mind. You let her go hungry?! After everything? You absolute bastard, all you care about is burying yourself in her heat instead of taking care of her!

Simon groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose before carefully extracting himself from the bed. He pulled off his shirt, tucking it beside your head so that even in sleep, you could still smell him, ensuring you wouldn’t stir from his absence. His wolf continued to berate him the entire time he slipped out of the room.

Once he was safely downstairs, he let out an exasperated sigh and muttered under his breath, “Shut the fuck up, you dramatic prick.”

His wolf merely huffed, though Simon could still hear the muttered insults as he moved into the kitchen to start making lunch.

He reached for his phone, dialing Price’s number. The line rang twice before the Captain picked up, his voice gruff as ever.

“Ghost. ’Bout time you checked in.”

Simon leaned against the counter, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, well… been busy with your live in..my mate.” It was the first time he had said it out loud, the first time that one of them had ever said it out loud. 

There was a pause, then a knowing chuckle. “Knew it. Knew somethin’ was different. How’s she doin’?”

“She’s… good. Sleepin’ now. Wore her out.” His wolf preened at the admission. “Didn’t realize it was the middle of the damn day. Haven’t even fed her yet.”

Price barked a laugh. “Christ, mate, already slippin’? She’ll have you wrapped around her little finger in no time.”

Simon scowled but couldn’t deny it. Before he could respond, Price continued, “Listen, I’m sendin’ Johnny your way. Bastard’s injured himself again, and I’m sick of listenin’ to him bitch. Keep an eye on him, yeah?”

Simon sighed but nodded. “Yeah. I got him.”

“Good. And Ghost?”

“Hm?”

“You take care of that girl. Make sure she knows she’s safe.”

A small, rare smile tugged at Simon’s lips. “Yeah. I will.”

taglist: @wise-owl @bingoz @astrxsee @gazsluckyhat @howlerwolfmax @thisbitch-6 @littlelovebug98 @ungodlydilf @madsothree @rosallels @brilliantbecca94 @jaxz21 @mk-kbtbb

[korn-dawg]

loser!ellie who is desperately enamored with you

loser!ellie who isn't even failing any of her classes (far from it) but still books you to tutor her

loser!ellie who spends around 2 hours getting done, convincing dina to help her iron out her usually wrinkled flannel while she fights with her hair

loser!ellie who spends the entire study session making a very poor attempt at dropping hints, laughing nervously at almost everything you say and immediately zeroing in on your body the second you looks away

loser!ellie who finds your instagram one day, looking through every post and story, a hand subconsciously moving south at a particularly good picture of you at the beach

loser!ellie who eventually gets close to you and finds out you're gay, the thought that she might have a chance making her all giddy and giggly when she tells dina about it later that night

loser!ellie who deep cleans her room the night before you come over, trying to find a place to hide the comics she deems most embarrassing

loser!ellie who rifles through her vinyl collection setting the ones that are most similar to your music taste in the front where they're visible

loser!ellie who lets you pick what games you two play when you come over, making sure to go easy on you

loser!ellie who doesn't expect you to kiss her halfway through the movie you picked out earlier, gaping at you dumbfoundedly when you pull away

loser!ellie whose body is surprisingly malleable as she allows you to push her back onto the mattress, her hands hesitantly reaching for your thighs with a innocent doe-eyed look

loser!ellie who tastes like blood when you push your tongue past her lips because she's been nervously chewing at her lips and inner cheek the entire night

loser!ellie who's so unbelievably wet when you first touch her, already soaking through her minecraft boxers purely from kissing you

loser!ellie who keeps her hands glued to the oak of her headboard when you have your face between her plush thighs, not wanting to disappoint you so early on

loser!ellie who lets you coax 3 consecutive orgasms out of her before begging for just a taste of your cunt

loser!ellie who finds herself thinking back to that night during class a few days later, staring at the back of your head in front of her like it'll help her remember the pure saccharine that was the taste of you on her tongue

loser!ellie who shows up at your place not even two weeks later, pleading for round two

sorry if this is booty cheeks y'all

i was playing block blast while writing this 😭🙏

[paracosmic-murdock]

vigilante like me

chapter four: takes one to know one

pairing: matt murdock x black widow!vigilante!reader

summary: nights and nights of playing the hero as if that could redeem you that easily ended up taking you to new york, where you accidentally met the man who would turn your world upside down. a vigilante like you.

warnings/tags: angst, fluff, hurt/comfort, injuries, phd in applied flirting and ma in yearning studies, some smut (minors dni), takes place sometime during the blip, when born again comes out we might find out if my decisions of who were gone were right, spoilers/references of stuff and themes from daredevil (2015); avengers: infinity war (2018); avengers: endgame (2019) black widow (2021); and hawkeye (2021), but y'all must've watched all of those already so idc, yelena belova and the themes and events from the black widow (2021) movie are very relevant in this plot, song: cowboy like me (taylor swift)

word count: 3K

✰ chapter one | chapter two | chapter three

✰ mila's anthology (main masterlist)

The way to your apartment was an experience you would rather not repeat ever again.

With Matt more dead than alive, making your way home through the alleyways proved to be more difficult than you had anticipated. You thanked whatever deity as soon as you had him lying against the walls despite knowing you would have to clean the blood off of the almond-white paint.

“Come on, let's get you cleaned up,” you said in a low volume.

“You don't have to, I'll just-”

You exhaled tiredly. “Those men are looking for you, and if you leave this place like that, them or anybody else from whatever organization they come from are gonna find you and fucking kill you. Not to mention me, who might've killed two of them.”

“You don't have to worry about me.”

“I'm not worried about you,” You chuckled, sarcastic. “I just don't want a dead man in my living room.”

He nodded. “I get that, but I have to leave.”

“You are not leaving,” you stated, almost threatening. “Unless you live in this very same building, you won't make it to your place alive.”

“I take it you're not a woman of faith,” he commented, giving you what seemed like a smirk interrupted by the pain from his split lip.

You frowned, making a confused grin. “You're a weird guy, Daredevil.

“It's the catholic in me.”

You pursed your lips.

“Take off your clothes.”

He chuckled, a tired laugh slipping from his lips. “Usually, we'd go for dinner first.”

“I can order something, but you'll pay for it.” You rolled your eyes.

“Hey, you're the one who wants me naked.”

“You're too chatty for someone who's bleeding to death in my apartment,” you noted, taking him to your bathroom. He was hesitant to let you but ended up complying.

As soon as you were in the bathroom, you sat him on the toilet.

“Take your suit off. And keep your underwear, alright?” you ordered him. “I'll turn around.”

The last thing you saw before you did as you promised was his smirk. You scoffed, almost regretting helping him.

Though, in the end, you've known he was a cocky bastard since you first talked with him at Josie's.

“You don't have to do this,” he insisted.

