#so maybe if you bring in more people you do love and care for you might feel something

[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.

[time-traveller-archives]

So true, I always wonder why though? Is it a search of human validation or just our self doubt of not being able to understand our pain through our eyes? Maybe we all need someone to look out for us, to feel we are looked out for. To hope that someone is waiting to see us the next morning. Maybe that's what kept our day moving, idk. Maybe life is a blessing when someone's around. Maybe that's all it is. Maybe I wanted more than love, care or affection. I wanted a 'me' to shine out there for me, so that 'that me', could give back the love everyone who loved me deserved, not the love the present 'me' who was broken squeezing herself in corners and was nothing in front of her future me. I used to think it was the future me, who could give it all back. Not me, the me that existed even if she loved, she was broken, there was something wrong with her. So I crafted that me, worked hard to erase the present 'me' so I could be the new 'me' all for the people I loved and cared about the most. The future 'me' was waste of time though for the present 'me'. I would waste so much time thinking how she should walk, how she should move, who she should be, so that everyone around me and mostly myself would feel some pride in 'me' not me.

Seems like now, there's no future 'me', its just goals and ambitions, but now goals and ambitions don't feel passionate anymore, there's no zest of changing yourself every single day, it just feels like there was no point in being a person of service to others, there was a point in being so detached. There's no one left to serve, even if there's someone. Why should I? Should I go help, why though? Is there any reward or sense of happiness I will get with that, maybe, but how many skeletons do you think they have in their closets, is it worth being a helper forever, whose validation is it that Iam suffering so much for. Is there any love in it, in helping others, yes there is, there is love for humanity, not lizards, love for people, not a bunch of thieves who SA humans and burn them out on a regular basis. Not a bunch of disgusting people who instead of learning to live a good and humble life, who could have taught so much, decide to obliterate us through SA,pedophilia and what not? Is this what I am here for, on this Earth, why am i here? Am I not here to serve for the upliftment of souls, creation of new ideas and philosophies for helping the inquisitive minds grow, what is it I am here for? To see a bunch of greedy, selfish, pedos take powerful position and enjoy abusing others. What do I bring to this plate? Cause I have brought a lot, accepted a lot, tried to understand a lot more than I could have ever believed I could have ever done. More than the expectations of shit face people around me and their imposed beliefs on me and my benevolence. Then why? what have I done wrong?

Why should I stay stuck with the most disgusting people, out of all other humans and animals and other species. What am I here to do? Just suffer in their hands. Why? Just why am I here? Who brought me here to do this place? What am I doing here? How am I thriving? Why am I thriving? This is disgusting, I need my shell, my shell where everything is alright, nothing has changed, nobody has gone, where the hell is that dream, that future, those people I envisioned to see in my future. This is the most degrading I have ever been, and Iam trying so hard to match the vibe with my life that now my life is falling apart but not visibly falling apart. Just why? I hate this all this materialistic big room, big space, big bed, big floors, I needed this facility, yes but for why? Why Just why do I do this to myself? Why do I even need all these. I don't even need that extra space in the room, maybe I do. But why do I need this when all i wanna do is shrink, shrink and die. I'm tired I'm tired of being this and being 'her' that her who got it to Bangalore. I still can't believe its me. This opportunity is too big for me, I always knew it, I can't do it, I just can't, its too much. Why are we here? Why should I do this? Why do I this? Why did I start this in the first place? Who is this all for? Who was it all for? Was it me, no no way, it was me, it wasn't me, I didn't want her, I never knew this, could catch these stars, could have ever imagined expected or fallen for these stars. Then why stars, why are they here? They look all shiny and gleamy but its all play. They are rotten from inside. There's no way this college is this good. There's no way I'm in Bangalore. There's no way everything is going right in my life for the first time without any intervention, without somebody's help. How am I living this? How do I do this? Iam not capable of such power. I have never been. Then how do I do this? Where do I go from here? Who is it out there to meet me? Where do I take this from here? How just how, do I imagine, do I make it big. Does it grow? Does it go bigger than this? Am I there yet? Am I in my life yet? Where is it going? How do I row ? Is there it there? Can I do it again? And again? Will I make it there? Wherever it is there? Where is it? Can I go

“People start to heal the moment they feel heard.”

— Cheryl Richardson

[dyingswanpavlova]

"Your girl" - Part 17 | The Salesman x Reader

Summary: What does he see when he looks at you?

Warnings: dead dove do not eat, kidnapping, mentions of sexual abuse and other traumatic events in the past, numbness, helplessness, violence, threatening, mentions of blood, mentions of murder and rape, body issues, trauma talk, stockholm syndrome, forced relationship, unhealthy relationship, depression, manipulation, mentions of sexual activities and desires, stalking, our man going all underwear fetish on us, his POV, not beta-read, if I've missed any please tell me! mdni 18+!

"Your girl" - The Salesman x Reader Masterlist

Three weeks ago

Watching you sleep was always the highlight of his day. It was what he loved doing most, even if there were surely people who considered that creepy. Maybe you did, too. But it didn’t matter, not to him.

The way you lay on his bed, your hair splayed over the pillow and your eyes peacefully shut – the way your chest softly heaved and your lips parted in a soft breath - it made him weak. Weak.

That was the only time he allowed himself to be really enamored. He took his time and stared at you, every contour, every freckle, everything – and it filled him with pride. You were his.

His.

He hadn’t intended for things to get out of hand like that. In fact, he hadn’t intended anything at all. But the exact second he read those words, so heartfelt and deep – it was like you had reached into his soul and taken the words from his tongue.

Of course he had to have you.

The way your eyes glistened, so sad and yet so beautiful on the pictures, it had only been the cherry on top. Actually, he didn’t really care what you looked like. You could have looked like anyhow. It didn’t matter.

What mattered was your sadness. It was inexplicable and it was oh-so wrong. But your sadness, your sadness. It shone in your eyes and it let your soul glow in a soft blue.

Everything about you was so blue. Even black one some days.

It wasn’t that he wanted you to be sad. Not at all, actually. He hated when you cried, unless it was in the bedroom.

He didn’t revel in your sadness per say. It just happened to be so…relieving.

All his life he had spent looking for something, someone, to understand him. To see him. Care for him. But no one ever did. Not in the way he wanted.

He had had relationships before, though none of them ever meant anything. He wasn’t even sure if he had the right to call them relationships. After all, it was mostly just the physical aspect, something to bring him some relief after a long day of pretending to be someone.

None of them ever meant anything to him. They were nothing but pretty dolls to take his frustrations out on. Most of them walked out on him the moment he ever even considered showing some of his true colors. Some of his darker shades.

Sick bastard was what most of them threw in his face. He couldn’t really blame them. But it wasn’t like he cared. Once he was done with them, it was either them leaving or him throwing them out. Most of them were only interested in him because they thought him to be some kind of important figure in any context. The suit, the tie, the briefcase – he had to be someone. Someone rich. Someone who knew how to take care of them. Someone.

But the reality of the situation was far more complicated. He didn’t care for them and he didn’t intend to pretend he did. He had no intention to pretend like he was the husband type of guy, the caring type. None of it. He was simply no one.

It was hard pretending not to be. After all, everyone who met him wanted something from him. Either money, status or whatever else. A smile. A kind word. A gentle touch.

Control.

Everyone wanted to control him.

That was the one thing in the world he didn’t allow anyone to have. Never.

Until he met you.

Your sadness was as contagious as it was maddening. Your pain was as toxic as it was alluring.

God, you suffered so beautifully. So gracefully.

He knew that he was fucked. He knew it by the first time he saw you in person.

That goddamn dark grey Honda and the countless hours he spent in there, doing absolutely nothing. He would have made a horrible detective, probably would have hung himself the first week of work. But you were worth it, right?

Because you understood him. You were special.

You weren’t like all these other women.

You were his girl. You would become his girl.

You wouldn’t care about status. You wouldn’t care about whatever he could give you.

No. You would want him. For him.

All you wanted was someone to rescue you. And the moment his eyes caught sight of your mother, he knew why.

The way she dragged you around like a collared dog, the way she swung her hips in a way that was so suggestive and begging for anyone’s attention. All the while she didn’t give you an ounce of her own, unless it was to guide you, like a good little dog.

It made him want to murder her on the spot.

But he didn’t. He couldn’t. It was your mother still.

He needed to win you over, not scare you.

Also, your mother was quickly forgotten, the second he laid his eyes upon you.

He wasn’t a man of many feelings. There was the anger that took control of him. He stood beside his body and watched as he committed the most heinous crimes. That was his anger.

Then there was the emptiness. It didn’t come often, but when it did, he tried to numb it. Alcohol, women, anything that was there, available and ready for him to be consumed. But it didn’t work. The only thing that ever fed his soul enough, the only thing that gave him back his peace of mind, was violence. Violence. Blood. Death. And pain.

Whenever he suffered, he needed someone else to suffer more. He had suffered enough, hadn’t he?

Whenever he closed his eyes at night, he still felt it. He still felt the way all the colors around him faded away. He still smelled it. The smell of burnt fish in the kitchen and the way the house smelled like it for days.

He still felt his hands. Nowadays, it didn’t make him feel sad or empty anymore. Not even disgusted. All he felt was anger.

But he couldn’t hurt him anymore, no, he had already killed him. Years ago, he already killed him and yet? Yet he couldn’t forget it. The darkness.

The darkness lured him in, surrounded him like a cloud.

It was the only thing that made him feel safe. His darkness was the only thing he knew.

Happiness was fragile. He didn’t trust happy people, they were so easily swayed. Sad people as well. All they needed was a hunch, a tiny promise of happiness and they dropped their sadness.

He needed someone who was as dead inside as he was.

Someone like you.

When he finally saw you, he immediately recognized it. The emptiness behind your eyes. The way you shrank away at the prospect of light, of day, of happiness.

You didn’t trust happiness either, because you didn’t know it.

You thought about it, dreamt about it – but you didn’t trust it. And he needed exactly that.

Everything that came afterwards happened as if on autopilot. What he needed were you. And how he’d get you didn’t matter.

The first time he snapped out of his automated haze was when you were already here, already working, already living according to his plan.

What was his plan?

Meet you. Ask you out.

You wouldn’t trust him of course, but maybe you were desperate. After all, you had lost your mother. Not that you would loved or missed her, but you lost her nonetheless and now you were alone. Maybe you were craving something. Someone. Like he was.

The fog in his brain lightened and he followed you home. Of course he bribed the landlord to let you pay only a tenth of what the apartment would have normally cost and he paid the rest. He also paid the man to keep his mouth shut about it. Just like he paid your boss to pay you more than your work was actually worth.

You deserved pretty things. But you never bought them.

He spent all the free-time he had to follow you. He waited and waited, excepting you to go batshit over the money, but you never did. The only thing you ever bought were books and food. Nothing more.

He had never seen anyone so low-maintenance before. It was refreshing in a way, but also frustrating. You deserved pretty things. You deserved them. But you didn’t seem to see it that way. It was irritating.

That one Friday afternoon, he followed you to the bookstore, the one that sold English books. You liked classic literature, he could tell as much. Last time you bought Madame Bovary, that Friday you bought Crime and Punishment. For some reason, that made him smirk. Raskolnikov. Darkness seemed to lure you in just as much.

He mindlessly scrolled through your Watch again list on Netflix. Hannibal – the old one and the new one. The Sinner. Bates Motel. You loved that one especially, because you watched the show and the old movie. You had great taste. Anything classic seemed to catch your attention. And also, anything dark. Maybe you found comfort in it, like he did. Maybe watching other people suffer made you feel at ease, as well. The thought drew him in even more. When he heard you slowly make your way out of the store, he made his way back to your apartment as well. He always kept a safe distance, but something was different that day. He’d caught a hunch of your perfume, the soft, gentle smell of some flower he couldn’t quite name. The smell nearly made his eyes roll back then and there.

That day, he needed more.

And so he waited. He sat, walked, stared, observed and waited until finally the lights went out. He waited another hour, feeling rather cold that night, but he couldn’t have cared less.

And so he slowly made his way upstairs. He had no need to even break in – he had the key. It made him furious, actually. That he landlord was so easily bribed to give him your keys – he could have been anyone, after all. He could have had the most lewd intentions.

He made a mental note to take care of the landlord someday, by the time he wouldn’t need him anymore.

He didn’t actually plan to approach you, but he couldn’t wait any longer. He needed you. He needed something.

And so he got inside, careful to be as quiet as possible. He slid off his shoes like any good guest would and then he softly stepped forward. He knew exactly where you slept, he had been here before, obviously. He glanced through the crack in the door, making sure you were really sound asleep, before he carefully pushed it open and stepped inside.

And there you were.

God. There you were.

He felt his heart skip a beat and a rush of heat flood his body. The familiar stirring of desire in the pit of his stomach, only that this was so much more intense. He had never felt anything like this before. It was like everything he ever wanted, ever needed. There you were. So beautiful. So vulnerable.

So his.

He swallowed slowly and stepped closer. You lay spread out over the mattress, wearing a simple, white nightdress. It looked a little outdated, might as well have been from Grease. But somehow that only added to your charm. You indeed reminded him of Sandy, maybe in the scene where she coughed after taking one smoke of a cigarette.

That made him smile to himself.

He stepped closer until he was finally close enough to touch you. He even reached out a hand, but then he stopped himself.

Not like this.

But he needed something. Something. Nothing sexual, nothing lecherous. Just you.

He very slowly curled his fingers in and brushed his knuckles over your cheek in a touch that was barely there. You didn’t even stir. In fact, he asked himself if you were even breathing. His gaze settled on your chest and stomach. You were breathing. You were alive. Real. And waiting for him.

So far, everything had worked out perfectly.

And he had no idea why it was taking him so goddamn long to approach you.

What was it that was holding him back?

What would you think when he spoke to you? That he was making fun of you? That he was some kind of psychopath, someone who wanted to hurt you?

How far from the truth. He just wanted you to be his, like it was always intended.

You had always been his. You simply didn’t know that yet.

He spent a few more minutes like that, staring down at your sleeping form. After a while he finally moved, ready to leave you in your tiny little world again. But he couldn’t.

He couldn’t touch you, kiss you, feel you the way he needed, but he needed something. He needed something or he would burst.

He didn’t want to use any other women to fulfill his need. He couldn’t. Ever since you stepped into his life, he couldn’t. No other woman did anything for his mind, for his fantasy. They were all just there, all name- and faceless.

All that occupied his mind were you. And he needed something.

He crouched down and pulled a few drawers open, glancing around and touching a few things, but nothing was enough. He needed…

By the time he stepped inside the bathroom, he knew what he needed.

He couldn’t touch you without your knowledge, without your permission. But what he could do was think about you.

And so he did the only logical thing. He knelt down and began to rummage through your laundry basket, until he caught sight of it.

Perfect.

Fuck. It was even better than perfect.

He reached out a hand and slowly pulled out the pair of panties. It was worn, but even better, even better. It had your trace on it, your blood. You.

Fuck. His eyes fell shut the moment his fist closed around the material and the faint trace of your blood. He was immediately hard. It was so quick, it was almost embarrassing. But he didn’t care. He slowly sunk down and leaned against the wall, before he held them up. He buried his face in it and inhaled deeply.

Fuck. He had to bite down on it, in order to keep quiet. A groan was tumbling upon his tongue. This was even better than anything he would have hoped for.

He would have given his life to fuck you. To feel you. To kiss your lips, to inspect your mouth with his tongue. To lick a path down your body and bury his tongue and his face between your legs. He knew it was Heaven, his Heaven.

The thought of you underneath him, warm and inviting…Looking up at him with that vulnerability, with that faint tear-stain on your face. Either that or a mischievous grin. Whatever it was. He knew the second he buried himself inside you, he’d burst. He’d turn into a predator, a wild animal, mindless, boneless, fuck.

