#this is black and white… there is not any gray area

[widowsofchaos]

Buckynat

𝐝𝐨𝐥𝐥 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐬

—- even the unloveable can be loved.

pairing // bucky barnes x brown!fem!reader x natasha romanoff

warnings // dom/sub smut (Shibari), cheating, mention of pcos, stretch marks, and hyperpigmentation. mention of an unnamed omc.

a/n // read it here on ao3. I hope whoever requested this, sees this. sorry for taking so long. wrote this in a low point in my life. hope you enjoy. <3

It’s methodical.

A routine well practiced, it’s recited in your footsteps. Auto-piloting through the lavish apartment corridors, a secluded area in the compound that always leaves you in a daze, coordinating footfalls that felt as a maze—- with keys digging in your grip.

The rigid craved curves dig into the flesh of your thumb, wedging the copper tip underneath your fingernail, edging on subtle pain.

The path to the secure living spaces of the earth’s mightiest heroes is a familiar one. The billion-dollar compound is secured and shrouded in silence.

The ideal timing, when the majority of the avengers are in their own worlds. Some are on a mission, and some are just —- not here.

The walk of shame isn’t something you want. Despite being a lab technician for Tony, you don’t try to rub elbows. You’re use to being alone, casted in the shadows—- and just because you warm the bed of two avengers doesn’t mean, you yearn to fuck your way to the top.

Another turn in the hallway, and right at the end of the corridor, is that familiar sterling gray door. Just beyond it is your solitude.

Copper ridges twist and unlock, the crisp air conditioning fans your face as the door opens, relaxing your nerves.

Slipping out of your flats, by a whisk of your ankle, the shoes are perched at the door. Smoothly you glide your wedding ring off—- hide it away in your pocket, all its value is nothing more than a stranger now.

Steadied steps inside the spacious apartment. Pristine, with cool tones. Perched on the polished flooring is a rich violet pillow.

Well versed motions, mutely, you remove each article of clothing. From the flaps of your beige blazer, to your white button blouse, each button snapping open with anxious aggression, to your unzipping your black skirt—— the anticipation of the zipper splitting open against the flesh of your thigh.

Folding neatly, fabric on top of another, resting on the pristine couch.

It’s all arousing.

To be owned. To be eaten carnally. To be degraded, reduced to nothing. Some days, the aftercare is merely an afterthought, you think you don’t care for it, because it’s a belief of not deserving of it.

Some days, you depress yourself, thinking that you’re just a sex toy to a bored couple. But, when they touch you, caress you—- your heart settles, and you feel safe.

Grateful to them, for once —- in all the years of your life, you never once accepted your sexuality, nor explored regions of intimacy. Embarrassed of extra flesh you carry, and scars, finally, to have anyone adore these flaws.

To be taken care of is still a foreign concept, a notion that even your boyfriend doesn’t even entertain so often.

A few kisses here, and a stroke against the meat of your thigh there—- no, he doesn’t clean up the rawness, the humanity of facing the aftermath of sex.

Nor does he want to. He doesn’t want to touch the darkness that casts upon your inner thighs.

Rarely any relationship birthed from obligation promises a happily ever after.

Now you sit, kneeling on the lush readied cushion, just for you. Awaiting for the touch, the manhandling. The silence prevails in the apartment space. Enveloping you with bated breath.

The walls have eyes.

They’re watching you. You can feel the forest green and icy blue hues stalking you akin to predators in the wild, awaiting their vulnerable prey.

Goosebumps form on your flesh, palms resting on your knees. Skilled and lethal, years of expertise—- they tread in silence. All the more erotic, to be caught off guard, knowing that you can never win. Never hide from them.

They can sniff your soul a mile away.

They need control. After decades of being subjected forcefully to commit heinous acts —- even still seen as criminals, despite saving the world numerous times.

Used as puppets, with no autonomy. Both learned through each other —- even in the most violent environments —- that safety isn’t impossible, if it's through tender intimacy, or communication.

Mastered the art of speaking with just their eyes.

A moment passes, and you wait, as a loyal dog. It turns them on. To see you obedient, even when you’re trembling in your skin, to be touched.

Staring at the wall ahead, fingers fidget against your bare thigh, your bum seated against the soles of your feet.

You didn’t even hear him.

“Privet, moy pitomets.” Hello, my pet.

The vowels slip from his lips with ease, only a few words have been taught to you routinely, but the language remains foreign.

“Let me see your nails.” It’s not a request. Bucky inspects each nail closely. He sighs disappointedly to see swollen red cuticles.