You sighed, turning around. “I know that.”

He had taken his suit off and only had his briefs and helmet on. Also, he was clearly about to pass out from exhaustion in your bathroom.

You cupped his face and began taking off his helmet, but his hand held your wrist, stopping you from it. “Wait-”

“I don't know if this has worked with anybody else, but I know what your voice sounds like, Murdock,” He turned his focus to you, not knowing what to expect. “And you know mine, so we're even.”

Matt stayed silent and let you take off his helmet. As soon as it was off, you noticed he had a cut in his right cheek under the border of the helmet, a split lip, blood down his nostrils, and a bruise in his jaw.

You don't really know what got over you, but you used your thumb to touch his face as if you had to use your skin to catch what your eyes couldn't. That was probably because you couldn't take your eyes off of his own to look anywhere else.

They were a greenish brown and completely mesmerizing, directed to your nose instead of your eyes. His pupils were dilated, and you identified the insecurity in them.

“I know what you must be wondering,” he muttered.

“What would that be?” you inquired, your thumb softly tracing the shape of his lower lips. Matt exhaled with his eyes closed as you imagined things that had never crossed your mind before about anybody else, but now they were and with the person you wanted as far from you as humanly possible.

Maybe not anymore.

“Whether I'm actually blind or not.” He opened his eyes, and now they were on yours as if he could see how appealed you were by them.

You shook your head lightly. “I wasn't wondering about that, but now that you mention it, I have my questions.”

“Well,” he chuckled. “There is more than one way to see.”

“Yeah?” You tilted your head, now touching the open wound in his cheek. Matt winced but didn't pull away.

“Yeah,” he confirmed, his hands, all bloody from his bruised knuckles, going to your arms and softly caressing them. He kept on touching, now feeling the goosebumps in your skin. “I can use my other four senses: I can touch, I can smell, I can taste, I can hear…, but there's more than that. I can feel everything, from a shift in the air to the temperature of this place.”

“That explains it.”

He chuckled lightly. “What were you really thinking about, then?”

“Nothing.” you lied. Of course, you were not going to tell him you found his eyes fascinating and that you just imagined how nice it would be to kiss him.

“Nothing?” He tilted his head, trying to detect a lie in your heartbeat, but it was steady as ever. “You should teach me how to stop thinking.”

“You have to focus on something else and imagine you're in a beautiful place where nobody talks.”

“What were you focusing on?”

“You're not cute enough for me to tolerate your nosiness.”

“Well, noted.”

There was silence again, and you couldn't bring yourself to say anything else, so you helped him stand up and get inside the shower.

As soon as you turned it on and got ready to leave, you noticed all the water was bright red once it hit the floor and that Matt was struggling to stay on his feet.

“It's okay, Matt,” you said, trying to comfort him. “Sit down, I'll help you.”

Matt doubted for a long second but did as you told him.

When you got in, you were only in your underwear, just like he was.

You took shampoo and soap and left them on the floor, and then you sat in front of Matt, who rested against the tiles and couldn't keep his eyes open.

“Come here,” you asked, and he approached you instinctively. “I'll wash your hair first.”

Just like you said, you got some shampoo on your hands, rubbed them, and then massaged his scalp.

The smell of the product, though pleasant, took Matt by surprise, and the soft movements of your fingers on his scalp made him associate the scent with comfort. The cold water hitting his skin contrasted with the warmth of his flushed cheeks, and the sting for each drop that fell in his wounds made him suppress uncountable groans.

“Let me know if I hurt you, okay?” you murmured. Matt nodded.

You held him by his shoulders and pulled him closer to you, also directly under the shower.

The water washed away the shampoo, which fell slightly red to the floor due to the blood in his hair and his skin. Then, you washed his face delicately, trying not to get soap inside his cuts.

“Do you want something from me?”

“I do,” you replied calmly, now washing the blood off his chest. “I want you to stop asking around about me. I never did anything to harm you or your city, and I certainly never approached you. I have no idea what I did to make you want to stalk me, but I want you to back off.”

He sighed, asking himself what part of you showering him gives away the fact that you want him out of your life. How can you say something like that while the tip of your fingers traces the curves of his body with such tenderness? Your words make no sense to him as you keep his right hand in yours and wipe away all the dried blood as if he were an antique porcelain doll that could break if you rubbed too harshly.

“I can stop asking about you,” Matt agreed, his voice still weak. “I'm sorry, I was just worried about you after that night at the bar.”

“You don't have to worry about me.”

“I'm not worried about you,” he shot back, almost making you smile. “I just don't want a dead woman in my city if I can help it.”

You tried your best not to laugh. “Oh, you know I won't be the dead one, don't you?”

“I do now, I swear.”

“Good,” You looked at him. “We're done here, let's go to the room.”

“Whose room?”

“The guest room,” you lied. You don't even have a guest room.

But Matt would never know, since your heartbeat didn't change with your dishonesty.

“Okay.”

You gave him a towel. “You should cover yourself. I'll meet you outside.”

Before joining him, you took your own quick shower so you could patch yourself up too. Soon, you were both sitting on your bed as you stitched him up.

“I'm not used to someone else doing this,” he commented. “It's not too often that another person patches me up.”

You put butterfly bandages on the cut in his cheek. “Yeah?”

He hummed. “And you have a knack for it. I can barely feel your hands.”

“I have my experience,” You gave him half a smile.

“Oh, God, was that a smile? You can actually smile?”

You gasped, offended. “I sure can smile! And laugh!”

“You never do. This is so weird.” he joked.

“Shut up.”

“You must have a nice smile.”

“I can't tell you that because nobody has ever complimented it.”

“How could they? Says the legend that nobody has ever seen it.”

You smacked his shoulder. “I inform you that I have many weapons in this apartment and I won't hesitate to use them if you keep mocking me.”

“I know you have many weapons. I bet there's a few of them underneath this bed and they're loaded.”

“How do you know it?” You raised your eyebrows.

“Gunpowder.”

You hummed in confirmation. “There's a gun here. One to spare in my closet. There are knives in my bathroom, a gun near the door, one in the fridge, and some knives all around.”

“Inside the fridge?” he questioned.

“My enemies might think it's milk, but you and I both know it's not.”

“Oh, do you have many enemies?”

“Only a few. And add those guys I saved you from today.”

“And thanks for that.”

“You're welcome, Devil.”

Matt nodded and the room fell silent. You finished patching him up.

“Your turn.”

“I can only guess so.”

You guided his hands to where your injuries were, and it almost surprised you how he clearly didn't need you as he found wounds you hadn't realized were on you. Matt was skilled, and it was obvious he had done this to himself —and maybe to someone else— numerous times.

“Can I ask you a question?”

“You can ask me anything, but I decide whether I answer or not. I could also lie.”