He felt himself twitch in his pants. The thought alone was nearly enough to make him combust, right there in your bathroom.

Pathetic, he thought. Then he inhaled again.

The few weeks after that went by painfully slow. He wanted to approach you and every day he tried to. But he always stopped himself in the last second.

What if you refused him?

What if you rejected him?

What if?

He couldn’t bear the thought of it. He felt this helplessness whenever he imagined it. And so he waited. Observed. And did nothing else.

Until that cursed night. He stood in the shadows of the metro station, keeping a keen eye on you as he always did, pondering and brooding. How should he approach you best? In English? In Korean? He couldn’t let you know what he knew, what he was. He had to find a way-

And then that little rodent came. Oh, no.

No, no.

Over his dead body.

Murder in general wasn’t hard for him. But that, that was the easiest task he had ever taken on.

He didn’t even mind that you witnessed that little bastard exploding like a balloon on the train line.

He had wanted to hurt you.

You.

And he couldn’t let that happen. Over his dead body.

Things went up and down, back and forth. Mostly back. And of course things turned out different than he’d planned. But he tried to make the best of it.

And yet every time again, he stood beside his body and watched himself. Watched himself as he hurt you and did all these things to you.

But he had to, right?

You wouldn’t understand it otherwise. And you needed to understand it.

You were made for each other. You were his.

And he was yours.

Luckily, you did understand it in the end.

You were his girl. Not out of obligation, not out of fear.

You were his, because you wanted to be. Because you saw it now.

He kept watching as you slept, the tiniest hint of a smile on his lips.

Eventually, you’d forgive him for everything he had done. You had to, for one simple reason.

You were his girl.

____________________________________________

Tag list 1:

@mitsuki-dreamfree @kpopsmutty69 @heroine-chique @vkeyy @mizuwki @blu-brrys @z0mbi345 @yourpointbreak @ayieayee @freddyzeppsworld @lola11111111 @indifitel6661 @salesmanlover08 @laurenbenoit70 @lalalaa2210 @lila-marshal @auspicious-lilana @0-aubrie0 @lovelyaegyo @theredvelvetbitch @violentbluess @muriels-lover @dorayakissu @eviebuggg @muchwita @ririgy @strxlemon @obsessedwthdilfs @kiwilov3 @misty-q

Author's note: Happy Valentine's Day everyone!

I know this one is rather short, I'm sorry for that, but it was super spontaneous. I got an anonymous request about a chapter in his POV and this happened, I didn't plan this actually, so thanks, anon! I do have some crazy shit upcoming, so I wanted to do something a little lighter. I mean, it's still twisted obviously, but you know...in a gentle way.

ALSO: Happy Birthday dear @kyl13sm1l3y I'm sorry, I know this isn't Valentines Day related! But it is a new chapter anyway :( Forgive me please?

I love you, guys! Soooooooo much!

[ayumigotabittoolonely]

Nerd!Gojo x Nerd!You

Nerdjo x nerd reader!

Part 1 no next part sorry I lost the motivation 😔 and lost most of my works

♡Gojo, the paranoid investigator.He is now on a mission to prove you’re human.He starts stalking (observing is the word he prefers) you, noting down every tiny habit.But every time you catch him staring, you don’t call him out.You just stare back. Unblinking. Unfazed.His brain short-circuits. His soul leaves his body. Suguru finds him sitting in a corner later, mumbling, “She’s not real… she’s not real…”

♡Gojo, the humbled flirt.He’s never failed at flirting before. Ever. So when he dramatically tells you, “I’d bring the moon to you if I could.”He expects something a scoff, an eyeroll, a blush. Instead, you say, “That’s scientifically impossible.” The way you deadpan it makes him rethink his entire existence.Suguru and Shoko witness this and nearly die laughing.

♡Gojo, the desperate competitor.He stays up all night, studying harder than he ever has in his entire life, just to beat you in the rankings. The results come out. You still top. He’s second. But the worst part? You don’t even react. No smile, no satisfaction, no nothing. He’s not mad that he lost he’s mad that you didn’t care. He dramatically flops onto Suguru’s shoulder. “She’s a machine, man… I’m up against a machine…”

♡Gojo, the secret romantic.No one knows, but he loves romance novels. It’s his guilty pleasure.One day, he’s in the library, nose deep in one, when you suddenly sit next to him.He panics. He immediately slams the book shut.You glance at the cover. You say nothing.You just… nod slightly and continue reading your own book.For some reason, that’s way worse than if you had teased him.

♡Gojo, the horror movie victim.He once fell asleep in the library and woke up at 3 AM. Everything is dark. Silent. He feels like he’s in a horror movie.Then he sees you. Sitting at a table, reading, like some paranormal entity that never moves.He has never known fear like this before.He contemplates running, but his legs don’t work.He watches in terror as you slowly… turn the page of your book.He passes out.

♡Gojo, the human experiment conspiracist.He is convinced now. You are not normal. You are not real.He asks Shoko to run a “human test” to confirm.

She plays along and casually tells you, “Hey, mind giving me a blood sample?”Gojo watches you for any sign of panic.You blink. “No.” And walk away.

He gasps. He screams.

“SHE DIDN’T EVEN ASK WHY. SUGURU, SHE DIDN’T EVEN ASK WHY.”

♡Gojo, the fool in denial. He refuses to admit he finds you interesting.

“I don’t like her, okay? I just wanna know more about my rival.”

Suguru and Shoko exchange looks. “Sure.”

“I MEAN IT.”

“Mhm. Sure. Do your homework.”

He storms off in frustration.

♡Gojo, the dramatic love announcer. One day, out of nowhere, he slams his hands on the lunch table, eyes wide with revelation.

“I THINK I FOUND MY MATCH.”

Suguru and Shoko don’t even look up. “Yeah, we know.”

“YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND. SHE’S—”

“Yeah, yeah. Do your homework, Gojo.”

He stares at them in betrayal. They’re supposed to be shocked.

He’s suffering, and they don’t even care.

♡Gojo, the haunted. One day, he catches you staring at him.His heart stops. His brain malfunctions.You just tilt your head slightly, as if analyzing him.And then you go back to your book.That moment haunts him to this day.

♡Gojo, the theorist.He starts developing wild theories.Maybe you’re a spy. Maybe you’re a hacker. Maybe you’re an escaped AI prototype from a secret lab.

Suguru literally smacks the back of his head. “Shut up and focus on your work.”

♡Gojo, the secret simp.He doesn’t even realize he’s simping for you.One time, someone called you boring for always studying.

Without hesitation, Gojo fired back, “At least she exists. You just stand around judging people who do.”

The entire room went silent.

He immediately realized what he just said and pretended to choke on air.

♡Gojo, the needy puppy.When he wants something from you, his voice turns softer.

“Show it to me please… send it to me, Y/nnnn.”

He stretches your name out like a whiny kid.

Suguru stares at him in disgust.

♡Gojo, the unshakable, now very shaken.His ultimate goal? Make you react.

First, he starts leaving anonymous cute notes.

You glance at them for two seconds, then toss them in the trash.

His heart shatters.

Then, he tries challenging you. “Bet you can’t solve this.”

You solve it in seconds. He gasps. He didn’t even know the problem had an answer. (He made the question)

As a final resort, he sends you a fake love letter, thinking you’ll finally get flustered.

You read it and say, “It’s technically impossible to climb Everest in three minutes for a girl.”

He wants to scream.

♡Gojo, the ignored.He gets petty. Tries ignoring you for three hours to make you notice his absence.You don’tyHe snaps.

“Missed me?”

You blink. “Oh, I didn’t even know you were here today.”

♡That one physically hurt.

♡ Gojo, the fool who fell.He’s never met someone like you.You challenge him in a way no one ever has.He hates it. He loves it.He’s completely doomed.

@syrooo @hel1nn @ourfinalisation @dekusdante @naomigojo

[beloveds-embrace]

I have so many feelings about getting john to eat properly actually. Cooking for people is my love language. having this like handsome older man as your neighbor but he just has the most awful diet. Like he just eats canned beans as a snack. This man does not know how to take care of himself and part of you wonders how the fuck he's survived this long on canned goods and tv dinners. And your kitchen windows are opposite so not only can you see his bad eating habits he can see you cooking and baking constantly. And baking recipes are never set to be just a single serving so it starts when you just have too many muffins so you decide to bring them over, showing your neighbor how to freeze them. And he invites you in and the rest of his house is just so bare and it's clear this man just doesn't take care of yourself so of course it escalates to just bringing over whatever you've made for dinner because, you know, cooking recipes are never single serving either (or at least thats your excuse, even though you've always just meal-prepped before). And obviously to buying him pillows because if you have to see how bare his house is every time you come over you'll go crazy. and while he's thinking about marriage you're already buying him kitchen supplies even though this man cant cook for shit, adding a couple more sets of silverware to his kitchen, telling him not to return all the Tupperwares you bring over. The house looks like they both live there long before they start dating'officially'.

(Sorry this is long Omg i just need a man to take care of ngl. )

Pathetic (unfairly handsome older man) price just does things to my brain idk i need to fuss and bustle over this man and feed him every type of “marry-me” dish that exists and maybe use his house (and his money) as a way to finally live out my house decoration Pinterest board do u get me 😩😩

[stupidlittlespirit]

ough yes to Ford probably not being a cologne-wearer, nothing sexier than enjoying your partners' natural scent although I have been thinking, since it's kind of canon/people LOVE to bring it up, that Ford doesn't shower and me, a shower-every-night girly is like "So? I'll just make him shower we can even shower together :3c" which then got me thinking like. you love his natural scent but like at a certain point, it's been a couple of days dude, you are getting into the fuckin bath and you drag him into the bathroom with some resistance but he let's you undress him and he watches intently as you undress as well and you gotta push him into the shower a little but the minute you start washing his hair he completely melts into putty and you can do whatever you want, run your soapy hands over his body, tease him a little maybe and then you go to wash yourself and he takes the shampoo from you and starts returning the favor and OUGH...Ford soaping you up with his big, six-fingered hands and then he picks you up and fucks you against the shower wall... ..goddamn it you know what I guess I gotta write this fic myself

Not to out myself here or anything but.......I just know he smells like days old sweat and that does something unspeakable to me.

I've actually just been hit with the memory of this CEO guy who tried to schedule a paid date with me a long time ago, and he specified that he HAD to have access to my armpits at all times. He needed to be able to take me off somewhere private to smell them and I wasn't allowed to shower beforehand sdhjhjasfhjsf. I did not go on that date, but mostly because he was cheap. There were other reasons that I won't go into but....

Anyway I digress.

There's something super intimate about bathing together. Hair washing, too. It's a very loving activity to me because it directly shows great care for the other person. It does in terms of self care, too.

I think especially with Ford, he's liable to avoid showering both because of work but also he tends to neglect himself (I believe) due to poor mental health. I kind of side eye people when they laugh about how he got kicked out of the library that one time or whatever because he smelled so bad, because it's like, yeah, a lot of people with depression or those under great stress don't really shower much. It's pretty well known. The only reason I shower when my depression is bad is because I have OCD lol, they cancel each other out, but I think Ford just sort of forgot to take care of himself during that time. He was literally going mad.

In terms of Post-Portal!Ford though, encouraging him to bathe/shower by doing it with him would be good for him. It's like a reward. He does need to look after his health at some point, regardless of whether or not sweaty smells are hot. Removing sex from the equation for a moment; if he showers, he gets to be touched/receives intimacy for his efforts, and that's a big motivator. His partner can take care of him and that kind of removes a lot of the responsibility and effort from himself. He can give himself over and relax, which means both his mind and his body will benefit.

He can build a ritual around doing it. As you said, the process of undressing, watching a partner undress, and then washing together. Rituals build habit, from my experience.

(nsfw below)

And yeah, shower sex would also be very fun. Again, a reward for doing something good. Ford is definitely someone you have to motivate with more carrot and less stick, and he'd be up for that. I think that experimenting with sensations is fun, too. I don't know why, but I think that wet skin (like the texture of it, the way it slides against another persons) can feel nice. It can be very erotic. Everything moves together with ease and it there's no friction there.

Ford's probably strong enough that he can lift a partner up with ease and balance well enough to maintain that for a while. Or there's just the good ol' from behind position against the wall, to avoid falling over lol.

Sex in the bath is not viable, however. It's dangerous to fuck underwater and Ford is absolutely the kind of guy to tell a partner that and refuse to do it in case they get hurt, bless him. You can get UTIs or other infections from water-based bacteria.

shower sex irl is not fun though imo do not recommend. Did it once, never again. Water is not an internal lubricant and things get uncomfortable very quickly. I believe human arousal is actually water soluble? Not sure.

[navybrat817]

Hi lovely! Thank you so much for Valentine's day ficlets ❤️❤️❤️

Could I please have "Go ahead, lock your doors, change your phone number. I’ll still find you.” with Lee Bodecker, pwetty pwease? Thank you!!!

Oh, this man! @perdidosbucky-yyo , since you had also requested Lee.

Late Night Visitor

Pairing: Dark!Lee Bodecker x Female Reader

Summary: The sheriff pays you a visit one night.

Word Count: Over 710

Warnings: Possessive behavior, implied noncon, abuse of power, Lee Bodecker (he's a warning, okay?)

A/N: Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Divider by the talented @saradika-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

You were getting ready for bed when someone knocked on your door. You hadn’t invited anyone over, and it was a bit late for a surprise visitor. Grabbing your robe with a nervous breath, you tiptoed toward the front of your house. Times like this you wished you didn’t live alone. 

Maybe if you had someone looking out for you, they’d keep you safe from-

“Open up, sugar! I know you’re in there!” you heard from the other side of the door. “Ain’t polite to keep the sheriff out in the cold, so show me some hospitality and lemme in.”

You swallowed. Lee Bodecker. People either feared or respected him, or both for some. He thought he ran the town just because he had a badge, and maybe he did. 

But he never inflicted any kind of power over you. He was kind when he stopped into the diner at the same time and day every week. Used his manners with you, always left you a nice tip. So you started bringing some pie you baked from home and gave him a slice to go with his meals. You were just being polite. Nothing more.

You should’ve known he’d take your kindness as some form of courting.

“Bet you’re sweeter than any slice of pie, sugar,” he once said, lust in his eyes that he didn’t bother to hide before he tipped his hat and left.

“What are you doing here?” you asked, resting your hands against the door as if it would keep him out.

“I was hungry and wonderin’ if you had any of that pie for me to eat,” he said. Your stomach rolled as you imagined him licking his lips. “I know you bring ‘em from home just for me.”

“I was being nice,” you said, shrieking when he slammed his fist against the door.

“So was I. ‘S’why I kept them boys off your tail. Smart girl, don’t tell me you forgot?” he snarled. “Time to pay up.”

You closed your eyes. Some guys were giving you a hard time one night during an already painful shift. You mistakenly asked Lee if he could politely ask them to leave. He did. And while they didn’t care to listen to you, they shut up pretty quickly when Lee showed his gun. He made sure they all left you a nice tip, too.

“You know I’ll always take care of you, sugar,” he promised, leaving just a few moments after the group did. 

You found out the next day that Lee arrested them. Something about open alcohol containers and harrassment and resisting arrest. None of the guys around two looked at you twice anymore. You heard the whispers and saw the sneers from some of the women. Everyone thought you belonged to the sheriff.

That was the problem. You weren’t anyone’s property, and Lee would own anyone who ended up with him. That couldn’t be you.

“I didn’t forget. It’s just…” you tried to come up with an excuse. “It’s late, and I’m going to bed.”

“Just lemme in, sugar.” You froze when the door handle jiggled. The unamused chuckle that followed almost made you run. “Open the door and open them legs for me. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

You backed away when the handle jiggled again, your heart leaping to your throat. “Please, just go, or I’ll-”

“You’ll what? Call the cops? I am the law, Sugar,” he reminded you. He was right, and none of the deputies would help you. “Will you run? Hide? Go ahead! Lock your doors, change your phone number. I’ll still find you.”

You covered your mouth, but it did little to contain the scream you let out when Lee kicked the door open and stepped inside like he owned the place. You couldn’t back away or run as tears spilled over. Your body knew he was going to own you before the night was over, and you couldn’t fight even as your mind screamed.

“Makin’ me work for it? Not very nice, sugar,” he rumbled, strolling forward and gripping your arm. 

“Please…” you prayed. God wasn’t listening. Not today.

“Wasn’t gonna use the cuffs on you ‘til later,” he smirked, digging his finger in until you whimpered. “But I guess we’ll start tonight.”

Love and thanks for participating! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[gam3r-girli3]

arthur morgan with an s/o who has anxiety

trigger warnings: includes sensitive subjects such as anxiety & mental health. do not read if you are triggered by these.

a/n: i fucking love arthur morgan <3

(gif border isn't mine, credit to owner)

Mental health wasn't something people openly talked about or even acknowledged back in those days. If someone was mentally ill, they were deemed mad or insane and that was that

But I feel like Arthur would be one of the most understanding people in the gang when you open up about your struggles with anxiety. He's often felt it himself, maybe not to the same extent but enough to understand

Which is why he becomes very caring and willing to do anything it takes to help you cope and manage

He'll wrap his big bear arms around you and hug you as tight as he can (careful not to squeeze too tight) until your shaky, panicked breaths slowly subside

He'll keep holding you after your panic attack subsides until you say otherwise

Placing gentle kisses on your head; murmuring things to you in his deep, warm voice; the stubble on his chin tickling your skin

"It's alright, darlin'. You're okay, I gotcha."

He'd be so gentle and attentive after, constantly checking on you and asking how you're feeling, if you need anything, and then adding, "You know I love ya, right? You know nothin's ever gonna stop me from lovin' ya."

If Dutch has him away from camp, scouting out another one of his 'grand plans', Arthur will ask someone he trusts (either Charles, Mary-Beth, Hosea, Tilly, or even little Jack) to watch out for you and make sure you're okay

(Jack is more than happy to be given an important task like this and, determined not to let his Uncle Arthur down, he decides to make you some flower chains since they always cheer his momma up when he makes them for her)

Though he'd never directly tell you (instead shrugging it off as 'jus' somethin' I found on my travels') he'd go to doctors, general stores, anywhere he thought he could find something to help soothe your anxious mind

He even talked to Hosea and asked him for advice on how to support you and help you, knowing Bessie had also struggled with anxiety in the past

On mornings when you'd have been awake all night, overwhelmed with intrusive and worrisome thoughts, Arthur would manage to get Grimshaw to let you off the hook from your chores, bringing you a streaming cup of tea in bed and holding you in his arms for however long it took until you could fall asleep and get the rest you need

Nobody could pry him from you at times when you desperately needed him, not even Dutch. His first priority is, and always will be, you and making sure you're okay

His love and support doesn't make your anxiety magically go away but it does help to know that Arthur is there for you whenever things get bad ♡

[hrizantemy]

Feyre’s voice shook the walls of the House of Wind as she let her rage spill free.

“It was supposed to be us! Nesta, Elain, and me!” she shouted, her chest heaving, her hands fisted at her sides as she glared at them all—her Inner Circle. The people she trusted, the people she loved. But right now, she felt nothing but fury toward them. “Do you understand what you just did? Do you even see it? You tore into her. You all stood there, watching, saying nothing as Amren ripped her apart. And then Taryn—” Feyre let out a sharp, humorless laugh, shaking her head. “A stranger defended my sister when none of us did. When I didn’t. Do you have any idea how wrong that is? How disgusting that is?”

Her voice cracked on the last words, but she didn’t stop, didn’t care.

Rhysand exhaled heavily, running a hand through his hair, his jaw tight as he finally spoke, his voice the controlled, reasonable tone he always used when trying to calm her.

“Feyre—”

“Don’t,” she snapped, cutting him off, her rage turning toward him. “Don’t stand there and try to explain this to me, Rhys. Don’t act like you had no part in it. You stood there and let it happen. You let Amren shame her, humiliate her, like she was nothing more than a stain on this court. Like she hadn’t fought, like she hadn’t bled for all of us!”

Rhysand’s jaw ticked, but he didn’t let his composure slip. “She needed to hear it,” he said, calm, as if he truly believed it. “Nesta has spent the last year destroying herself, and we have done everything to try and help her. She refused it. We had no choice—”

“No choice?” Feyre’s voice rose again, incredulous. “You always have a choice, Rhys. Always. And what you chose was cruelty. What you chose was to let Amren belittle her, let everyone sit in their silence while Taryn—TARYN—was the only one to stand up for her.”

She turned her furious gaze to Amren, who had remained quiet, her face unreadable. “And you—what the hell was that? You didn’t try to help. You didn’t try to fix anything. You just wanted to break her down, just like you did before. Just like you always do when someone isn’t what you want them to be.”

Amren’s silver eyes narrowed. “I told her the truth.”

“No, you shamed her,” Feyre snapped. “You humiliated her. And the worst part is that you all let it happen. You all let her drown in it. Again.”

She turned to Cassian now, who hadn’t spoken once, his wings tucked tight, his expression unreadable.

“And you,” she breathed, the betrayal sharp in her voice. “You just stood there. You, out of everyone, should have said something. Should have done something.”

Cassian’s throat bobbed, but he said nothing.

Feyre let out a shaky breath, looking at all of them, her closest friends, her family. And for the first time in a long, long time, she didn’t recognize them.

“Look what you did,” she whispered. “Look what you all did.”

Morrigan shifted where she stood, arms crossed over her chest, her golden eyes flicking between them before finally landing on Feyre. Her voice was measured, careful, but there was a sharpness to it that Feyre immediately bristled at.

“Taryn doesn’t know what Nesta did to you,” Morrigan said, her tone low but firm. “She doesn’t know how Nesta treated you, how she—”

“Don’t,” Feyre snapped, cutting her off so abruptly that Morrigan blinked in surprise. “Don’t you dare bring that up right now.”

The heat of her anger reignited, searing through her veins as she turned on Morrigan fully. “Nesta was cruel to me. I know that. I lived it. I am not pretending otherwise. But you—all of you—are pretending that your behavior tonight was justified. That shaming her, belittling her, proving to her once again that she has no place here was somehow the right thing to do.”

She shook her head, letting out a breathless, bitter laugh. “And the fact that Taryn doesn’t know what happened between me and Nesta? Maybe that’s a good thing. Because for once, someone looked at Nesta and didn’t see her as the villain you’ve all made her out to be. Someone saw her, not just her mistakes.”

Morrigan’s expression tightened, as if she wanted to argue, but Feyre wasn’t done.

“Nesta tried to hurt me. She lashed out at me in ways I’ll never forget, and I won’t excuse that.” Feyre’s voice was shaking now, but she refused to back down. “But I am standing here, Morrigan. I survived it. I moved on. And if I can do that, why the hell can’t any of you?”

Amren exhaled sharply, her silver eyes narrowing as she finally stepped forward, her expression unreadable.

“Then why don’t you stop them?”

Feyre’s brows furrowed, confusion flickering across her face. “What?”

Amren tilted her head slightly, watching her with a gaze so sharp it felt like it cut right through her. “You act like you’re separate from this, like you weren’t part of it. But you were. Every time someone said something about Nesta, every time we tore into her, you were the one who told us what she was like before we even met her. You were the one who made sure we knew every cruel thing she ever said to you. And each time we said something about her, what did you do?”

Amren let the silence settle, let the weight of her words sink in before delivering the final blow.

“Nothing.”

Feyre’s lips parted, but Amren kept going, her voice steady, unrelenting.

“If you did say something, it was half-hearted at best. You never truly defended her, not really. And don’t pretend you did. Because if you had, we wouldn’t have spoken about her the way we did tonight. We wouldn’t have seen her as nothing more than a disgrace to this court. We wouldn’t have thought of her as someone who deserved to be punished.”

A long, heavy pause.

“And isn’t that what you wanted, Feyre?” Amren asked, her voice softer now, but no less damning. “For her to be punished? To feel what you felt? To pay for what she did to you?”

Feyre’s throat was dry.

She wanted to argue. She wanted to deny it, to fight back, as proof that she wasn’t wrong. But the words wouldn’t come.

Because for the first time, Feyre didn’t know what to say.

She had no words.

Rhysand’s power darkened the room, his rage curling around them like a storm ready to break. His growl was low, dangerous, a warning that echoed through the tense silence.

“You will not speak to your High Lady like that,” he snarled, his voice laced with authority, violet eyes burning as he fixed Amren with a look that would have made most people tremble.

But Amren was not most people.

She merely scoffed, rolling her eyes as if he were nothing more than an impatient child. “Oh, spare me the dramatics, Rhysand,” she said, utterly unimpressed by his display of power. “You think your title scares me? That I should bow and scrape because she wears a crown? I was drinking the blood of worlds before you were even born—I don’t give a damn what you call yourself.”

Rhysand’s jaw clenched, his hands curling into fists at his sides, but Amren only continued, voice dry with amusement. “You don’t like the truth, fine. But don’t act like I said anything you don’t already know.”

She turned back to Feyre then, silver eyes gleaming with something unreadable. “You’ve spent all this time pretending you wanted to help her. But deep down? You wanted to see her suffer. You wanted her to feel as alone as she made you feel. And you let us do the dirty work for you.”

Feyre flinched.

Rhysand stepped closer, his power crackling in the air, but Amren didn’t so much as blink. “You can growl all you want, High Lord,” she said, voice laced with sharp amusement. “But we both know I’m right.”

The room was still tense, thick with everything that had been said, everything that still wasn’t being said. And then, a small voice broke through the silence.

“It was my fault.”

Elain’s voice was quiet, barely above a whisper, but in the heavy stillness of the room, it was deafening.

Everyone turned to her. She stood near the doorway, her arms wrapped around herself, looking smaller than ever. She swallowed, her brown eyes flickering to Feyre before dropping to the floor.

“I was the one who told Nesta about the plan,” she admitted, her voice barely steady. “I— I didn’t mean to, I just—” She took a shaky breath. “I was angry. And I told her. And now—”

She trailed off, shaking her head, as if trying to process everything all over again.

Feyre’s throat tightened. “Elain—no,” she said immediately, shaking her head, stepping forward. “It’s not your fault.”

Something in Elain’s shoulders loosened, and she let out a small breath, as if she had been waiting for Feyre to say those exact words.

But before the moment could settle, Amren let out a sharp, unamused snort.

“Of course it’s your fault,” Amren said flatly, silver eyes gleaming as she crossed her arms. “You couldn’t keep your mouth shut, and now here we are.”

Elain’s face flushed, her fingers curling into the fabric of her dress, but she didn’t argue.

Feyre turned sharply toward Amren, her anger reigniting. “Enough,” she snapped.

But Amren only raised a brow. “Why? Because you don’t want to admit that she did exactly what you didn’t want her to do? That she let Nesta in on the little secret you all kept from her?”

Feyre clenched her jaw, but Amren just let out another scoff.

“None of us are innocent here,” Amren said coolly, looking around at them all. “Not you, not me, not Elain. Not a single damn one of us.”

Cassian finally stepped forward, his broad frame tense, wings tucked tightly against his back. His hazel eyes burned with frustration, but there was something else there too—something pleading.

“It was to help her,” he said, his voice firm, yet softer than it had been all night. “She’ll understand that, Feyre. Eventually, she’ll see that we did what we had to do.”

Feyre turned to him, something like disbelief flashing across her face.

“No, she won’t,” Feyre said, shaking her head. “She won’t understand, Cassian.”

Cassian’s jaw clenched, but Feyre didn’t stop.

“Nesta doesn’t see it that way. She never has. She won’t look at what we did and think, ‘Oh, they were just trying to help me.’ She’ll see it as exactly what it was—a punishment. A choice that was made for her, not with her. A way to control her, to make her into something we were all more comfortable with.”

Her voice wavered slightly, but she pushed on. “And after tonight, after what you all just did, do you really think she’ll ever look back on this and believe it was done out of love?”

Cassian’s hands curled into fists, but he had no response. Because he knew—deep down, he knew—that Feyre was right.

Morrigan exhaled sharply, crossing her arms over her chest as she leaned against the wall. Her golden eyes flicked to Feyre, then to Cassian, and finally, she let out a scoff.

“Good riddance, then.”

The words were casual, dismissive, but they sliced through the already-tense room like a blade.

Feyre’s head snapped toward her, disbelief flashing across her face. “What?”

Morrigan shrugged, her expression impassive. “She’s made her choice. She never wanted to be here anyway. She’s spent the last year making it clear that she wants nothing to do with us, with this court, with you. So fine. Let her go.”

Cassian stiffened, his wings flaring slightly, but he said nothing. Amren merely arched a brow, as if she weren’t surprised by Morrigan’s response.

“You all act like we forced her into misery,” Morrigan continued, her tone sharpening. “Like we held her down and made her suffer. But Nesta was already suffering. We tried. Over and over again, we tried. And she spat in our faces every single time. So if she wants to run off with that girl—if she wants to leave this court—good. She’s not our problem anymore.”

Feyre stared at her, her breath coming short. “How can you say that?”

Morrigan raised a brow. “Because it’s the truth. And I’m sick of pretending otherwise.”

Her words left a chilling silence in their wake, one that settled into the cracks already forming between them. And this time, no one rushed to fill it.

Morrigan shrugged, entirely unbothered by the weight of the silence pressing down on the room. Her golden eyes flicked between them all before she let out a dry laugh.

“Am I wrong?” she asked, her voice deceptively light. “She healed herself, didn’t she? She got better without us. She obviously wants nothing to do with Cassian—I mean, she’s already found herself a new lover, someone who’s more than just a warm bed to her.”

Cassian flinched, just barely, but it was enough.

Morrigan turned toward him now, her sharp gaze locking onto him. “And yet here we are, still talking about her like she’s our responsibility. Like she’s still our problem. But she made her choice, Cassian. She’s done with you. And you’re just sitting here, waiting for what? For her to change her mind?”

Cassian’s jaw clenched, but Morrigan wasn’t finished.

“She’s rotten, Cassian,” Morrigan went on, her voice turning sharper, crueler. “What she’s doing to you—leading you on, using you when it’s convenient, discarding you when she’s had enough—it’s disgusting. And you’re just letting her.”

Cassian finally moved, his wings flaring slightly as he turned to glare at her. “That’s enough, Mor.”

“Is it?” she challenged, tilting her head. “Because I think someone needed to say it. Nesta Archeron takes and takes, and when she’s done, she walks away like none of it ever mattered. And she just did it again.”

Feyre’s breathing was ragged now, her hands shaking at her sides, but Morrigan didn’t seem to care.

“So why are we still standing here pretending like she deserves our sympathy?” Morrigan finished, her voice ringing through the room, leaving behind a silence that felt far too final.

Feyre’s hands were shaking now, her breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts. The fury, the disbelief, the exhaustion of it all was pressing down on her, suffocating her.

“I invited her,” she said, her voice cracking slightly before she forced herself to steady it. “I was trying to mend my relationship with her. I wanted her here, I wanted to talk to her—to try to fix this.”

She turned sharply on Rhysand now, her rage burning anew.

“And you—” she practically seethed, “you didn’t even tell me they were going to be here.”