“I'll know it if you lie.”

You scoffed, incredulous. “Will you, though?”

“Give me your hand,” he told you. You did as he asked, and he put it where his heart was. “What's your name?”

“You already know that,”

“Just answer.”

You told Matt your name and he nodded.

“Mine is Matthew Michael Murdock,” he said. “Feel my heart as I speak. If it beats quicker, it means I'm lying… I'm a lawyer.”

“It's steady,” you noted.

“Ask me something.”

“What's your drink of choice?”

He smirked. “Something serious.”

“That is serious.”

“Okay, nothing too fancy. A Macallan 18.”

“That's a lie,” you concluded after feeling his heart jump ever so slightly.

“You're right, there's nothing I love more than a cheap beer at Josie's.”

You smiled. “True.”

“Now, can I ask?” he inquired. You nodded. “Are you a Black Widow?”

You sighed. “You had to ask.”

“You are free to not answer.”

“I know.”

Then, there was silence.

Until you spoke. “I am. Or I guess I was, though something inside me makes me feel like you never cease to be something you were turned into like that.”

“True,” he muttered. “But I think you've been something different from that lately.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

“A hero.”

You chuckled dryly. “I am no hero, I just make sure that whoever fucks around also finds out.”

“Well,” Matt smiled. “That's kind of an entry-level requirement, you know? You do that and protect others without expecting anything in return.”

“I'm pretty sure that the kids nowadays call that being a vigilante,” you corrected him. “I don't think I'm one; I'm just a mad woman with nothing to lose.”

“I'm afraid it takes one to know one,” Matt commented. “I might be one of those too.”

“But you do have a lot to lose: the city you love, your career, you might even have friends and a family, a community… And you still do all of this,” you countered. “You do this from love and goodness, selflessly. That makes you some sort of martyr, not a madman with nothing to lose or a simple vigilante.”

“I'm not sure I'm that selfless,” Matt said. “Most times, it's my wrath that does all of that.”

You tilted your head, showing interest in his words. “What does wrath have to do with saving those who need it?”

“The Bible says about the wrath that it is only the wrath of God that will serve justice upon those who trespass against us because it does not come from immortality, but from the rejection of sin,” he began. “Whereas, men let their wrath take over them and turn to evil… and harm others like I do every night. It is not up to us humans to seek vengeance and bring punishment but to God.”

“You are quite the believer, aren't you?”

Matt shrugged. “I've had my crises of faith, I must be honest.”

“Matt,” you called for his attention. Once his focus was on you, you proceeded. “How could it be pure evil when it all is for the greater good?”

“While it is all for the greater good at the end of the day, I think it comes from guilt, and it's released in the form of wrath and violence.”

“Is that why you're the Devil?”

“I told you before that my father was a boxer: Jack Murdock,” He took the gauze and started covering the wounds he had just cured. “And my grandmother, she used to say us Murdock boys have the Devil in us.”

“Do you dare the devil in you every time you put on that suit?”

Matt lifted your face by your chin and stroked it softly. “What's your name?”

“Beyoncé.” you joked.

Matt noticed there wasn't any sort of alteration in your heartbeat, so he just put his hand on your chest. “How was it like being a Widow?”

“Every day felt like running in a field of flowers under the most beautiful of sunsets.”

It also felt like the truth, but Matt knows better now.

“That was a lie.”

You just went with it. “It was the kind of place that made you prefer not being in control of yourself. Either way, you do what they want you to do; you have no other choice but to be ready to comply.”

“I think the Devil is that part of me I can never get rid of,” he answered your old question. “If I wanted him gone, I would have to be born again.”

“Someone has been practicing.”

She nodded. “I sure did, coach.”

“That's nice, Karen,” you complimented her, finishing cooling down. “And you're doing very well. Soon, I won't want to get in your way.”

“Thanks,” She looked down and blushed.

It was your fourth class with Karen and it was clear that she was quite committed. You liked that.

“Hey, would you like to join me for drinks after our class?”

Ever since you met Karen, you have felt like you should be cautious with her. It isn't like she did anything in particular, or the lack thereof: it's more like the alarms your trust issues once set went off when she was there. There is something you can't quite place, but you would never doubt for a second that there is. However, you wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt sometimes.

Being far from you is actually a favor if you think about it.

“Thanks, but I have a date,” you declined, trying to be cordial. “Maybe some other time.”

She nodded. “Yeah, some other time.”

You rushed to leave before she finished, so she wouldn't talk to you and maybe insist on hanging out tonight. Going home is your number one priority, but when have you ever been able to go home just like that?

“I can't believe my eyes…” Fyodor spoke as soon as he had you in front of him.

“Me neither,” you replied, debating how you felt about encountering your old friend again after two years without any kind of warning. “How have you been?”

“Well, well, kotik,” he said. His accent was quite thick, and he couldn't hide his origins even if he tried. In your case, you learned languages in the Red Room and were taught how to speak them like a native so you would never raise any sort of suspicion. You were a spy, after all. “You?”

“New York kinda sucks,” You wrinkled your nose. “What are you doing here?”

“I'm doing a little something,” he answered, trying to keep the mystery as if you truly cared. “Trying not to stumble upon Svetlana, you know.”

“Best of luck with your little something, then,” You nodded, preparing to resume your walk.

“Hey, I have a few more days before I leave,” he commented. “How about dinner tomorrow?”

“Sure, yeah,” you agreed, very reluctantly but trying not to show it. “Look, I gotta go right now.”

Before he could say anything, you left him on the sidewalk and made a turn as soon as you could.

Then, you entered the first building you saw and got ready for your nightly routine to apparent safety.

[anaxietyyy]

Aight pls hear me out on this take if you feel like reading an essay lol: NO ONE but myself can force me into being clean. If I can't get a certain drug anymore, I'll try to do anything to get it anyway by lookin for a new dealer, or simply getting blasted on an alternative to that drug. If they try to do an intervention and force me into impatient and into taking suboxone or something, hypothetical worst case scenario, I'll try to find a way to get high on my sleeping meds or try to trade meds with others if possible. If they force me on suboxone I'll either just not take it, start using another class of drugs and start compensating by smoking way more weed than I already do combined with those other drugs. Or, if drugs like benzos and weed are also just not available anymore for some weird hypothetical reason, then I'll double down on drinking to get my fix. I'm not proud of this, but the absolute truth is that an addict WILL ALWAYS find a way to find their fix whether you want it or not and no matter what you take away. The only way a severe addict will ever stop, is when they are in a place where they are ready to stop, and when they REALLY REALLY want it. Because drugs and alcohol, especially alcohol are so easily available that it's not hard to just change addictions when one substance gets taken away. Alcohol is especially so, so, SO fucking easy to get since all you have to do is just walk into a liquor store, score your haul, show your ID, pay and leave! No questions asked! That's why alcoholism (although drug addiction and alcoholism are both severe, serious and very dangerous ofc) is sometimes harder to kick than drugs, since alcohol is way easier to get and the social pressure to drink and the way it's advertised and almost expected of you to drink it, is just crazy! When you're an ex alcoholic who's bombarded with liquor store advertisements for vodka or whiskey all day, it's so fucking hard not to relapse! I mean, heroin addiction and other things are very hard to kick as well, but at least when you go out or when you watch tv there's not someone who advertises different batches of heroin and someone who asks what kind of heroin you would like from the menu card; "black tar or afghan white? Alright m'am, I'll fix you up the finest quality black tar in America right away! It's on the house, and goes super well with the filet mignon!"