Rhysand’s violet eyes darkened, but he didn’t flinch. “It was a precaution,” he said smoothly, as if he hadn’t just shattered what little control Feyre had left. “Nesta isn’t stable—”

“Do you really think Nesta would hurt me?” Feyre cut him off, her voice rising, her face twisting with something raw, something wounded.

Rhysand exhaled through his nose, his jaw tightening. “I think Nesta is unpredictable. I think her temper is volatile, and I won’t take any chances when it comes to you—”

“She’s my sister,” Feyre snapped, “not some rabid animal you need to monitor!”

Rhysand didn’t say anything, just looked at her, and the answer was written all over his face.

And it broke something in her.

“You don’t trust her,” Feyre whispered, the weight of it settling in her chest. “You don’t trust her, and you never have.”

Rhysand’s silence was all the confirmation she needed.

Feyre’s breath came fast, her heart pounding in her chest as she stared at Rhysand, at all of them. At the people who claimed they tried with Nesta, who claimed they wanted her to be better, to be part of this family.

But then she thought about it—really thought about it.

Nesta had a life now. A real life. She had a job, a home, a purpose. She was stable enough that she had even paid them back every copper mark of the money she had taken, had forced it into Feyre’s hands despite her protests. She came to Solstice when asked, she showed up when she didn’t have to.

And yet, it still wasn’t enough for them.

“She’s happy,” Feyre breathed, realization slamming into her like a punch to the ribs. “She has a life, a job, she even paid us back for the drinking. She comes to Solstice when I ask her to. What more do you want from her?”

No one answered.

Feyre let out a breathless laugh, shaking her head. “She’s not perfect, but she’s trying. She’s open, she’s—” Her voice wavered, and she had to swallow hard before continuing. “She brought someone she loved around us, and what did we do?”

She looked at all of them, at the silence, at the shame flickering over Cassian’s face, at Morrigan’s crossed arms, at Amren’s cool, unwavering stare, at Rhysand’s carefully measured expression.

“We ruined it,” Feyre said, her voice breaking now. “We ruined everything.”

Even Elain, who had remained quiet for most of the conversation, began to fiddle with her dress, her fingers twisting in the fabric, her lips pressed together like she wanted to say something but didn’t know how. She kept her eyes down, refusing to meet Feyre’s gaze.

Feyre exhaled sharply, her hands shaking at her sides, but she didn’t let herself stop. She couldn’t stop.

“I wanted her to be part of this family,” she said, her voice raw with the weight of it all. “I wanted my sister here. And that’s what she is—Nesta is my sister.”

She turned to look at them, at each of them, her anger barely contained, but underneath it was something deeper, something far more painful.

“The same sister who fought in the war,” Feyre continued, her voice growing stronger, “the same sister who stood before the High Lords and spoke for me when no one else did. The same sister who threw her body over Cassian’s when he was about to die. The same sister who helped kill the King of Hybern when none of you could.”

Silence.

A thick, choking silence.

Even Amren’s expression faltered slightly, a flicker of something unreadable passing through her silver eyes. Morrigan had stopped leaning against the wall, now standing rigid, as if Feyre’s words had knocked something loose inside her.

Amren examined her nails, utterly unbothered by the heavy silence that had settled over the room. She let it stretch, let them sit in it, before she finally spoke, her tone almost bored.

“Speaking of things Nesta did,” she mused, “there’s something else.”

Feyre stiffened, her heart lurching.

Rhysand’s head snapped toward Amren, his voice tight, controlled. “Amren.”

Amren flicked her silver eyes up to him, unimpressed. “What, boy? You were going to say it eventually.”

Feyre’s stomach twisted. “Say what?”

Amren sighed, as if this were all terribly tedious for her, before she finally looked at Feyre directly.

“We need Nesta to scry.”

The words hit Feyre like a slap.

She glanced at Rhysand, at Cassian, at the way neither of them were looking at her, and something cold curled in her stomach.

“You need her to what?” Feyre asked, her voice dangerously quiet.Amren just raised a brow. “You heard me.”

Rhysand let out a long, tired sigh, rubbing his temple as if this conversation had drained him. He glanced at Amren once more, then finally turned to Feyre, his expression carefully measured.

“Amren has been doing some research,” he admitted, his voice low, careful. “She found something about the Dread Trove… something we can’t ignore.”

Feyre crossed her arms. “And what exactly did she find?”

Rhysand inhaled sharply before answering. “Their original maker was the Cauldron. Some of them were created hundreds—thousands—of years ago and were used by various Fae rulers to secure their rule.” His violet eyes darkened slightly as he went on. “Only three of the ancient Trove have survived. The Crown, the Mask, and the Harp. The rest were either lost to time or misplaced.”

A chill ran down Feyre’s spine.

“And?” she pushed.

Rhysand hesitated. Just for a moment.

“And the only two people connected to the Cauldron,” Amren said, finishing for him, her silver eyes gleaming, “are Nesta and Elain.”

Feyre’s stomach turned to ice.

Her gaze flicked to Elain, who had paled considerably, her hands tightening on the fabric of her dress.

“You need her to scry,” Feyre whispered, the words tasting like ash on her tongue.

Rhysand exhaled slowly. “Yes.”

Feyre’s hands curled into fists at her sides, her jaw tightening as she tried to steady her breathing. The weight of what they were saying, of what they were asking, settled heavily over her like a storm ready to break.

“Why?” she demanded, her voice sharp, barely holding back the rage simmering beneath her skin. “Why do you need Nesta to do this?”

Amren let out a sharp sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose before leveling Feyre with an unimpressed look.

“Are you really this stupid?” Amren snapped, her patience wearing thin. “Because your sister—brilliant as always—managed to piss off the human queen Briallyn. And now that wretched girl is after the Trove. If she gets them before we do, we’ll have another war on our hands, one we may not win.”

Feyre’s stomach dropped.

“Briallyn,” she echoed, barely getting the name out.

Rhysand nodded grimly. “She’s been moving in the shadows for some time now. She’s not just after power, Feyre—she’s after revenge. Nesta insulted her, humiliated her, and Briallyn has not forgotten. If she gets her hands on the Trove…” He trailed off, but the implication was clear.

Elain was deathly pale now, her fingers digging into her dress so tightly her knuckles had gone white.

Feyre swallowed, trying to push past the rush of anger, the exhaustion clawing at her.

“So now you want Nesta to fix it,” Feyre said bitterly, shaking her head. “After everything, after tonight, you still expect her to do this for you?”

Amren didn’t even blink.

“She doesn’t have a choice,” Amren said simply. “None of us do.”

Feyre shook her head, her throat tightening as she struggled to contain the sheer exhaustion clawing at her.

“I’m not forcing her,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. Then, louder, more resolute, “I won’t force her.”

She looked at them all—Rhysand, Amren, Cassian, Morrigan—and then finally turned to Elain, whose face was pale, stricken.

“You know what happened last time Nesta scryed,” Feyre said, her voice shaking slightly. “You know what it did to her.”

Elain swallowed hard, but she didn’t look away.

Amren, however, only sighed as if Feyre were the most naive creature in the world. “So? Then we use Elain.”

Elain tensed.

Amren tilted her head, her silver eyes glinting. “We all know Nesta would never allow that. She’d take her place. Willingly.”

Feyre blanched, the blood draining from her face.

“We are not manipulating Nesta,” she snapped, her voice shaking.

Amren just arched a brow. “Aren’t we?”

The words felt like a slap.

Rhysand exhaled sharply, rubbing his temple, but he didn’t deny it. And Feyre—Feyre hated the truth in Amren’s words, hated that they all knew Nesta would never let Elain be the one to suffer. That even after everything, even after all that had been said tonight, Nesta would still choose to protect them.

And now, they were going to use that against her.

Feyre’s fists clenched, her nails biting into her palms. “I’ll ask her,” she said, her voice unwavering. “But if she doesn’t want to do it, then that’s the end of it.”

Amren let out a sharp, amused laugh, shaking her head. “Gods, you really are naive, aren’t you?”

Feyre snapped her head toward her, but before she could say anything, she caught movement from the corner of her eye.

Rhysand.

He wasn’t looking at her. Not directly. His expression was unreadable, his arms crossed, his power curling subtly around him—not in anger, not in disagreement, but in something… calculating.

Feyre’s stomach twisted.

“Rhys,” she said slowly, her voice quieter now, more fragile.

He finally met her eyes, and in that single moment, Feyre knew.

He didn’t oppose it.

He wasn’t against what Amren had just said.

“You would risk war,” Amren mused, her silver eyes gleaming, “just so Nesta gets a precious choice?”

Feyre’s breath hitched.

Because the way Amren said it—the way Rhysand didn’t argue—made it clear. They didn’t intend to give Nesta a choice at all.

Feyre’s hands were shaking, but she lifted her chin, squared her shoulders. The room felt suffocating, filled with the weight of all the unspoken words, of the choices already made without her. Without Nesta.

“I am your High Lady,” she said, her voice ringing through the room, hard and unyielding. “And I am commanding you—Nesta will have a choice. If she says no, that is the end of it. Do you understand me?”

Amren just smiled, sharp and amused, but didn’t argue.

Morrigan’s expression was unreadable.

Elain still looked as if she wanted to sink into the floor.

Cassian had turned away, his jaw tight.

But it was Rhysand Feyre was waiting for.

Her mate, her partner, the one who had always promised her that she was his equal.

Rhysand’s violet eyes darkened, his power crackling faintly in the air. But he didn’t argue, didn’t fight her on it.

“Of course, Feyre darling,” he said smoothly. Too smoothly.

She didn’t trust it.

Didn’t trust any of them.

Feyre swallowed hard, the weight of everything pressing against her chest, constricting her breath. Even as she stood there, back straight, chin lifted, she wasn’t sure if any of them truly heard her—if they truly listened.

And worse than that, she didn’t even know if Nesta would speak to her.

After everything that had happened tonight—after the way they had ripped into her, humiliated her, torn her apart in front of the one person she had been brave enough to bring around them—would Nesta even listen? Would she even let Feyre get a single word out before walking away?

Feyre wouldn’t blame her if she didn’t.

Gods, she wouldn’t blame her.

The memory of Nesta’s face—stone-cold, her blue-gray eyes blazing, not with fury but with something far worse, something like disgust—burned in Feyre’s mind.

Would Nesta even care about what she had to say?

Would she even look at her after tonight?

Feyre let out a slow, shuddering breath, her pulse thrumming in her ears. She knew—gods, she knew—how horribly this had gone. How horribly every attempt had gone.

She had tried. Over and over, she had tried to reach out, to mend what had been broken between them. But every time, it had ended the same way.

Repetitive. Exhausting.

She would offer an olive branch, a quiet invitation, a moment of peace—and something would always happen. Some cutting remark from Nesta, some argument neither of them knew how to stop, some fresh wound torn open that made everything worse.

Or worse than that—the silence.

The unbearable, suffocating silence.

Nesta would shut her out, ice over completely, make Feyre feel like an intruder in her own sister’s presence. And Feyre had stopped knowing what to do with that—had stopped knowing how to fix something that had been shattered so long ago.

And now?

Now, after tonight?

Feyre could feel it in her bones.

This time, there might not be another attempt. This time, Nesta might not let her try again.

Feyre looked at them all, at these people who had stood by her side for so long, the people she had fought for, bled for, nearly died for. And yet, as she met each of their gazes, she felt utterly alone. Like she was speaking to herself, like none of them truly heard her. Like they had already decided what they were going to do, with or without her permission.

“I will ask Nesta,” she said firmly, her voice even, though she felt something inside of her breaking as she spoke. “I will write her a letter. Whether she chooses to respond or not is her choice.”

She could already see the reaction before it came. The barely masked irritation flashing across Amren’s face, the way Morrigan exhaled sharply through her nose, like Feyre was a child clinging to a fantasy. The way Rhysand’s jaw tightened, his fingers curling ever so slightly at his sides. And then, predictably, Amren scoffed, shaking her head in that way she always did when she thought Feyre was being unreasonable.

“We don’t have time for letters,” Amren said coolly, folding her arms as if the matter was already settled. “This isn’t a social call, girl. Briallyn is moving now. We can’t sit around and wait for Nesta to make up her mind.”

Feyre’s temper flared, sharp and sudden, and she snapped her gaze toward Amren, glared at her, at all of them.

“I don’t care how much time we have,” she said, her voice no longer calm, no longer controlled. “Whether she chooses to respond or not is her decision. Not ours. Not yours. Not mine. Hers.”

Amren only arched a brow, but before she could respond, Rhysand spoke, his voice measured, steady, but with an undeniable edge.

“This is war, Feyre,” Rhysand said, and something in his voice made the hair on her arms rise. “And war doesn’t wait for people to make choices. You know that better than anyone.”

Feyre’s throat tightened, but she didn’t budge.

“And yet, you will wait,” she said, lifting her chin, daring him to argue. “Because I am your High Lady, and I am telling you that this is how we will do it. We will ask her. We will give her the choice you have all so clearly tried to take from her. And if she refuses, that is the end of it.”

Rhysand held her gaze, the room silent around them, the weight of her words hanging between them like a blade.

He didn’t like it.

He didn’t agree.

But Feyre had drawn her line, and this time, she would not let them cross it.

Though now, she didn’t care if Rhysand agreed.

Tag list: @litnerdwrites @viajandopelomar @wolfinsocks

[imsofreakingtired]

I saw a request about anorexia comfort and I just wanted to ask could I possibly ask for sevika x reader bulimia comfort? That’s what I struggle with so I just wanted to request that.

If not that’s totally okay and thank you!

-🖤🖤🖤

all my love and support to you 💙 please let me know if any of this is inaccurate, offensive, or upsetting - i drew from a combination of my own past experiences with an ed and external research. and thank you for the request; i know struggling with an ed can be an isolating experience and i really hope this brings at least a little comfort 💙 💙 💙 💙

disclaimer: not meant to be an alternative to therapy obviously!! please reach out for support, i know it's hard but i believe you can do it loves <33 and as always if this content may be triggering to you, please scroll away and take care!!

breathe

content warning(s): depictions of an ed, body dysmorphia, heavy angst, hurt/comfort

"days pull you down just like a sinking ship memories swim and haunt you but look into the lake, shimmering like smoke rises the moon oh, close your weary eyes, i promise you that soon the autumn comes to darken fading summer skies breathe, breathe, breathe."

~~~

Sevika is not alarmed when you tell her about your eating disorder, which you reveal after you have been seeing her for nearly a month. she does not judge you. she has noticed the signs already, but didn’t want to assume anything, bring it up before you did. Sevika remembers the darkest period of her life: sixteen and feeling like the world played her like a marionette, when the stress of her environment triggered her binges. then the guilt. then the self-loathing. then the desperate need to erase what she had done. she remembers lifting for hours until her arms gave out. running 5 miles a day in a sweat suit. tracking calories. balancing food on scales. when you tell her you are going through the same thing, her heart sinks. she had been hoping her instincts were wrong. she had been hoping against hope, because she knows how hard it is.  

⟢🖤⟢ her fear for you, her worries about your health, sometimes manifests in ways she doesn’t mean to. she has never backed away from honest conversations. she asks you up front: have you eaten? have you thrown up? she can tell immediately if you lie to her about it, and it hurts her to think that you’re unwilling to tell her the truth, be open about it to her. sometimes her frustration at herself for being unable to help you causes her to be harsher. she tries sitting you down and telling you that what you’re doing will hurt you badly. she can’t stand being away from you for too long, she can barely sleep at night, wondering if you’re binging again, wondering if you’re punishing yourself again.   

⟢🖤⟢

she silently keeps track of the physical signs. she sees you sizing up every plate of food. she sees you obsessively reading the nutrition labels. she sees how you avoid going out to eat with people, how you always opt for something different for date nights, anything that isn’t eating together. she sees your exhaustion, the swelling in your face. you can hide it from everyone else—you can hide it from the world—but Sevika loves you too much to let a single detail escape her. 

⟢🖤⟢

beats herself up honestly, especially after realizing that sometimes she could be a trigger—an offhand word, a change in her tone, a spike of irritation. you don’t blame her for this: everyone has their bad days, and sometimes the two of you argue. she wishes she could do more for you, wishing she could take away the thoughts that cause you to spiral and hurt yourself. 

⟢🖤⟢

Sevika is confounded at first when you tell her candidly about your issues with body image, because to her you are the most beautiful perfect being who ever existed. it makes her furious at whatever caused you to think otherwise. maybe it was a history of bullying at school. maybe it was your mother’s thoughtless comments on your body. maybe it was the media, constantly telling you that your body is imperfect. maybe it is not your body at all, but the sense of control and discipline that comes from regulating the food, the erasure of food. Sevika’s first response is always to fight. she’s sworn to herself that she will protect you from the world, that she can keep you safe by the strength of her fists. but when the threat is something untouchable, something inside your head, she feels helpless. so she becomes more physically protective than ever. calling you several times a day just to hear your voice. kissing you, touching you, holding you more often, as if to reassure you of how much she adores you.   

⟢🖤���

she picks up on your triggers for b/p cycles and does her best to interfere with them. she notices that your routine is to restrict throughout the day, return home, where the stress and hunger of the day triggers a binge. so she shows up at your door around the same time you return home and asks if you want to go on a walk. if you’re too tired, she stays with you and makes you soup. if you say you can’t eat it, she will not pressure you. but she stays, thinking maybe if she’s there to watch over you, she can keep you from going into the cycle again.

⟢🖤⟢

there are stretches of time where you leave the cycle. Sevika marks the days on slips of paper to keep track of your progress and gives them to you with a proud look in her eyes. you don’t want to relapse for her sake, but you’re also terrified of recovering completely. you’re scared that if you let yourself recover, your body will change—it will gain back the weight you have been controlling, and you’re scared Sevika will not find you attractive anymore. one night you give into the thoughts. and when Sevika finds you on the bathroom floor, hovering over the toilet bowl, she says nothing but pulls you into her arms. 

i’m sorry, you whisper. 

shh. it’s okay, sweet thing. just breathe. 

she brings you water and rubs your back as you drink it. you wonder what you look like to her. you wonder if she is already planning to leave. another apology rises to your lips but you swallow it. Sevika doesn’t say anything for a long time, she just sits with you. then in a low voice, she speaks. 

i used to have the same habit. 

you look at her in surprise. 

yeah, she says, with a deep sigh. god, it was a million years ago, but i still remember those days. i’d sneak down into the kitchen when my parents were asleep. ate anything i could find. then punished myself the next day. 

her hand finds your knee, bent against your chest as you curl into yourself tightly. her warm grip grounds you. i’m telling you this because i want you to know… she pauses. …that i get it. 

you tell her, i’m scared. 

i know, baby. 

you say, i might change. you might not want me anymore. 

she looks you in the eyes. brushes the hair away from your face, leans forward, and gives you a long kiss on your forehead. you’re perfect, she says, her voice rough. you hear me? i will always, always want you. every shape. every side of you. 

a sob breaks from your lips. you lean into her, and she cradles your body with her own. kissing your hair, she gives you a promise. 

it’s not easy. but i’ll be with you the entire way. every damn step.

⟢🖤⟢

-thank you @hexthathoe for the req <3

-divider by @enchanthings-a

[softgh0stbites]

₊˚｡⋆❆⋆｡˚₊ Time's Embrace

Rating: NSFW smut, angst, emotional angst, frotting + dry humping + fingering + explicit in detail

Pairing: Vincent Valentine x Reader

Word count: 8.7k

Summary: After the tragic end of your friend Aerith, you wonder what time will allow for you. So when you end up in Icicle village with an opportunity to cherish your beloved, you take it, even though it's a fleeting memory.

Notes: I wish I could keep going, but I think I'll burn myself out if I do. Vincent might be a little ooc or progressive in this one with his comfort, but i felt like it was okie given the extreme circumstance. This one is a long read and a little too all over the place for my own tastes— I did do some proof reading and editing, but the longer it got the more I started to not care if any of my sentences were repetitive so I'm sorry if it's sloppy ♡ enjoy~

⋆꙳•❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆⋆꙳•❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆

Time has never been a virtue to anyone, it liked to remind people about that in the most malicious ways. You always thought you had moments, hours, days, years to say all that you wanted— to cherish the people you love.

But when you watched a man descend from the sky and skewer your friend like she was nothing but flesh to be discarded, time ceased to exist. Everything unraveled in slow motion, mockingly, as if you had any power to stop it; As if you could reach out and pull her away. If you had been better, if you weren't weak, if you had a single skill to display— that soft laughter that everyone loved, those gentle eyes, teasing smiles, maybe that hand that always helped you up would still be here.

You knew it wasn't just you who felt this way, more than anyone Cloud was facing the brunt of the cruelty, his shoulders weighed with it. He was the one after all who was standing the closest, weapon raised to strike her himself. That had been terrifying.

You were there. You smelled the copper of her blood, the schlick of the sword being removed from her insides. You watched her eyes flutter openly for a moment, wordless, no smiles, light faded before they closed and never opened again. You could see the copious amounts of scarlet— a color you once harbored with love puddle beneath her, spreading out in a web.

You could hear Tifa's wracking sobs, felt the tears on your shoulder as you tried to console her with your arms while you fell apart too. You remembered the way she looked so serene, as if she was sleeping— wondering...will she wake up?

Your hands trembled when you finally reached Aerith, her skin so pale already, she looked cold. You wanted to cover her up, pretend she was just sick, but your hands and knees were covered in her essence. The red of her ending up on your shirt. You cradled her head softly, lips brushing the top of her head before scrambling away. Her skin was ice cole, no life at all.

You couldn't watch Tifa break apart, the way she cradled the cetra's face so gently, rubbing her cheek as if trying to bring a rosiness back to them.

Cloud took her into the water after that and she sank below slowly, everything about her becoming shadowed by the green water. She would be consumed, left to become bones beneath it.

You remember running from that scene, wrenching yourself from Tifa in a gasp, not wanting to see her drift to the murky depths. You didn't want to let go of her smiling face, her teasing nature, those times you connected over feeling so useless sometimes or so ordinary.

You ran and ran and ran until your lungs hurt and your throat felt raw. On shaken legs you made it back to the temporary camp, the others were there, having stood back to let you find Aerith while watching over your supplies since you were being tailed. The devastation on your face was evident, the blood on your shirt and pants, your panicked expression.

It only took one audible cry to leave your lips and he was there.

Vincent had stepped out from the tent, eyes zeroing in on you with blood, but for some reason you found yourself pushing forward, running until you collided with him. You almost knocked yourself down if he didn't grip you tightly by your arms, he was busy checking over you, gauntlet carefully aside as his other hand lifted your shirt hurriedly to check for wounds until you cried louder,

"It's not mine, it's not—" You gripped your head and almost sank to your knees, you felt his arms embrace you then. You couldn't see the others but you could feel their stare, you could hear the anguish.

"She's gone...." You hands would tighten around Vincent's cloak, your head spinning until you felt like you'd pass out.

Vincent would carefully pick you up and take you inside the tent, like a wounded soldier he would sit you down, kneeling in front of you. He handled you with so much gentleness as you stared wide off into space, you didn't want to think. You felt him around you, slowly gathering some of your stuff, packing up your supplies for you.

No one wanted to stay here.

You left as soon as everything was packed, but you couldn't change out of your soaked clothes so you sat in a corner, legs tucked up under you, head leaning into the wall. You don't remember how long you sat like that, dejected, feeling more sorry for yourself than you could ever imagine possible. Even though Vincent tried to be there for you, you shut him out, didn't make any want for him to be near you.

It took you a an entire day to reach Icicle village, a quaint little place with twinkling lights and blankets of snow. Normally you'd be excited for a new destination, but no one was cheerful— how could they be? You remember everyone shuffling out one by one, it was must more quiet except the idle chatter.

Cloud was no longer really hearing anyone, he was lost in his own head and seemingly Tifa was the only stability you had, but you could see her hands trembling when no one was looking. Barett and Cid were the first to speak up for everyone, their banter sometimes causing everyone to smile even if it felt a little hopeless.

It was like you were running on autopilot, you were numb, unwanting for anything. That was until you settled at an Inn, everyone was exhausted, tired, emotional. Surprisingly there was a few rooms with double beds and a quaint little loft room that would be taken by Nanaki since he insisted he wouldn't need much room to sleep. That meant that Cid and Barret could share a room, Cloud and Vincent, you and Tifa; Although you could tell it was going to be hard to pry the two of them apart with how longingly they held onto each other with their glances. You sensed a snap in their distance, like they hovered closer than before.

You felt Vincent's stare as you glanced away from the two, he spoke up insisting he'd room with you. It was the first time he'd been so forward, requesting anything really. Usually he would go with whatever the group wanted, but your hand tangled in the edge of his cloak told him you needed time. You didn't want to separate and he wasn't going to deny you after you had shut down on him all day.

"Is that what you want? Did you think to ask Tifa?" Barrett settled his gaze on you, flickering between the four of you.

Tifa brought her hand up and smiled meekly, "I-I don't really mind its not a big deal to me—"

"Argh, if she wants the walking funeral in her room, let her be. I'm too exhausted for this, we all are, let's just get some sleep and we'll come back to the drawing board tomorrow." Cid cut her off with a curt exaggeration, pinching his brow and digging in his pockets for a cigarette.

"If we're done," he paused to look at everyone, "I'm going to relax the best way I can, up and at'm." He snapped his lighter shut after lighting the cigarette which caused the front desk lady to glare.

You nodded towards Tifa in thanks which she just smiled through, even though her eyes shimmered with unease. Cloud hadn't moved from his seat on one of the benches, one hand carding through his spiky blonde locks.

When the deciding was done you felt Vincent take your hand as he had done all day, and pull you towards the room. He dropped your things down for you, clearly struggling a bit with how to comfort you, how to be there for you.

Pain was something he knew well himself, but he often swallowed it. He didn't want you to do that, to go through it alone until you closed in on yourself. He had figured you out pretty well over the months, he knew when you curled up on yourself you were thinking the worst thought. But this expression— this blank slate with dried tears and blood on your clothes, it pained.

With a sigh he stepped towards you who were sat in a chair. He leaned over you one hand coming up to caress your hair as he spoke softly.

"Do you want out of those clothes?"

You looked up, the warmth of the sun in his eyes that melted you a little, gave you a small purpose to nod. You didn't want to have this blood on you anymore, you had tried picking off the dried pieces on your arms but it did was fruitless.

He hummed in response gathering a bundle of your clothes from your bag, opening the washroom to reveal an old style wooden tub with copper faucets. With a squeak you could hear the knobs turn and water filling in.

Your hands trembled as you tried to peel off the shirt, but the blood was still there and it made you want to be sick. You grimmanced, but Vincent was there again, his gauntlet set aside and his glove off on his human hand. He didn't think twice about helping you, slipping it off as quickly as possible. His gaze didn't trace any part of you, only focusing on your face, stroking your hair and pulling you towards him when your eyes welled with tears again.

"I'm sorry," you would cry into his chest arms snaking around his waist, "I'm so sorry, I can't pull— I can't pull it together." You would choke out.

You would feel his hand stroke the back of your head, his arm wrapping you tighter, as if holding together all your broken pieces.

"You cry because it hurts," He whispered into your hair, his other hand rubbing circled on your back, "You never have to apologize for that."

Your tears were hot, feeling validated in your situation, you rubbed a hand down your face and pulled back a little. Vincent let you go with ease, brushing your hair from your face, his mouth was hidden by his cowl but you could see by his eyes that he was genuinely worried for you.

"Don't leave," you said, "Don't leave tonight,"

"Of course,"

And that's how you'd find yourself bare naked with him. Nothing sexual permiated the air, just a couple of broken people trying to comfort each other in silence. You were sitting in the hot water, your skin tingling as you scrubbed the soap into your skin harshly.

Vincent was there to pull your hand away, tilt his head at you and begin to wash you himself. He would always murmur, "May I?" Before washing something considered intimate. He worked dutifully but softly on your skin, gazing long and hard at the red spots from where you disturbed it. He would pour water gently over your head, helping to sud your hair, his fingers a little clumsy but you appreciated him for trying.

You would grimace when his hands would hoist your foot from the water, bending at your knees which were scraped to oblivion from tripping and sinking to them. He made sure to carefully wash away the dirt, blowing on the cuts as if someone had once done that for him before.

He had unbundled the cloak so it hung on his shoulders, revealing his face to you. He was nothing short of an angel, your gentle angel with talons who touched you like petals of a flower. He would take the time to massage your calf a little, you would gasp at the pain shooting up your limbs.

"It hurts here?" His fingers lessened their pressure instantly, looking down at you, hunkering into the hot water.

"Mm," You would nod as his jaw ticked, you couldn't tell if he was thinking about you or the events of today. He would make sure to scrub your feet as well, normally you'd find it ticklish, but you were just tired.

After washing you up he would help you out of the bath, offering a towel. He would escape into the other room, letting you dry up and put on your clothes. By the time you finished he was taking off his boots and cloak, slipping out of his vest so he was only in his long sleeve shirt and pants. Your fingers inched to be touching him, taking comfort in this gentle beast before you.

Vincent sat on the bed, his back resting on the head board and motioned with his fingers. You padded over, slipping between the sheets and letting your legs straddle his hips. You tucked your face in your favorite spot, the connection of his neck and shoulder, rubbing your nose in his shirt and inhaling deeply. A warm smell, something so grounding. It was a mix of his ages leather clothes, something earthy like mahogany, and the faint smoke of gunpowder. No matter how many showers you believe he took, he always smelled the same.