That was my rant, sorry for the essay but I was thinking about it and this is such an important subject! Again, I'm not comparing substances and claiming alcoholics have it harder and should be taken more seriously than dope fiends, I'm just saying that the fact that drinking is so socially acceptable and almost expected plus constantly advertised; is extra difficult when you are freshly clean and trying to avoid seeing or hearing anything about your DOC. I've got massive respect for all of the recovered drug addicts, but also equally as much with maybe a little grain extra respect for former alcoholics. Really, from the bottom of my heart, y'all are so super strong! I aspire to be just like y'all one day, but for now I'm just NOT ready yet, like at all.

i hate being clean.

[pretty-mik-97]

When ‘Dark Romance’ Is Just an Excuse for Abuse: How Cry or Better Yet Beg fails Matthias as a Love Interest (Rant Included)

Oh, and do I have a lot to say about this mutha fucka right here. ESPECIALLY with the most recent chapters on Webtoon.

I ain't go lie, I half expected Cry or Better Yet Beg be like a slow burn enemies to lovers historical romance fiction. But I gotta ask all the Matthias x Layla shippers and Matthias fans:

HOW IS MATTHIAS VON HERHARDT THE LOVE INTEREST AND WHY ARE WE ROOTING FOR HIM?! 👁👄👁

Like I never see this guy show or express any romantic that doesn't involve him being a bully and humiliating and abusing Layla because apparently he enjoys making her miserable and cry.

And people are like: He doesn't know how to express himself because he never experienced love so it's all so new to him.

Umm, no bestie. That man has no love for ANYTHING at all, period. Especially not for Layla, you know, the WOMAN HE'S SUPPOSED TO BE IN LOVE WITH!

And when people rightfully call out and criticise Matthias as a character and the story as a whole, they get hit with the: It's a Dark Romance.

Umm, no, sweetie. This is not a dark romance. It's abuse cosplaying as a dark romance. There is NOTHING romantic about a man who enjoys bullying, verbally and emotionally abusing the woman he's supposed to be in love with, and sees her as less of a human being.

Matthias himself actually admitted and told Layla TO HER FACE why he despises her when she asked.

You want proof?

BOOM! RECEIPTS:

Again, I ask: WHY ARE WE ROOTING FOR THIS MAN. WHY?!

Where is the romance coz I ain't seeing shit!

And that brings me to my next point. The argument that people hate Matthias because he's not acting like "the typical green flag love interest in fluffy romance stories."

Lemme just show y'all two comments I found on reddit for reference.

Comment 1:

It's okay to read stories where the antagonists regret their actions or face consequences for their actions. I love me a good revenge story and a story where the antagonists get their long-awaited comeuppance. But here's the thing: Matthias has not shown ANY FORM OF REGRET AND REMORSE FOR HIS ACTS AND HAS NOT FACED ANY CONSEQUENCES.

Like this dude, THREW Layla's glasses into the lake where she had to get them and almost drown in the process coz the sistah can't swim.

He killed birds KNOWING she would come to bury them to lure her in the forest so he could talk to her instead of approaching her like a normal person.

He swiped her shoes while she was dozing off waiting for Kyle and told Layla that he was going to give them back if she CRIED. On top of belittling her and telling her that her only purpose is to BE NOTHING.

He made her make a bouquet of roses (I think) for him only for him to make her make another bouquet over and over again because they weren't up to his standard (but I personally think this mutha fucka did it to be petty AND be a prick).

And he stepped on her hand when she was picking up her coins after spending time with Claudine when she was NINE YEARS OLD. An EIGHTEEN YEAR OLD at his big grown old age at that time bullying A NINE YEAR OLD.

And not ONCE has he shown ANY remorse or guilt nor faced ANY CONSEQUENCES for his actions. As a matter of fact (spoilers), he gets rewarded for all of the heinous things he did to Layla by getting with her in the end.

And that basically makes the argument of "reading and fantasising about toxic relationships where the toxic person feels guilt" pointless.

Comment 2:

Yes romance and dark romance are two different things. Dark romance explores taboo, morally grey, toxic relationships and unequal power dynamics between the characters.

HOWEVER, for it to work as a dark romance, the characters need to be morally grey, have internal conflict with themselves, and some level of character development and character depth.

And our boy Matthias has NONE OF THOSE. He's just an asshole who gets off from making Layla cry and beg. He's not a misunderstood character who's battling with his feelings or whatever. He knows EXACTLY what he's doing, and he does not care.

Plus there's supposed to be ROMANCE in it. It's in the name. Dark. ROMANCE. The key ingredient that's nowhere to be found in Cry or Better Yet Beg.

Common arguments made in both comments:

People hate Matthias because he's not acting like the typical green flag male love interest in "fluffy" romance stories.

Nope. Most people don't hate him for not acting like the green flag love interest. People hate him because he's an asshole and a bully period.

These Stories Exist Because People Enjoy Them/Liking Dark Romance Doesn’t Mean I Want It in Real Life/If You Don’t Like It, Don’t Read It

Yes, there's an audience for dark romance, and people eat it up. Yes, just because you like reading dark romance doesn't automatically mean that you want it in real life. And yes, people shouldn't read dark romance if they don't like it.

But that's not going to make any dark romance stories ESPECIALLY Cry or Better Yet Beg above criticism (VALID criticism at that).

If anything, stories like Cry or Better Yet Beg are an insult to people who have experienced trauma and abuse because the victim ends up falling in love with their abuser and the abuser gets away with it.

Are THESE the type of stories we want to push into the mainstream?

[creatingblackcharacters]

Hi hi I'm a new anon in your vicinity and I just need to rant about this like blatant racism

I'm in highschool, I was 16 at the time, and I was in the theater program. I was a part of the props crew and out area was very secluded and had no cameras so obviously it was the place to vape and everyone did it including me and a lot of my friends. One day the smell got really strong and at the next meeting the head of props was confronted by the director about it and they panicked and gave him a list that included me. Obviously I freak out after they told me like anyone would do but ultimately the director never ended up telling anyone's parents.