"Better?" He probed, his hands trailing up and down your sides slowly.

It was completely dark in the room save for the lantern on the side. This place had electricity, but the lantern was softer, its amber light more cozy. You pondered if he thought of that too when lighting it.

"Mhm." You hummed in acknowledgement, nuzzling closer. At one point in time you would've been elated to be held so close, it was scarce that you got moments like these with him. You could only enjoy it as it was, hoping that the images in your mind would settle for the night.

Time ticked by, your body was tired but your mind was still strung up. You wondered if this was even comfortable for him considering he didn't even move or shift beneath you. He was good at being still, like a statue, if you didnt know any better youd assume he was made of marble.

Another flash of her body floating in the water washed into your mind. You were here, safe, comfortable, and she was in the deep and dark waters of a forgotten city. You let out another sigh of contempt, your fingers tangling in your hair. You didn't deserve to be comfortable right now.

In the silence he spoke again, while untangling your fingers from your hair gently, not wanting you to hurt yourself subconsciously.

"It's not your fault," He would raise your chin with his pointer finger to look at him, his face more expressive without that damn cowl.

How was he so good at reading your thoughts aloud?

You would chew your lip,

"I just couldnt— it was so fast..."

"No one could," He declared, something flashing in his eyes, undechipherable.

He was right, you knew it. There was no point in placing the blame on anyone when it would take away from the real villain of the story entirely. It was his fault, that cat eyed bastard who popped up all over the place. Your teeth worried your lip still, now a little bit in anger, you hated Sephiroth. You hated that he was taking so much from everyone constantly.

He was also tragic in his own way, a hero fallen to ruin, a puppet for Shinra. Like every soldier, every employee.

As you shook out the thoughts, looking back into the crimson that was surveying you, you realized how dream like he was. He was such a kind heart, so gentle with you, always giving you his time and working on himself. He wasn't the most steady, but he was there when you needed him. Sure, he pulled away often and got lost in his self deprecation. Often deluding himself into thinking he wasn't meant to have anything good.

But that made you try harder, because you wanted his whole being to feel like he belonged in the waking world. As cliche as it was, you wanted him to stay because you didn't know what he would do after this mission was over and if everyone lived it, would he just disappear like smoke?

You weakly grabbed at his hair, the strands hanging over his shoulders, his eyes already falling to a close with a sigh as you combed through it. You liked him like this, without his cloak, without his gloves. He was vulnerable with you, a part of you gluttonous for that.

You don't know what enticed the words to fall from your tongue, but in the heat of the moment you spoke anyway.

"I want to forget all of it," your eyes still watering, your fingers clenching in his long locks of hair. Pulling his face towards you; wanting the smell of his sweet breath, "Make me forget, please, that's what I want"

You could feel the hesitation in the air, thick, spiraling between you both as he gauged your emotions. He looked torn between wanting to give you the world and wanting to chastise you, to tell you it wasn't okay.

You whimpered, a mantra of his name falling from your lips with begging,"Please, Vincent, please...." Your mouth inched closer, he didn't pull you away, but held firmly.

Vincent's chest heaved beneath you, shifting you on his lap the more you got closer to his face. His eyes were darting everywhere, from your lips, to your cheeks, your eyes. He seemed a little lost for how to reject you— or to welcome it?

You kissed him softly, your bottom lip catching his upper. The tears on your cheeks mingled in the middle ofthe connection. Your hands gripped his hair harder, tugging at him, wanting him to reciprocate. He didn't so much as part his mouth with a sigh and you wanted to dive in. Every part of him intoxicated you, made you so dizzy you couldn't think of anything but his touch.

He whispered your name, slowly hiking you up further on his lap, hands sliding under the back of your shirt, under your thighs, fingers slaying out as he did so. He relinquished control to you for a blissful moment. A swell of gentle victory arose in your heart, your lips eagerly chasing his that seemed to at least brush back with renewed vigor. You felt your kiss deepen slowly. Your body wanted his mouth to be faster, hungrier, to make your heart resound in your ears. To drown out the cries of the day.

Your back arched into his touch as he slipped his hands back onto your lower back, your chest pressing with his which caused a purr to rumble from him.

Your hands continued to thread in his hair, the silken strands flowing like sharp ribbons through those fingers; Knowing he liked it, you tugged, you often took control of your kisses this way. You would be allowed more access to his mouth, maneuvering his face this way and that to your discretion. You could swallow each breathy sigh and gasp alike, greedily taking all he was offering you. Your body began to tingle, his hands slowing their circles on your back, gripping your hips as you tried to grind down into him. He groaned as you barely misses your mark,

"Behave," He grumbled, his lips pressing into a straight line at your intentions.

"Make me," You countered, wondering if it was okay to test his patience at the moment.

You nibbled on his lip, an act of protesting his grip halting your movement. You felt it only become more firm, keeping your hips from colliding with his. You didn't want to settle or behave, you were sure of this of wanting him all to yourself in this cramped bed.

Although before you could think to beg again to plead your case, he was plunging his tongue inside of your mouth, exploring at his own leisure now. It was like a thin string had snapped, his nails digging into your back a little. Thought it was just for a moment, right as you moaned, before he slid his mouth away.

When you broke for air he trailed kisses over your cheek, down the column of your throat, teeth grazing over your pulse point with a warning. The kisses were too tender, too soft, you wanted more open mouthed kisses on your skin. More of his tongue lavishing your neck instead of your mouth. You wanted him to be feverent and hungry. Everything was going according to your idea, you thought, until he unweaved, grabbing one of your arms gently as you panted. You were clearly a little frustrated.

"It may be best that we wait—" He started, his eyes smoldering, glints of amber and yellow in the dark, lips wet from your tongue and tears. He could see your cheeks almost bulging, sulking.

"Why?" You probed, those intense eyes of your settling on his straightforward.

"Because you're grieving, I don't wish to—"

"So you don't want me like that?" Your voice trembled, your shoulders slumping in defeat. You let go of his hair, hands folding into your lap, the tears welling up again to drip down your face. You were being a bit eccentric, your belly was heated and you were sulking for him putting out the embers. For dowsing you back in the cold of reality.

Vincent let out a whine almost animalistic in nature, pressing his forehead to yours, "You know this is untrue,"

You did. You knew you were being stubborn. Throwing a tantrum most likely, you were acting as a greedy child. But it did little to sway your eyes from keeping their gaze locked on your lap where you hands lay, fingers twisting.

"Look at me, please,"

You shut your eyes tighter. Your name left his lips again, calling for your attention.

You opened them, slowly lifting them under your lashes to find his intensly boring into you with flecks of yellow. It wasn't often you saw the yellow, beastly eyes lurking beneath, but sometimes they made an appearance. You felt a little shy like you had an audience between you two. You saw his yearning, but you also saw how worried he was for you. He was entirely cautious for good reason, he didn't want to break you, bend you, tarnish you in any way.

"There you are," he offered one of his rare crooked smiles, lips curling at the ends in that way you love.

"Your tears are very enchanting, but I dislike seeing you cry," he whispered, leaning forward to press his lips under your eyes, a warm wet sensation following as he licked the traces of your tears away.

Maybe it should've repulsed you, but it was a little comforting. Crying had left your eyes sore, the skin below was dry and the soft sweep of his tongue and a bit of cool breath made all the difference. It was also somewhat bold of him, almost uncharacteristically bold.

It made you ache.

"You make it hard not to protest when you do that," you mumbled, already feeling the mood lighten a little from his shennigans. He was trying to comfort you in his own way.

He chuckled, a sound that didn't reach his eyes as he brushed a thumb along your jaw, "I want when we...", he cleared his throat, suddenly seeming a little bashful.

"Fuck?" You offered, announciating it a bit too sharply which he seemed to wince at.

"Mmh," He pushed on your waist until you were laying with your head against his chest, able to hear the rhythm of his heart.

"When we join," he continued while stroking your hair, you felt all the fight leaving you, "I want it to be because you desire to remember, nothing more and nothing less,"

You sniffle, feeling really silly for your earlier antics but still dealing with that deeply rooted sadness. You wondered if this is what Vincent carried all the time. If it felt so hollow, how did he have the strength to burden himself alone?

You're certain there was something that happened to him so twisted that he wouldn't let you touch him in certain places, wouldn't let you see him without clothes. It was the way his eyes darkened when you asked if it was because it had been a long time since he'd been with someone in general.

To you it didn't matter if he was the virgin Saint Mary or if his body count was in the one hundreds, you just wanted him to feel as comfortable as he made you feel.

Unfortunately he refused reciprocation, sometimes allowing you to make him feel good over his clothes with your hands or hips, but nothing beyond this. You knew he didn't climax once with you this way. You were often interrupted, not really allowed to embellish your desires as you please. You also only ever had cramped places to yourselves where it was hard to touch.

There had been nights during watch together that you lounged in his lap, his fingers gliding under your waistband when you were worked up. He painted these occasions as "Helping you relax".

His fingers would make you fall apart under the stars once more, but it was always hushed, too quick to sink into the desire. You wanted more time—more of him.

As the silence droned on, you became aware of your spiraling thoughts once again, trying to think of anything but what happened in the past day. You wanted to sleep it off, wake up and discover it was all a dream.

"Vincent?"

"Mhm?"

"Do these wounds heal?" You pushed closer to him as if it were possible, he was drawing the covers up around your shoulders. The blanket made your nose itchy, but your body was so exhausted you wouldn't bother lifting you fingers to relieve it.

You could feel the heave of his sigh, "With time,"

A lie, dripping bittersweet, but one that would give you hope.

———- a week passes ———-

You hadn't grown used to waking up to Vincent in a long time. What with Aerith dying, the group finally admitting they needed some rest— you were in a period of welcomed warmth. Cloud busied himself in sidework with Barret, Tifa helped the pub downstairs to help pay for your extended stay at the Inn. You helped out as well, scrubbing tables down, serving food, and sometimes it felt like a part of your old life in Midgar had resurfaced. Though, your memory was a bit hazy with certain details. You couldn't remember what brought you to the city in the first place, just that you ended up there and had to survive.

The sound of the wind howling outside brought you out of your memories. You forgot how still it was when Vincent slept next to you, the steady fall of his chest, his hair sprawled across the pillows. His legs were often longer than the mattress so he often slept with them curled up, looped with yours when you would insist to take more room. You liked waking up before he did because you got to see a side of him no one ever did.

Even when he awoke suddenly in the middle of the night, sweat pouring off of him— he would retreat from you. Like clockwork he would put his walls back up for awhile after, assuring you that you did not need to know what lingered in the crevice of his mind. He would then spend the rest of the night cleaning his weaponry, oiling his gauntlet, or reading— Anything to prevent himself from landing back in the bed with you.

So, you liked when he rested dreamlessly— though that was few and far between.

Your fingers fluttered over his sharp cheekbones, reaching the corner of his eyelids. The first tell of Vincent waking up would be the working of his jaw, his tongue moving around in his mouth, lips parted to breathe in a deep mouthful of air. Often he would keep his eyes closed, just letting you hold his face. But today he opened those carmine eyes just for you, sleep heavy.

His eyes always looked more bleary in the morning, languid and lazy as he took in your face as well. He would usually bring a hand up to graze knuckles over your jaw, his other arm around you pulling you in a bit more. He often made you lay back down, his voice so throaty it made your heart stutter.

"A bit more,"

But you had other plans, you would lean up on your elbow propping your head up. You would study his features still, finger smoothing out the furrow of his brow.

"Has anyone ever told you how hot your morning voice is?" you teased, your finger outlining his jaw, going down to his collarbone and back up. You were basking in the afterglow of a good dreamless sleep.

You were greedy for his affection. You had been going to sleep early almost every night after working with Tifa so often you had time to embrace and then you were drooling on your pillow.

His eyes opened once more at that as you began to shift above him, straddling his hips. You had insisted on borrowing a shirt of his yesterday, using everything to your advantage for your villianous idea to make him lose self control. His hands rested on the top of your thighs, fingers playing with the edge of the shirt, a lingering expression of sleep on his face. His blinks were really slow, eyes wandering over you as if considering letting you have what you wanted. His will was too damn strong though, ignoring your curious glances at his shirt and pants.

You leaned down, brushing your lips to the shell of his ear, "Do vampires get hard in the morning?" You nibbled his ear lobe.

Vincent let out a sound of self contempt, his fingers gripping you more roughly as you sat down harshly right over his bulge. He wasn't rock hard but you could feel him twitching and tensing beneath you already.

He gripped your face between two fingers with a long ardent sigh, a smug look as your face heated up from his bodies reaction. He squished your cheeks together, making your lips jut out. You were losing your bravado as you could almost feel the length of it.

He was big.

He knew it too.

"On second thought, breakfast?" You squeaked out, your lips still pinched between his fingers.

"Mm, but I thought you were offering a delectable buffet?" Vincent pondered, voice thick, his hand drawing your face near.

"After all, vampires are quite insatiable." He drawled, "Silly girl."

You forced your eyes away, glancing out at the snowfall from the window.

"All bark but no bite," you muttered, your blush deepening. You doubt he would take it farther than teasing, even though you'd had alone time recently he hadn't shown that much low restraint. You even tried sleeping with your shirt rocked up around your thighs, sleep shorts forgotten— he looked of course, but never slid his hands any further than the tops of your legs.

In a whirl you found yourself flipped over in your moment of distraction. His forearms caging your head, his legs astride your thigh. Was that his teeth at your jugular? You felt your heart pick up speed when his hot breath ghosted over your throat.He didn't bite down, just lets the prick of his canines indent your flesh ever so lightly— a dangerous little reminder. When he felt you gulp, your throat moving beneath him he removed his mouth, satisfied it seemed with your reaction. Vincent settled his weight onto you carefully so as not to crush you, the spaces between your bodies nonexistent now, his belts pressing into your hips. He was so long compared to you that most times it was a bit awkward, the size difference really made you swoon though.

Your hands gripped his narrow waist, teasing your fingers on the hem on his shirt. Normally this is where he would stop, but he seemed a little delighted to play your game. His eager hands grabbed yours away from his waist, collecting them in one hand and pinning them above your head against the smooth wood of the headboard.

"V-vincent wait—"

He looked up from your throat, sitting up slightly to hover his face over you directly, moving his leg so it parted your thighs. He was waiting as you requested, idly tracing your side with his other hand still covered by his glove. He never touched you with it unless you asked nicely, but you often had to spend a long time getting him to take it off.

You weren't in a patient mood.

He cocked his head, playing the fool, "I'm waiting,"

"I hope that good ol' self restraint is doing you wonders." You bit back a grin, he truly was the best for making you feel giddy. These playful banters were scarce.

This side of him you wanted to keep forever before you had to exit this room for the day When you left it would be back to grunts, sighs and the occasional twitch of his eyes. His thigh shifted abruptly, touching your center and shooting sparks down your spine.

He let out a low chuckle, the sleep in his voice making it deeper as he purred, "No undergarments today as well? You're bold,"

"I'm very thorough in my tactics," You let out breathily, wiggling subtly to get that same friction.

"Oh?" He brought his lips to yours softly, giving you more access to his leg as you shamlessly started to grind against it, "Indulge" a gentle kiss, with a hint of his tongue running over your bottom lip, "Me?"

"Seduction," You whispered, biting his bottom lip, "Foreplay.....Orgasm..."

He waited with baited breath as you moaned, the friction was heavenly, not the same as his hands or his mouth, but the leather on his leg was smooth.

"Mm," He encouraged you wordlessly, letting you grind on him as you pleased. His hand continued to graze over your ribs with his fingertips, pushing the shirt up even more.

"Dont tease," you pleaded

"Says the temptress with tactics," He sighed lazily against your mouth, deepening your kisses, your tongue slipped inside his eager mouth, dancing for dominance. His was winning with all the places he could touch you while your hands were still pinned, making you moan for him, letting you slip.

"I want it," You whined, devastated, hungry. "Want you s'bad," Your voice slurred, drunk on his touch.

He pulled away, almost untangling himself in an attempt to let the flames simmer.

"N-No we don't have to....all the way..." You explained, your eyes wide, begging, "I don't mind not....you know.."

He seemed to relax at that, shifting and letting your hands fall to his shoulders, free. You flexed your fingers, the ache between your legs growing, you werent sure exactly what you wanted to do here but he was staring at you expectantly.

"I wanted to touch you," You admitted, "Maybe....each other..." You face was creeping with heat, you lips became the perfect place for your teeth to tug and bite.

Vincent looked lost in thought, his shoulders tensing forward, "I won't remove my clothes," He said slowly, waiting for you to reject the idea. Reject him. Reject his vulnerability.

You nodded, cupping his cheek, brushing a thumb across it, "That's fine with me, we can go at your pace, always." You affirmed with a kiss to his mouth, pulling him back down to you which he surrenders.

You made sure to give him an out though since you felt a bit irrational, "But if you don't want to, don't force yourself...promise?"

He wordlessly grips your hand with his bare one, sliding your fingers together like he did in the fountain. The gesture was a 1,000 words, a promise without needing clarification.

His hand releases yours to explore, to tease around your stomach. There's no fabric beneath your waist but he still takes his time sliding his hand further down, fingers splayed as if in muscle memory. He was drinking in your heated expressions as his hand finally descends your mound. His middle and pointer seeking out your folds.

Before you can lose courage you also begin to fiddle with the zipper on his leather pants, your fingers tremble.

"Inside or outside the underwear?" You asked with a teasing lilt of your hand palming him through the pants. You noticed his body's reaction immediately. His back tensed, arms quivering.

"Start outside," He bit out, he didn't know if he could hold it If you just reached in and grabbed him in one go.

You just nodded, feeling his head descend to your neck, breaths already heavy. He slid his hand lower taking his time to run both fingers down each side of your folds. You whimpered, hips rolling into those digits. You could feel how sticky and slick you were from having rubbed on his leg, the evidence spread all over your inner thighs.

While he coaxed you with his hands, you pulled the waist of his pants down just slightly, it was resting lower on his hips, your hand able to brush over his underwear now. Oh he was definitely hard, absolutely leaking. Your finger that grazed his clothed cock was damp, the thought warming you up even further.

You heard the low groan come from the back of his throat, face burrowing into your shoulder— Almost pained, like he was straining himself.

"It's okay. I've got you," You coo'd.

His fingers were carefully exploring you still, finding your clit and giving it a gentle pinch. It caused you to gasp, pleasure shooting through your body. Your other hand would rest on his slender waist, rubbing soothingly as you prepared him for more firmer grips. You didn't want to make a move too fast, disrupt whatever pleasure he was feeling just because you loved watching him fall apart.

But you almost couldn't help yourself, maneuvering him in his underwear so it was easier to trail your fingers over his long shaft. You mouth suddenly felt too dry, your tongue thick. What would he taste like?

A feral sound escaped him, he reigned himself in with a harsh inhale, "Be patient, not too hard," He guided your hand to rest at the base of his covered cock. He was groaning in the hollow of your throat, his hips freezing at the simple touch. You licked your lips, heart pounding, fingers flexing over him in a slow rhythm.

He didn't give you time to quip back at him, fingers rubbing you thoroughly now, gliding into the center of your slick heat and growling at how much of a mess was between your legs already.

You cried out, biting into his shoulder, you couldn't afford to be too loud afterall. Your hips rolled with his technique, wanting those fingers to go lower, to dip inside. He knew it well enough, slowing his pace to a torturous stroke. You were a bowstring pulled taught, arching into him regardless of the simple touch.

He hummed in amusement, toying with your clit and running those digits back up and down your center, index and middle finger running lightly over your entrance. He could feel you trying to take the tips of his fingers inside, the pulsing of the hole widening to accommodate. To say it turned him on was an understandment, he could probably peak from fingering you alone.

You whined, pushing closer with your hand on his hips. Your nails were digging into his waist, little marks would be left over. It wouldn't hurt what so ever if you dragged your nails deeper, though he wished you would. You would push against his fingers, moaning when you would successfully cause him to rub your core more intensly, finger tips sinking inside to stroke the warmth.

"Needy little thing," He rasped, raised himself up to your ear, licking and sucking just behind it. In response to this teasing your hand engulfed his clothed shaft, squeezing firmly while stroking faster. His fingers took their time slipping inside of you teasingly, going back up to your clit to rub the mess around.

A broken moan escaped him, his arms shaking as he kept himself upright, eyes fluttering close. You grabbed the tips of his hair, his fingers had stilled their torture so you could tug, pulling him to face you and capturing his lips. He drank greedily from your tongue, almost panting. Just a touch like this and he was spiraling too fast.

You bite down harshly, wanting to make these as yours for the time being. When you pulled apart all that was left was a string of saliva connecting your parted lips. The indent of your teeth prominent, little beads of blood forming there. You should feel bad, you think, maybe a little embarrassed by such a carnal desire to mark him in a place so vivid. He seemed to like it enough, those glowing eyes roaming over you in his shirt, tongue darting out to clean the drops of red from his mouth.

"Slowly," He chastised you with a gasp as you continued to grasp him so firmly, his hand going back to your wrist to slow you down, "I cant think..."

You smiled, kissing his cheeks tenderly. You could see that he was battling the pleasure, his brow furrowing, he always wanted to pleasure you first. It was endearing, but you wanted to make him come.

"I have an idea, let me up." You commanded with another tug to his hair. He complied immediately, letting you rise but having to remove his fingers from you as well. You grimmaced at the disappearance, but pushed him back to the end of the bed with the flat of your palm to his chest, climbing across his lap.

"Like this," You demonstrated with a swivel of your hips, your bare core touching his briefs. His belts dug into your legs but the sting was welcome. It sent electric up your spine as you settled fully into the weight. His hips arched into you, his eyes lidded as you rocked forward. He was biting his lip already, eyes rolling practically as you slid yourself over him with practiced glides.

Oh

Vincent was so hot, you could feel how wound up he was, the throbbing very apparent even in this state. You could feel the length against your clit, making you fall forward a little. Your one hand balanced yourself with his chest, the other cupping his cheek which he nuzzled in it. His teeth scrap over your palm as he nibbled gently. You chased the sensation of those sparks over and over. He looked so vulnerable, so open, overwhelmed. His chest was heaving beneath your hand as you continued, his hands settling on your hips to help you along or to slow you down— you couldn't analyze properly.

You were already panting too, feeling the wetness trailing down your legs as you shivered. It felt so good like this, you wanted so badly for that aching emptiness to be filled but you didn't want to push your luck in asking. The barrier of clothing between you was so wet you swear you could almost feel him bare anyway.

You couldn't help the tears that welled in your eyes, not wanting to scare Vincent you tried to hold them in. The pleasure was so much, his gentle but firm grasp on you was so rooting. How had you never had this before? It was electrifying.

"Do you want to stop?" He was asking you so tenderly, as if letting you know you could and he wouldn't blame you for it.

You answered with a feral kiss, rutting faster. You wanted him to crumble, wanted to see when he experienced bliss.

"Vincent...hah...mm—" was the only thing you could manage— hoping, praying the repsonse would be read into it well enough.

He whispered back, thrusting up as well with small pulses of his hips, "Make yourself the priority, I can hold." His voice was measured, each word lingered with a soft sigh each time you connected below.

Your heat soared, looking down into his eyes, fingers clenching in his shirt.

"Please, don't hold, let go...please..." You begged, not caring if you sounded needy. Just the thought of making him come was making your release climb. So you leaned up and away to add more pressure to his cock. You wouldn't accept anything less for him, you wouldn't let him deny himself.

You were babbling, a blush creeping over your cheeks as you looked down on him, "I want to see it...when you come for me," You leaned bafk down to kiss him again.

Those perfect lips colored slightly darker red than your own were too irresistible. You loved kissing him, every kiss was sweet. Was it always this addictive before though? You couldn't remember a time where you yearned for lips against yours so heavily. You could devour them day and night.

Vincent's hands came up to tangle in your hair, holding you there like you were his oxygen. Gripping you in place, ravishing your lips in equal measure as you gave yourself over to every desire you had.

You could feel his hips stuttering, losing rhythm with you.

"You're so good to me, Vincent, so sweet," You praised into his mouth as he hissed, his body seizing after that like it was too much. The mess between you two was splattering against his abdomen, an obscene sloppy sound coming from your grinding hips.

"I cant hold, please," He ground out the words, his jaw clenched as he reached for one of your breasts, hand cupping it. "You first,"

He leaned up on one of his elbows, moving the shirt so it was at your neckline and took the flesh inside of his mouth. He pulled it taut with his teeth, knowing you liked him to be a little rough with this area.

You were losing as quickly as you started this game of tug and war. You keened, slick dripping all over him as you picked up the pace with fervor. He was busy with the nipple in his mouth, teeth clamping down again with a harsh suck.

You cried out as it hit you suddenly, you could equate it to seeing static when you got dizzy. All your sensitivty went straight to the hunger between your legs, growing as you came. Your hips were not longer able to handle being upright, almost slumping forward into him. He growled and pushed you down harder, hands adjusting you to where he needed you— rubbing against you to chase his own release which wasn't far behind. You fell into his arms deeper, his mouth next to your ear.

You could hear every groan, every whimper as he chased pleasure with your soaking core. You were still trembling, the prices of white hot pleasure lingering as he overstimulated you. You cried into his shoulder, lips pressing hot kisses there.

"Just like that," You mouthed into his collar, "Feels so good,"

With a final trail of kisses to his mouth he tensed, hips rocking once, twice, three times in a quick succession of snaps. He called out your name so sweetly even with that raspy voice, dripping with desperation as he came.

Your breaths mingled as you soaked in his pleasure. The hot material underneath you grew even warmer, sticking to your skin.

He was shaking harder than you had, eyes rolling up, he looked so blissed out. It was like all the weight of his troubles disappeared for that moment, his body becoming soft and pilant as you stroked his abdomen over his shirt. Your voice cooing gently as his torso kept spasming along with the muscles in his legs.

You felt him tugging you down, naturally wanting to feel the press of your chest, the undeniable race of your heartbeats that gave him a sense of calm. He couldnt get close enough, burrowing his face in your neck with a cry. You could feel those hot tears streak over your skin. He was downright crumbling.

"Hah— fuck— nnnh." He was still shivering, you could feel the hot dampness of his come sticking to his underwear. You didn't move, not wanting to push him over too far. It seemed like he was overwhelmed with the pleasure of it all, looking a little lost so you just let him hold you close through the throws of it.

"You did so well, just let it happen, its okay," You reassured, kissing his head, taking one of his hands from your waist and lacing your fingers together.

"Hmmm," He hummed, closing his eyes and trying to steady his breaths as you began to coax his hips to move slowly from their stillness, drawing him back down to you in a relaxing way. Letting him ride out the high as he needed too even if it stoked the embers inside you once more. You knew he probably wouldn't be able to handle another right now.

"That's it," You murmured, gently brushing his hair from his face. You waited there, the silence stretching. Nothing but the sound of Vincent's idle gasps, throaty moans. When his hips finally stopped shivering you made sure not to press down on him again, keeping your weight on one of his legs instead.

He was still squeezing his eyes shut so you stroked a thumb over his cheek encouraging him to open. When he did you smiled so brightly, a happiness surging within you, you had finally had an experience together. You were elated.

"Are you okay?" You mused.

"Are you?"

You both asked each other, your lips twitching with the humor of it all. You leaned further onto his chest.

"Never better," You could feel, however, the quickly cooling release on your thighs. It was technically a mixture of your own and his. You didn't mind though, you didn't want anything to pull you apart right now.

You could see his mind spiraling, a look of shame in his eyes that wouldn't disappear. You quickly covered his mouth with your hand as if knowing he was going to ruin it with something incredibly ridiculous about himself.

He reached up to peel the fingers from his mouth but you insisted.

"Don't think about anything, you were perfect, all of it.." Your lopsided smile coming into play, "I came just from seeing your expression..." You admitted, shyly. You let him remove your hand finally, his eyes searching yours for any traces of regret.

Vincent let his fingers brush your hair stuck to your face away, "You'll be the death of me," the corner of his lip twitched but you could see the relief in his eyes. He kissed your palm, a gesture of affection that made your toes curl.

With a groan he started to sit up and you held on tightly, your bodies were slick with sweat and to your embarrassment a lot of your fluids.He looked at his drenched lap with something of pride, your cheeks growing darker. You could easily see the staining white from you all over his black clothing.

"Let's clean you up," He suggested instead, leading you off the bed with a hand but pausing to gain his balance. His legs were a little jelly like, his other arm reaching out to lean on the bed post. That made him feel just as shy as you, with the way his ears went scarlet. You giggled behind a hand, standing up beside him and tugging him towards the bath.

"We'll practice," You promised, eyes alight as he watched you remove the shirt from your body, "You'll get used to it, I'll make sure of it," His gaze was locked on the center of your thighs, the dripping arousal, his eyes glowing.

"Mm, careful."

And then you were whisked into the bath where you were awarded another taste of his fingers and teasing. You wondered how it could get better than that.

But time was still ticking regardless of your little bubble of happiness. You would have to step out of it soon, but in the moment you relished him.

[magnetokisser]

Can you write Clark Kent x reader (ft. Perry White) who is a newswoman for the Daily Planet and is Perry White's daughter. Lmao the idea of Clark dating his bosses daughter is so funny to me. He is so shy and akward, him being more nervous all of a sudden after y'all start dating, trying to keep the affection on the down low. Knowing damn well you can't hide anything from your dad, or a building full of journalists, who job it is to you know, figure out the new!!!!!!

the daily planet's worst kept secret!

summary: despite your father’s growing disdain for Clark Kent, you can’t stay away from him.

pairing: clark kent x reader

warnings: none!

word count: over 1.7k i lost count

author's note: my first request omg!!! Im sorry this took so long to write, I’ve been swamped with testing and school. Life’s been catching up with me, but I hope you enjoy!! Perry’s a gossip girl in this :p. also, my requests are still open!

you thought you were being sneaky, but alas, nobody could ever hide anything from perry white. especially when it had to do with his daughter and a co worker.

he didn’t necessarily hate clark kent, he just enjoyed giving him a tough time. besides, his old fling with lois lane was something he enjoyed watching. to him, love was a world that clark didn’t know how to navigate. so imagine his surprise when he found out you were dating the daily planet’s resident golden boy. he had questions— and he had a lot of them.

that’s how you found yourself here, sitting in front of your father’s oak desk. it was place right in front of a window that you felt was far too big, and was a pure invasion of privacy. but your father was all about invading privacy— be it yours, or your now not so secret boyfriends.

“you know why you’re in here?” he asked, placing a fat cigar in his mouth. this made you frown, the smoking. but it was apart of his character, was it not?

“stop talking like that, you’re not a cop.” you grumbled, placing one leg over the over as you crossed your arms. despite his tough exterior, you two were still able to joke with one another. it was just one of those things that flowed easily between the two of you. “when were you going to tell me, your father, might i remind you, that you were dating clark kent?” he asked, leaning over the desk. his eyes bore into yours, but you could see the hint of amusement in them. he’d give you shit about it, but he just wanted you to be happy.

“i would have told you eventually. you know, maybe once i’m a couple hundred miles away from you.” you smiled, finally relaxing in your seat. he let out an over exaggerated exhale, rolling his eyes as he did so.

“why kent?” he asked, puffing out a cloud of smoke as he clicked around on his computer, his brows furrowed in curiosity and slight confusion. you had a sigh of your own to let out at this question. you were never able to tell if he liked clark or not— which is exactly why you weren’t ready to bring the man around your father just yet. he was an intimidating guy, and clark was one of the most shy and awkward people you’ve ever met. just thinking about it felt like an understatement.

“because he’s kind and treats me well? and he’s very caring, thank you very much.” you explained. “oh, and he’s superman!” you thought, wondering how your father would react to that. but that was clark’s place to tell him— if he ever did. not yours.

“let me find out he tries something you don’t like..” he trailed off, giving you the stink eye. you rolled your eyes and stood up, brushing your skirt off as you looked at him. “i know, dad. you’ll tear him a new one and probably fire him.” you smiled, walking around his desk to give him a side hug. you swore he was almost as grumpy as batman.

you eventually left his office and returned back to work. just because you were his daughter didn’t mean you were exempt from working. you had to work the same boring journaling job as everyone else.