Fast forward to the interviews for the next theater production and the director asks me about the vaping thing. I think "Oh okay you did still care cool glad that's all this came to." and I tell my friends about it because he gave me a funny look.

Turns out I was the only person he ever asked about the vaping situation. Wanna know what the rest of my friends have in common that I don't? They're all white. I was the only Black person to get caught up in that situation and I was the only person to be directly confronted about it after he had received the list of vapers. The only one.

Everyone likes to pretend this director is so great but this is not the first or the last time he's shown he clearly holds a negative bias against Black people. Another more prominent example being his refusal to take the necessary steps to have Black actors get proper hair and makeup. The hair crew is white and they don't have experience with textured hair and expected the actors to just deal with it. He refused to let makeup use proper shades of makeup to match a Black complexion he's acting like they're white and they end up looking stupid because they have makeup 50 shades lighter than the rest of their body because he won't acknowledge that the same makeup doesn't work on everyone. It's not like we lack the money or people because we absolutely have every resource we need to do that it's just him not wanting it.

"16 at the time" lol you said that like you were so young, baby you can't be that much older 🤣

And that's incredibly unfortunate to hear, and unfortunately not an uncommon experience when you get into the acting or modeling world as a career, either. I hate that he's putting y'all through that so young, but these teachers be hella racist out here.

Does every Black theatre kid have a racist story 😅 I had a white classmate that LOVED saying the n-word. Like, would say it as an expletive or just for fun, like how you'd say "fuck". No one ever did anything, the other Black theatre kids just kind of rolled their eyes. I personally didn't swing on him bc I was trying to go to college and not jail, but MAN I look back and I shoulda.

So. I don't wanna say start a riot bc the school to prison pipeline is every thirsty for Black children but... Might be time to talk to your parents about the guy. Especially when he's got y'all out there 40 shades lighter and poorly lit for no reason. That is something that can be easily addressed if enough of you speak up about it. Because how can he "let" y'all do anything, if y'all brought the right foundation and said "put it on my face". But you shouldn't have to do that.

[jungkoode]

THE 25TH HOUR | O3

“𝐌𝐄𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐘 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐓𝐎𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐒”

"The most dangerous temporal anomaly isn't the one you can measure. It's the way your body remembers what your mind forgot."

next | index

— chapter details

word count: 2,5k

content: underground medical facility shenanigans, memory tests with Jin and Yoongi, Jimin being a chaotic enabler, involuntary physical responses defying temporal physics, and the team placing bets on how long Yoongi can maintain “professional distance" with leather gloves involved.

— author’s note

Y'ALL. The medical examination scene has been living in my head rent free for WEEKS. You know those moments when you're trying to write something serious and professional but your characters are like "no❤️ watch this"??? Because same.

We've got Jin being the only responsible adult, Yoongi attempting to maintain professional distance (and failing spectacularly), Jimin choosing violence as a lifestyle, and Y/N's body remembering things her mind doesn't. Also featuring: temporal physics being completely ignored in favor of sexual tension, inappropriate uses of leather gloves, and the team collectively deciding to Look Away™️ when things get spicy.

Speaking of the team - can we talk about how Jimin has evolved into this chaotic force of nature who just EXISTS to make Yoongi's life harder??? The way he just *gestures vaguely* KNOWS THINGS and chooses to use that knowledge for evil?? An icon. A legend. The reason Yoongi's blood pressure is through the roof.

Also, fun fact: This entire scene came from me thinking "what if we made temporal physics sexy?" and then it spiraled into... whatever this is. Shoutout to my physics professor who would probably have an aneurysm reading this. Sorry not sorry, but time manipulation is hot now, I don't make the rules.

Anyway, get ready for some quality UST featuring: precise measurements of inappropriate physical contact, clinical descriptions of sexual tension, and Yoongi pretending he's maintaining professional distance while everyone else pretends not to notice him failing miserably at it.

— read on

AO3

"Stabilized!" 

Namjoon’s voice blooms across the room.

Agent Min releases your wrist like it's burning him, despite the fabric barrier. The sudden loss of contact sends your temporal readings fluctuating—a 0.7% variance you automatically note.

"Gloves?" Jin asks, already reaching for a drawer.

"Please." 

The leather gloves hit his palm with practiced accuracy. He pulls them on with movements too precise, too controlled. Black leather, reinforced temporal shielding based on the metallic thread pattern, custom-fitted.

The man before you—Jin—carries himself like a medical professional, if medical professionals used quantum resonance meters and discussed memory patterns like cellular structures. Your analytical mind categorizes the differences: standard medical equipment replaced with temporal monitoring devices, traditional vital signs supplemented with chronological variance readings.

"Sit down, please." His instruction carries the same clinical tone you'd expect from a regular doctor.

You comply, settling onto what appears to be a medical bed. The surface feels wrong—vibrating at a frequency just slightly out of sync with normal time.

Agent Min shuffles through data streams with the doctor, their voices low but intense:

"...temporal resistance patterns..."

"...cognitive overlay rejection..."

"...signature destabilization risks..."

"Can I at least know what you're planning to do to me?" You interrupt their technical exchange, keeping your voice steady.

"Memories." Agent Min turns immediately when you ask. "We're attempting to reintegrate your memory backup."

"What memory backup?" Frustration edges into your voice. "That's not technologically possible with current—"

Agent Min exchanges a look with the doctor.

"Have they explained?" The doctor asks. "About forced memory integration?"

"Yes," Agent Min runs a hand through his hair. "Hoseok and Jimin made that abundantly clear."

"So my hands are tied regarding information transfer," the doctor says, settling into a chair facing you. His temporal signature reads oddly stable compared to the others you've encountered here.

"But you're planning to inject memories?" Your mind automatically starts calculating the energy requirements for quantum information transfer. "The technological limitations alone make that scientifically impossible—”

"Memory injection is actually quite different from..." He stops, glancing at Agent Min before sighing with something like fond exasperation. "Alright, let's start here—tell me what you know about this world."

You frown, analyzing the request. "What could I possibly know that you don't? You clearly have access to technology and information beyond standard clearance levels."

"Trust me," Agent Min murmurs, "we don't."

The doctor rolls his eyes at him. "We need to gauge the level of bleed-through this time."

"Bleed-through?" You ask, the term spiraling with curiosity inside your head.

"Min, timeline shifts since her last reset?"

"None." 

"Well, at least there's that."

"Timeline shifts? Resets?" Your mind tries to parse terms that shouldn't exist in any approved temporal physics database.

"Please," the doctor says, "tell me what you know about this world."

You analyze the request, breaking it down into quantifiable components. "That's an incredibly broad query. Could you specify the parameters?"

"Start with temporal mechanics," he suggests. "How does time work?"

The question seems absurd—like asking how gravity works. It's a fundamental constant, documented through centuries of quantum research and temporal physics studies.

"Time is regulated by the Chrono-Sync Network through quantum resonance frequencies calibrated to maintain perfect temporal alignment," you explain, falling into the familiar rhythm of technical exposition. "The Master Clock, located in Sector 1, generates the base frequency that all Chrono-Sync Watches must match within 0.001% variance. Any deviation beyond that threshold triggers automatic correction protocols."

"And this system has always existed?" Agent Min's question carries an odd weight.

"Of course. The Network was established in 2157 following the Quantum Wars. It's basic history." Your voice holds the slight edge of someone stating the obvious. "The temporal monitoring system prevents chronological warfare by maintaining universal time synchronization. Before the Network, temporal terrorists could manipulate local time fields, creating devastating paradoxes."

"What about before 2157?" The doctor—Jin—asks carefully.

"Temporal chaos. Unregulated time flow. Multiple competing chronological frequencies." You recite the facts with precision. "That's why CHRONOS was developed—to prevent temporal warfare through standardization. The historical records clearly document the devastation caused by chrono-terrorism."

"And the 24-hour cycle?" Agent Min's question seems to carry extra significance.

"The natural human circadian rhythm." Your response is automatic. "CHRONOS simply enforced what was already biologically standard. Studies have proven that deviating from the 24-hour cycle causes severe physiological and psychological damage."

"Really?" Jin's pen scratches against his paper. "No other possible time structures?"

"The 24-hour cycle is scientifically proven to be optimal for human function," you explain with the precision of someone who has spent years studying these principles. "Any variation would create cascading temporal instabilities. The human brain is specifically calibrated to function on this cycle. It's elementary temporal biology."

"Friends? Relationships?" Jin's pen moves steadily, changing topics with suspicious abruptness.

The shift in questioning triggers a slight increase in your temporal readings—0.02% variance. Within acceptable parameters, but noteworthy.

"Limited social interaction to maintain optimal temporal efficiency," you recite. "Two approved recreational contacts: Lisa Martinez from the Academy, Thomas Park from my housing block."

Agent Min's jaw tightens fractionally at the second name. The reaction is precisely 0.23 seconds too fast to be casual. You begin calculating potential causation factors.

"And that seems normal to you?" Jin asks. "Limited social interaction for efficiency?"

"Of course. Personal relationships introduce temporal variance through emotional instability." The words feel rehearsed somehow, like a textbook you've memorized but never quite internalized. "The Network functions best when all participants maintain strict chronological compliance. Emotional attachments create unpredictable temporal ripples."

"What about deviation?" Agent Min's voice carries an edge. "Have you ever wanted to break schedule? Act outside approved parameters?"

"That would be highly inefficient.Temporal compliance is crucial for societal stability. The system exists to protect us from chronological warfare."

"You've never questioned it?" Jin presses. "Never wondered why everything is so perfectly structured?"

"Structure creates efficiency. Efficiency creates stability." The response is automatic, but your Chrono-Sync Watch registers a minor desynchronization. Curious. "Why would I question proven temporal mechanics? The data is irrefutable."

"Because your body already is," Agent Min says quietly.

You start to protest, but then you notice: your hand is reaching for your watch again. Seven minutes exactly since the last check. You've been doing it the entire conversation without conscious thought. You immediately begin calculating the statistical probability of such precise timing occurring naturally.

"That's..." You search for a logical explanation. "That's just good temporal maintenance. Regular monitoring ensures optimal synchronization with the Network."

"Is it?" Jin asks. "Or is it programmed behavior?"

You calculate probability matrices for their increasingly concerning implications. Their questions display either dangerous ignorance of basic temporal physics or... something else. Something that makes your precisely ordered world feel slightly off-axis.

"I'm not programmed." The words come out sharper than intended. "I have free will. I make my own choices. I'm certified in temporal monitoring, scheduled to start at the Center tomorrow morning. My employee ID is A-735, my clearance level is—"

"Perfect temporal compliance," the doctor interrupts, making notes. "Standard citizen programming. What else?"

You frown at his word choice. "Programming?"

"Just continue," Agent Min says. His eyes haven't left the temporal readings displaying your vital signs. You notice his attention seems to focus on specific frequencies—ones that shouldn't matter according to standard temporal theory.

"I..." You retreat into facts—the only stable ground in this increasingly unstable situation. "I grew up in Sector 4. Parents are both temporal compliance officers. Sarah and James Chen. I attended the Academy of Temporal Sciences, graduated top of my class in quantum mechanics and chronological theory. I live alone in approved housing block 7B. My daily schedule is optimized for maximum temporal efficiency as required by—"

"Parents' names?" The doctor interrupts again, looking up sharply.

"Sarah and James Chen," you repeat. The names feel solid in your mouth. You remember Sunday dinners, temporal compliance lessons, your mother's smile, your father's strict adherence to schedule. 

Memory integrity: 100% clear. 

"At least they didn't give her a husband this time," the doctor mutters.

Agent Min clears his throat loudly. The temperature in the room drops 0.3 degrees.

"A husband?" You ask, latching onto the inconsistency. Your mind automatically starts calculating the statistical probability of memory tampering based on their behavior. The results are concerning.

"Different reset," the doctor waves dismissively. "Continue. What do you know about CHRONOS?"

You catalog his dismissal for later analysis, noting the 0.47-second delay before his response. "The artificial intelligence system that maintains temporal order. Created in 2157 to prevent temporal warfare and ensure humanity's survival through perfect chronological control."

"What about anomalies?" Agent Min asks. "Temporal variance? Chronological inconsistencies?"

"Contained and corrected." You watch their reactions carefully, measuring micro-expressions against standard behavioral baselines. "Any significant temporal deviation is identified and eliminated before it can destabilize the Network."

"And what happens to those who deviate?" Jin's voice is carefully neutral.

"They're..." You pause, discovering an unexpected gap in your knowledge. Curious. Your temporal compliance training should cover all aspects of the system. "They're corrected. Brought back into alignment with standard temporal flow."

"How?" Agent Min presses.

"That information isn't included in standard temporal physics education," you admit, analyzing their reactions. Their behavior suggests they know something you don't—a statistical impossibility given your education level and clearance. Your hand automatically moves to check your watch again.

"What about emotional responses?" Jin asks suddenly. "Do you experience feelings that seem inconsistent with your memories or experiences?"

Your body chooses that moment to lean slightly toward Agent Min without conscious input. You straighten immediately, analyzing the movement with growing frustration. The proximity increases your heart rate by 3.7 BPM despite no logical reason for the response. Your temporal signature shifts by 0.06%—still within compliance range, but the pattern is... concerning.

"I..." You stop, recalibrating. "My responses are within normal parameters."

"Really?" Jin asks. "So your heart rate always spikes around strangers?"