the day went by as it usually did. superman saves the city, and the daily planet is on it. even though they’ve been separated for a while now, lois still couldn’t give up the role of being superman’s star reporter. as much as it made your stomach churn, you knew everything would be fine.. right?

wrong. you were completely and utterly wrong. walking into the break room, you ran into your father giving a very jittery clark the stink eye and the infamous ‘you hurt my daughter and i’ll hurt you’ talk.

“dad!” you exclaimed, rushing over to clark with a frown. the poor guy looked like he was ready to have a heart attack. “why are you patronizing him?!” you asked, moving to cover clark. to anyone walking in, it would look comedic. clark was so much bigger than you were, it was like a child trying to hide behind a lamp.

“i was not.. patronizing him. i was just giving him a very down to earth talk!” your father said, giving you a look full of fake innocence. you raised a brow, watching as he looked back at clark. “i wasn’t patronizing you was i, kent?” he asked, causing you to deadpan and turn around to look at your blue eyed boyfriend. “don’t answer that. and if you do, don’t lie just because he’s your boss. if he fires you, i’ll quit too.” you spoke, a grumble from your father coming from where he was at across the room.

clark swallowed, his eyes darting between you and your father. “i-i wouldn’t say patronizing..” he trailed off, averting his gaze from yours. “you know what— clark, we’re going to the cafe next door on break. a little date!” you said, glaring at your father. he’d have to accept your and clark’s relationship sooner or later. with that thought in your mind, you grabbed clark’s hand and dragged him out of the break room.

the next few weeks were.. calm, to say the least. your father kept bothering clark, but only how he did before he found out the two of you were dating. you knew something was off about it, but you couldn’t exactly pinpoint what. that was until cat grant finally broke and started asking you a bunch of questions about clark. so your father let it break. how wonderful.

“sooo? you and kent?” the blonde sang, standing next to you as you filled up your coffee. you had to bite back a groan and hold yourself back from rolling your eyes.

"yes he's amazing, no he's not using me to get over lois, and yes perry knows." you said, rolling your eyes. “and i know dad sent you over here to try and figure out if there’s trouble in paradise, but there’s not. you can go ahead and tell him clark is taking me to some fancy restaurant tonight.” you spoke, letting out a breath you didn’t know you were holding in. with that, you strut off, going back to work.

later, you found yourself getting ready for your date. this was the most expensive one to date, with clark saying something about having a friend who paid for it for free. you wondered where he got all of these friends from.. either way, you were excited. you had only hoped your father hadn’t scared him away. your thoughts were soon interrupted by a knock on your front door, and you smiled. rushing over, you opened the door, meeting a red faced clark who was holding flowers.

“you– you said you liked these.. but if you don’t, i can just throw them away!” the blue eyed giant stammered, holding a bouquet of red hyacinths. you felt your face grow hot as you took them, your eyes meeting his. “thank you, clark. they’re lovely. this feels more like a first date than our first date actually was.” you giggled, setting the flowers inside before meeting him outside and locking the door behind you. you watched as he visibly relaxed, seeming like a huge weight was lifted off his shoulders. he lifted his arm and let you take it, leading you towards the lobby of your apartment building. every time clark took you on a date, you’d walk. not because you didn’t like driving, but because you enjoyed taking as much time as possible to spend with him. today was the only exception, as the restaurant was halfway across the city.

“my dad hasn’t been giving you a hard time, has he?” you asked, your voice soft as you looked up at him. his blue eyes met yours, and you nearly melted on the spot. “no– well, i have to say no, because he’s your dad, but i think he’s just acting how every dad would!” he nervously laughed. he opened your car door, smiling as you kissed his cheek before getting in. “my dad isn’t like other dads. he’s a bit.. how do i say this, psychotic when it comes to me?” you said, looking at clark as he got in the driver’s seat.

“i mean, he did say he’d fire me and make sure you never saw me again if i broke your heart, but..” he trailed off, backing out of the parking space. “he’s so aggressive. i doubt you could ever break my heart. besides, i get to say i’m dating superman,” you said, adding the last bit in a low whisper, “i’m practically the most special girl in the world.” you smiled. clark smiled, and the two of you talked for the rest of the car ride before stopping in front of some expensive restaurant. clark got out and opened your door for you before you could even think about getting out of the car, and it was almost comical how shy he still was. holding his hand, you followed clark into the restaurant, looking around in awe.

“i want to know who this friend is and where you found them at.” you said, wide eyes gazing around the room. clark chuckled, his body vibrating as he did so. he was so shy all the time, you almost forgot how deep his voice was. “uh.. one day.” he said, his face a soft tone of red.

the two of you were quickly seated, and you were quick to look at the menu. clark didn’t say anything and listened to you talk about how good or how weird the food looked, staring at you with love in his eyes. and no, he wouldn’t tell you that he noticed perry in the corner of the restaurant hiding behind a newspaper.

you looked up, your eyes meeting his through his long eyelashes. his eyes were full of love and affection, making your heart stutter. you paused for a moment before your lips slightly curled up in a smile, and you knew that you were set for life. clark was everything you could've wanted in a man, and to top it off, he was literally a symbol of hope.

you were pulled out of your thoughts by clark, who had his head tilted as he looked at you. "you're staring at me and smiling. are you making fun of me in your head?" he asked, his voice holding a nervous undertone to it. he always worried too much-- but it was endearing. to you, it showed he cared.

"you worry too much. i was just thinking about how lucky i am to have you." you explained, taking his hands across the table. he blushed, a shy smile gracing his features as he took in your words.

the rest of dinnee went well-- clark felt like everything was perfect. he was more comfortable and had gotten you buttered up. he didn't even notice the look of begrudging approval perry gave him before leaving the resturant, and didn't miss the text your father sent you as he carried a very sleepy you into his apartment. though, something told him perry wouldn't stop the teasing.

[mikaela-the-slut-expert]

Hello!

Can I request for a yandere Hualian x reader but reader is actually okay with their behavior?

I do not Mind

Hualian x gn!reader

Heyyy... 😔🙏 I've been gone for ever again, I love y'all🩷 I swear. A little nervous about this one because how far is too far with a yandere 😥 like some readers want their yandere to murder someone for them some people just want them to be obsessive... Comment and tell me if it's too much y'all, I'll edit it.

Also I'm very unfamiliar with yandere territory so! I don't know if I'm able to capture them quite well😐!!!

____________________________________

It started innocently enough, your relationship with them. You've never had two boyfriends before but you found yourself enjoying it. How could you not? They love you and care for you. Xie Lian was so sweet and gentle with you, always caring. Hua Cheng is protective and devoted to you, so loving. Some people are lucky enough to find a good man, you were lucky enough to find two of them. Maybe your luck is better than Hua Cheng's.

All had been going well, it was like any normal relationship! You guys would go out on dates, you would all spend time with one another, care for one another, gift things, give affection, and of course have sex. Normal, healthy relationships. Arguments were few to none and it felt like you were in a state of bliss, contentment. It was... Well it was perfect.

So perfect, and so content that it took you quite a while to notice when strange things were starting to happen. It wasn't mind boggling, just different. Hua Cheng's devotion to you his protectiveness seemed to become tenfold, and Xie Lian's caring nature -while you loved him for it- seemed directed to keep you in their sights. It was not unusual for you all to go separate ways throughout the day, but suddenly you needed to be near one of them at all times. Even if you were going out with some friends, one of them or both of them would come along. You didn't mind you like spending time with your lovers, so you think nothing of it. You thought maybe these incidents were just coincidental.

For starters, for some reason you just can't bring yourself to leave, you feel faint and dizzy when you try to leave the doors of your alls home. So you don't leave, you tell your lovers you feel unwell and stay mostly in bed. It's strange though... As soon as you leave the proximity of the doors you feel well again. And another thing! Your lovers have been all over you. You enjoy it of course, you love them dearly but they're acting very needy. As more days pass you find Xie Lian and Hua Cheng are always attached to your hip. You're half sure your hand is stuck in a curled position from holding Hua Cheng's hand all the time!

Hua Cheng had always been devoted to you and Xie Lian but it's been more like... Admiration! Obsession. He'll follow you around everywhere and if he can't there's always silver butterflies resting in your hair, they're cute so you can't complain. He'll stare at you with his one eye, all day! You found he's been making piles of drawings of you in many different ways, and even a statue or two here and there. That's really suspicious. Maybe he's just really taken the time to admire you! He loves art after all, and maybe you've become his muse.

Oh and Xie Lian, don't even get started on him! His "selfless" nature and the feeling of going out of his way for you? It's a too cute! much. You need to go out to town? Oh he'll go get it don't worry about it, stay home. Oh you haven't seen your friends? No worries he'll update them that you aren't feeling well! Every little thing you want or need seems to be taken care of by them. Just stay here, don't leave stay home, don't leave get some rest. Don't leave.

That's not even to mention when they both gang up on you. The need for validation. "Do you love us?", "Aren't we good to you?", "Are you happy here?", "Will you stay?", "Promise, promise promise".

You've been cooped up for quite a while, and of course you don't stay cooped up all the time. You go out to ghost city with Xie Lian and Hua Cheng! Your friends must miss you though because one of them come to check on you. When you talk to them, they seem quite worried, pale faced. "Do you need help..?" Why would you need that? Xie Lian and Hua Cheng have been taking care of you. They dote and spoil you all the time, honestly you've barely noticed how long it's been since you've been isolated anywhere near the heavens, or spent time with anyone else! You want to reassure them but Xie Lian ushers you away from the door, to the bedroom. He just doesn't want you to leave feel faint again, so just let Hua Cheng talk to them. What a caring lover!

When Hua Cheng comes back to the bedroom he doesn't mention anything, he must have sent your friend off. How sweet. So sweet you don't notice anything amiss. Definitely not the red splatter on his cheek. How would you notice any of it when most of it blends in with his clothing anyhow? E-ming rattles in the sheath.

So yes, it has been strange these past couple of months. Although it did take you a little while to even notice, although you can be quite oblivious, you are not stupid. You are not blind. Hua Cheng and Xie Lian's attitudes have changed to clingy, and obsessed. Your dizziness these past few weeks is most definitely because of the strange incense you keep smelling near the doors of your home, and the seals that have been placed in obscure places. You don't find yourself minding these things. You love them, their attention, their clinginess, their obsession and love.

So no you don't pay mind to the frequent disappearances of other gods whom you're acquainted with. You pay no mind to Hua Cheng's, or Xie Lian's robes having to be washed because of stains, you stay naive to E-ming needing to be cleaned so often. In fact you welcome it.

Xie Lian and Hua Cheng must know that you know too because they don't try to hide it anymore. Their needy questions and need for validation have become demands. Sweet ones, so how could you ever resist them, when they obviously love you so, so much?

You can't

____________________________________

So how do we feel guys? First time I think I've ever written yandere stuff so this is very unfamiliar territory I'm welcome to criticism!

[firael]

20 years of waiting of twinship vs 20 years of waiting of romance 😅🥰.

“You are such a weak, sniveling fool, Caramon!” he snarled. Irritably he tried to shake off his twin’s grip. He might as well have tried to shake off death. “Surely you must know by now what I have done! The kender must have told you about the gnome. You know I betrayed you. I would have left you for dead in this wretched place. And still you cling to me!”

“I’m clinging to you because the waters are closing over your head, Raistlin,” Caramon said.

His gaze went down to his own, strong, sun-burned hand holding his brother’s thin wrist, its bones as fragile as the bones of a bird, its skin white, almost transparent. Caramon fancied he could see the blood pulse in the blue veins.

“My hand upon your arm. That’s all we have.” Caramon paused and drew a deep breath. Then, his voice deep with sorrow, he continued, “Nothing can erase what you have done, Raist. It can never be the same between us. My eyes have been opened. I now see you for what you are.”

“And yet you beg me to come with you!” Raistlin sneered.

“I could learn to live with the knowledge of what you are and what you have done.” Looking intently into his brother’s eyes, Caramon said softly, “But you have to live with yourself, Raistlin. And there are times in the night when that must be damn near unbearable.”

Raistlin did not respond. His face was a mask, impenetrable, unreadable.

Caramon swallowed a huskiness in his throat. His grip on his twin’s arm tightened. “Think of this, though. You have done good in your life, Raistlin—maybe better than most of us. Oh, I’ve helped people. It’s easy to help someone when that help is appreciated: But you helped those who only threw it back in your face. You helped those who didn’t deserve it. You helped even when you knew it was hopeless, thankless.” Caramon’s hand trembled. “There’s still good you could do… to make up for the evil. Leave this. Come home.”

Come home...come home...

Raistlin closed his eyes, the ache in his heart almost unendurable.

— Dragonlance.

Left a trail of red on every island

As I traded friends like objects I could use

Hurt more lives than I can count on my hands

But all of that was to bring me back to you

So tell me

Would you fall in love with me again

If you knew all l've done?

The things I can't undo

I am not the man you knew...

If that's true, could you do me a favor?

Just a moment of labor that would bring me some peace.

See that wedding bed? Could you carry it over?

Lift it high on your shoulders and take it far away from here.

How could you say this?I had built that wedding bed with my blood and sweat

Carved it into the olive tree where we first met.

A symbol of our love everlasting Do you realize what you have asked me?

The only way to move it is to cut it from its roots!

Only my husband knew that

So I guess that makes him you!

— EPIC the musical.

I would also add...

Palin stepped back to face his parents. “Mother, Father. Someone else is with me, someone you haven’t seen in a long, long time. He wanted me to tell you first. He ... wasn’t certain he’d be welcome. ...”

With a wild, pain-filled cry, Caramon rushed for the door, flung it wide.

A figure clad in black robes, dark against the darkness, stood on the stoop. At the sight of Caramon, the figure drew back the cowl covering his head. Light streaming out of the inn glistened on golden skin, shone in hourglass eyes.

“Raist!” Caramon cried, and swayed on his feet.

Raistlin looked long at his brother, did not move from his place outside the door.

“Caramon,” he said at last, softly, and the name seemed wet with his heart’s blood. “Caramon, can you . . . can you . . .” He began to cough, but he struggled to continue to talk. “Forgive . . .”

Caramon reached out, drew his brother inside. “Your room is ready for you, Raist. It always has been.”

— Dragonlance.

I will fall in love with you over and over again,

I don't care how, where, or when

No matter how long it's been, you're mine

Don't tell me you're not the same person

You're always my husband and l've been waiting, waiting...

— EPIC the musical.

Family meeting ❤️ For the 2024 Dragonlance Reverse Bang at DL Writers Discord server. Family Meeting by The Wyrm Ouroboros and Family matter by Tellie were based on this illustration, feel free to check them here

[yuwuta]

gojo would kill your work husband. but if he were the work husband, that's a different story

REAL!! he’s such a hypocrite because if someone mentioned you had a work husband, his entire world would stop and he wold devise the absolute worst plans to make sure that your co-worker, everyone at your job, and everyone in the next building over knew that he was happily committed to you 

but if he is the work husband, he’s very........ dutiful in his role. there’s a loose office/lawyer au in my head where satoru is your secretary, and for all intents and purposes, your personal assistant, and he’s good at his job, but mostly because he considers his job to be pleasing you. he has coffee for you when you arrive, he moves your schedule around without you asking, he has answers to questions before you can even ask them, he has fresh flowers on your desk weekly, pokes into your meetings to pretend to hand you a file that’s really just maybe a single document in a manilla folder with candy on top of it—he’s made himself your business, your partner; he’s made himself irreplaceable, and he loves to remind everybody of that fact. 

he’s also extremely loyal. sure, he could day a week’s worth of work done in about a day, but that doesn’t mean he’ll just use his talents for anybody. he’s your secretary, so he’s at your beck and call, and everyone knows it. they know he’s the best, but also that he’s off limits—not because you won’t share him, but because satoru won’t let himself be shared. 

he also extends his duties beyond work, of course. when he hands you a print out of your schedule for the day and you’re confused by the three-hour block of time you have in the middle of the day, satoru just helps you shrug your coat of your shoulders and smiles, ��that’s for the lunch date you have with me, of course!” hanging up your coat in your closet for you, “i’m paying, see you soon, sweets.” and because you’re great at your job, and satoru helps you be great, nobody really questions when the two of you have time for a 13-course tasting menu at 1pm on a tuesday afternoon. and if they did, all satoru would say that you two had a lovely date 

[xxplastic-cubexx]

BIRTHDAY HAUL courtesy of a very lovely friend of mine 🥺

bonus goofy pics of a bday snack i had earlier with my favorite menace …..