You glance at the monitoring equipment—your pulse is indeed elevated. "That's likely due to the unusual circumstances." Your voice maintains professional detachment even as your body betrays you by shifting 0.2 centimeters closer to Agent Min.

"And the temporal resonance patterns?" Jin gestures to another reading. "The way your signature stabilizes with proximity to Agent Min?"

"Coincidence," you say firmly, even as your body shifts another 0.3 centimeters closer to him without your permission. "Temporal signatures naturally seek stability. It's basic quantum mechanics."

"With specific people?" 

“Jin.”

"I..." You check your watch. Six minutes exactly until your next scheduled check. The wrongness of potentially missing it makes your skin crawl. "This isn't... I don't..."

"What we are trying to say," Jin interrupts, "is that perhaps your understanding of this world isn't as complete as CHRONOS wants you to believe."

You start to argue, but then you notice: Agent Min has shifted exactly 2.7 centimeters closer. The movement carries too much precision—like he's performed it countless times before. Like he’s anticipating something. 

Your hand reaches for your watch again—five minutes and forty-three seconds until your next scheduled check. The compulsion feels simultaneously natural and foreign, like a subroutine you never consciously installed.

"Then choose to skip your next time check," Agent Min challenges.

Your hand is already moving toward your watch. You force it down, but your skin crawls with the wrongness of it. Five minutes and thirty-eight seconds until your next scheduled check. The knowledge sits like lead in your stomach.

"This proves nothing," you argue, even as anxiety builds at the thought of missing your seven-minute mark. "Regular temporal monitoring is simply good practice. The Network requires consistent synchronization to maintain stability."

But your mind is already cataloging the inconsistencies:

- Why does your body respond to Agent Min with mathematical precision?

- Why do you check the time every seven minutes with mechanical accuracy?

- Why does breaking that pattern feel physically wrong?

- Why can you remember every detail of your life with perfect clarity, yet find gaps in your knowledge of the system itself?

"I..." You swallow hard. "I need to check my watch in five minutes and thirty-three seconds."

"We know," Agent Min says softly. 

His gloved hand twitches.

Voices interrupt your pondering.

"The quantum resonance patterns are fascinating but I think I'll pass on another lecture from Namjoon about temporal mechanics," The pink-haired man suddenly announces, sauntering into the room. 

He immediately starts fiddling with Jin's equipment, who doesn't even flinch—just continues monitoring your readings.

"You'd think after hundreds of timelines he'd have a more interesting way to explain it," Hoseok adds, dropping into a nearby chair.

“Doesn’t matter how many times he explains, I don’t get shit.” Jimin responds. Then, glances between you and Agent Min. "So what's the story this time? Three kids? White picket fence? Nuclear family in temporal compliance heaven?"

Agent Min's foot connects with his shin. Hard.

"Ow! What? I'm just asking what narrative they programmed this time. At least it's not—”

"Jimin." Agent Min's voice carries warning.

"Not that you'd remember," Hoseok says, grinning despite the tension, "but last reset they gave you this whole elaborate backstory. Husband named Richard. Real piece of work."

Your mind tries to process this. "Richard?"

"Oh yeah. Super by-the-book temporal compliance officer. Yoongi spent months trying to trigger his outlier potential just so he could—”

"Hoseok." Agent Min's temperature spikes 0.4 degrees.

"What? I'm just saying, you did try to convert him. Multiple times." Hoseok's grin widens. "Though we all know it wasn't because you wanted him on the team."

Your analytical mind catalogs Agent Min's reactions: jaw tension increasing 15%, pulse elevated to 67 BPM, careful distance from your position maintained at exactly 1.2 meters in case temporal stabilization requires contact.

"The temporal variance patterns are unstable enough without adding cognitive stress," Agent Min says, voice clipped. "Focus on the present reset."

"Present reset," Jimin mimics, still rubbing his shin. "Like you weren't calculating exactly how many anomalies it would take before CHRONOS had to—”

"12 minutes," Agent Min cuts him off. "Either help with the readings or get out."

You find yourself analyzing his response with unusual intensity. "You can influence CHRONOS' resets?"

"No," he says too quickly.

"Yes," Jimin corrects.

"Sometimes," Hoseok clarifies.

"It's complicated," Jin adds, not looking up from his equipment.

Your head starts throbbing again. Agent Min takes exactly one step closer—close enough to stabilize your temporal signature if needed.

"You rewrote time to... eliminate my husband?" The words feel strange in your mouth. You have no memory of a Richard, no context for their claims, yet something about Agent Min's reaction feels significant.

"Technically, CHRONOS rewrote time," Jimin says helpfully. "Yoongi just... creates enough temporal instability that CHRONOS has to adjust things. Usually in ways that coincidentally benefit him."

"After trying to trigger Richard's outlier potential," Hoseok adds.

"Which didn't work," Jimin continues.

"Multiple times," they finish together.

Agent Min's hands clench at his sides. The room temperature drops another 0.5 degrees.

"Your temporal signature is spiking again," he says instead of addressing their comments. "Focus on the cognitive process before—"

"Before what?" You press. "Before you rewrite time again? Before CHRONOS erases more memories I apparently don't know I have?"

His eyes meet yours, and for a moment something flickers in them—frustration, resignation, something else you can't quantify.

"Before we run out of time," he says finally. "Again."

"Always running out of time with you two," Jimin mutters. "Some things never change, no matter how many resets."

You want to ask what he means, but your nose starts bleeding again.

It starts as a single drop—precisely 0.03 milliliters. Your analytical mind starts calculating the iron content before Agent Min moves.

His response time is 0.33 seconds—faster than standard human reflexes. The motion carries too much familiarity as he steps forward, black-gloved hand already reaching for your face. The leather is cool against your skin as he catches the blood with clinical efficiency, his hand remaining steady under your nose.

But there's nothing clinical about the way your pulse jumps 7 BPM at the sustained contact.

You look up, trying to analyze his expression, but his focus remains fixed on the task. His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly—you notice his masseter muscle contracting at 23% more tension than baseline. He makes a soft sound of disapproval as another drop falls onto the black leather.

The contact feels... correct. Like your body recognizes something your mind can't compute. His gloved hand doesn't waver, maintaining its position.

Temperature at point of contact: 2.3 degrees above normal, even through the leather.

Proximity: 34.2 centimeters closer than his usual maintained distance.

Your cognitive functions: Surprisingly compromised.

Jimin clears his throat with exaggerated purpose. Agent Min's head snaps toward him while his hand remains steady under your nose.

"Jin." His voice carries an edge of urgency. "Ready?"

Jin's fingers move over his equipment. The device in his hands emits a soft hum at exactly 432 Hz, releasing a cloud of temporally charged particles that coalesce into a perfect sphere.

"Yeah." Jin lifts the sphere with careful movements. The air around it distorts slightly—light bending at impossible angles.

"What is that?" Your voice remains steady despite the way your skin prickles with increasing temporal static. Agent Min adjusts his gloved hand slightly, catching another drop of blood without breaking contact.

"Memory backup." Jin adjusts something on the sphere's surface. "This shouldn't hurt, but temporal cognitive recalibration can cause some discomfort."

"Discomfort," Jimin mutters. "That's one way to put it."

Agent Min shifts slightly—angling his body 3 degrees more toward you, his hand never leaving its position. A protective stance your mind recognizes from standard security training. But this feels... different. Personal.

"Your neural activity is spiking" he says, voice carrying that strange mix of professional distance and something else. Something that makes your chest tight. "We need to—”

"How many times have you done this?" The question slips out before your analytical mind can stop it.

His free hand twitches—an aborted movement toward you that he catches at exactly 2.7 centimeters of motion.

"Too many," he says softly. Then, catching himself: "A-735, focus on maintaining cognitive stability. Your vitals are—"

"Going crazy because you're too close," Jimin interjects helpfully. "Maybe step back a few meters? You know, for medical purposes? Her heart's about to beat out of her chest."

Agent Min doesn't move. If anything, he shifts 0.3 centimeters closer, his gloved hand remaining steady under your nose.

"The proximity helps with signature dampening," he says, voice clipped. But you notice his heart rate has increased to 68 BPM.

"She's already stabilized in here," Jimin sighs. "You heard the man.”

"You are wearing the gloves, right?" Hoseok asks suddenly, eyeing Agent Min's position. "Because the way you're hovering—"

"Of course I'm wearing the gloves," Agent Min snaps, though his hand remains perfectly steady under your nose.

"Just checking," Hoseok raises his hands in mock surrender. "Given your track record with protocol 47.3..."

An adjustment of your position creates an unexpected point of contact—your knee brushing against what your analytical mind immediately identifies as anatomically significant. You immediately begin calculating the exact angle and pressure of the contact before you register its implications. Your body's response is both immediate and puzzling—heart rate increasing by 12 BPM, skin temperature rising 0.24 degrees.

Position correction should be simple. Yet your body seems to know exactly how to shift to maximize the contact pressure—a knowledge that triggers several questions about muscle memory and timeline retention that you file away for later analysis.

His gloved hand remains perfectly steady under your nose through sheer force of will.

"Wow, that ceiling tile is fascinating," Jimin announces suddenly, tilting his head back with exaggerated interest.

"Absolutely riveting," Hoseok agrees, studying his shoes with intense concentration.

Jin becomes very focused on adjusting his equipment settings.

Agent Min's voice comes out exactly 0.7 octaves lower than usual: "A-735. Position adjustment required."

You move with deliberate precision, establishing appropriate professional distance. Your body protests the movement with an intensity that warrants further investigation—when you're not calculating the exact newtons of force his masseter muscle is exerting. 

"7 minutes," he grits out, the words tight with restraint. His tongue presses visibly against his cheek as he inhales deeply. "Jin, if that sphere isn't ready in the next 30 seconds—"

"Working on it, boss," Jin responds, still very interested in his calibration dials.

"Maybe if you stepped back..." Jimin suggests helpfully, still studying the ceiling.

"Can't," Agent Min responds through what sounds like clenched teeth. "Nosebleed."

His gloved thumb twitches minutely against your skin. The movement suggests significant muscular tension—likely from maintaining precise control over multiple physiological responses.

"You could just let someone else—" Hoseok starts.

"No." 

"You sure there hasn't been any... accidental contact?" Jimin drawls. "Because this is giving me déjà vu from timeline 466 when you claimed you were 'just stabilizing her' but really—"

"6 minutes," Agent Min cuts him off. His temperature rises another 0.2 degrees. "Seokjin.”

Jin holds up the sphere, which now pulses with a soft golden light that matches the traces you've seen Agent Min leave. "Ready. But Yoongi..."

"I know." Something in his voice makes you look up again. His eyes meet yours for exactly 1.2 seconds before he looks away, though his hand doesn't waver from its position. "It has to be different this time."

"It's always different," Jimin says quietly. "Doesn't change how it ends."

Your nose threatens to start bleeding again. You feel Agent Min's gloved thumb shift slightly against your skin, ready to catch any new drops.

Time: 01:59:00 AM.

Temporal stability: Rapidly decreasing.

Questions: Infinite.

The way your body leans toward him without conscious input: Concerning.

The way he maintains careful fabric barriers between every point of contact: Even more so.

taglist: @cannotalwaysbenight @livingformintyoongi @itstoastsworld @somehowukook @stuti2904 @chloepiccoliniii @kimnamjoonmiddletoe @ktownshizzle @yoongiiuu93 @billy-jeans23 @annyeongbitch7

© jungkoode 2025

no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[sturnsdoll]

i don't gaf if they wanna tour, that's great for the people who can afford it!! HOWEVER!! it's the fact that they are going on a tour when they haven't improved their content what so ever since saying they'd do so is insane. no streams, short videos, more low effort/repetitive videos. i expected after the podcast was taken away, then wednesday videos, that we would be getting longer, higher quality content as well as frequent streams (LIKE THEY LITERALLY SAID!!) and potentially more collabs. however we have recieved none of which they said they'd do. the content has arguably been even worse since they quit wednesday videos actually.

i love them. if you wanna dick ride go ahead, this isn't hate. it's me saying that if the people who upkeep your career and pay your bills don't mean enough for at LEAST 30 min long vlogs and a stream that involves something other than hours of fortnite, that's ignorant and inconsiderate. they should be focusing on the majority of their fanbase rather than a tour that consists of like 5% of us. ngl i blame half of this shit on their poor excuse of a manager. but y'all ain't ready for that conversation apparently.

[maxwellanthony]

About a decade ago, I came to the horrifying realization that I was Aro/Ace. As someone who has always loved love (especially in fiction, books, movies, etc!) it felt like I'd been doomed to a life where one of my biggest aspirations, romantic fulfillment, would simply never come to be due to circumstances outside my control. After about five years of trying and failing to muddle through one-sided relationships, I got frustrated enough to write a song about it. I recorded the song on my iPad, titled it Aromantic Moodboard, and posted it to YouTube. I expected it to get less than 100 views.

Instead, I received over 129k views on YouTube and over 1 MILLION streams on Spotify.

More importantly, I received an outpouring of love, support, and even comiseration from the AroAce community. It was tremendous. It is STILL tremendous--and it blows my mind whenever I think about it. In honor of the song's five year Spotify anniversary, the 1M stream milestone, and Valentine's Day, I decided to rerecord an acoustic (clean) version of the song for all of y'all to enjoy. Please give it a listen!

Finally, thank you to anyone and everyone who has given Aromantic Moodboard a listen. I <3 you all.