“You’ve been biting.”

“More like ripping.”

Bucky gently smacks your fingers, with his right hand. “What did I tell you?” He chastises, his breath warm and wispy against the shell of your ear.

“Not to do that.”

Your head bows submissively, a twinge of genuine shame birthes itself, all your thoughts consume your mind, yes, yes, punish me, I deserve it.

“And yet, you deliberately disobey us.” A silky, Russian accent that edges on a moan with every vowel. Not daring to turn your face, gracious legs step into your eyesight.

Mindless picking relieves your mind from the small stresses. You don’t tell them the personal issues, just enough to indicate that there is a broken marriage, that was already fractured before the consummation.

“I want the pain.”

You are nothing, you are void of all that is pure. You deserve it—- “Pain, moya lyubov'?” My love. Natasha asks, kneeling to your eye level, but your eyes are downcasted.

Her index finger glides under your throat up the slope to your chin, sending a shiver down the terrain of your spine. Her finger curves, lifting your gaze to hers.

“Is that all you want?” Natasha speaks with silk on her tongue. Smooth metal fingers tread and engulf your throat, a caressing fist.

Bucky’s soft pink lips shower your check in tantalizing kisses—- feathery. Leaving you wanting more, his flesh hand weaves in your hair, stroking your scalp.

Pulling you to him, controlling you, handling you his way. Natasha hums, with that smug smirk she always dons.

“No.” You wheeze a whine, eyes dazed.

“Bucky hasn’t even touched you yet,” Natasha teases, her eyes catch your hip lifting just a bit, craving to be touched, “—- and already you’re cock drunk.”

You whine a whimper.

-

Swinging mid-air, bondaged with a blindfold shielding your eyes.

Washed in cold water, and oiled. Soft and flexible—- intricately hemp tied around the ceiling’s hook, and clings to your anchoring body.

Mischievously, you’re tied in a position that splits your legs apart, arms bent back as a bird’s wing, and digging into your torso in pretzel knots. Heavy breasts hang freely as the hemp is tied akin to a bralet, roving between the hills of each tit.

It’s been hours. Three to be exact. A few breaks in-between.

A gust of breath escapes you, panting as your body settles from another orgasm. Vibrating from your skin, if you could, you would melt within these knots.

Bucky’s thumbs caressing and digging into your hips assuring you.

But, some moments, you cringe at the sensation of his fingers stroking your spilt thighs. Fleshy, and darkened—- you swallow that tightness in your throat with soft moans.

Eye-lids wrinkling behind the shrouded fabric, but you swallow the brewing prickles in your throat. Masking the cringe deep inside.

Natasha is completely naked, unbuckling the leather strap from her hips; smugly staring as Bucky has been ravishing your soppy cunt. Your skin is coated in a dew of sweat, as faint purplish handprints bloom on the swell of your hips.

Both of them have been taking turns on you. Natasha fucking you deep with her strap, and Bucky with his cock. Having you eat Natasha out, her finger gripping your hair as Bucky savored you, thighs split. Just a moment ago, Bucky stuffed your mouth full as Nat’s long smooth pink dildo had you crying with pleasure.

“Hmm,” Nat hums to herself teasingly. Her slender ivory fingers caress your chin, lifting your head. She can see your chest heaving, you’ve been wrung loose. “Maybe we should stop.”

Bucky’s teeth nip at the rope, his lips gliding against your shoulder blade. “Maybe.” He taunts. “You probably had enough.” He whispers in the shell of your ear.

You mumble, but the words just can’t fall out.

“What was that?” Natasha’s brows lift, “We couldn’t hear you.” Her fingertips tapping the underside of your chin.

“Please fuck me.” Wringing your hands against the tight rope, a low whine stretches. Bucky tsks. “Please.”

Both chuckle. Insatiable, Nat mumbles with a lazy grin.

Bucky’s fingers glide against your split mound, fondling the empty connection between you both. With gentle ease, he readies himself inside you, following with a smooth thrust.

Bucky pauses for a second, and sighs. He looks down at his cock with realization, a lazy smirk. You turn your head over the slope of your shoulder, despite being blinded, “What’s wrong?” you pant.

“I guess we forgot a rubber.” Bucky laughs. Natasha breathes a chuckle, murmuring that she’ll get another one real quick.

Adrenaline rushing to your ears. You utter a small no, their smiles fade a little, but you don’t see it. Your skin feels the shift in the air, the quick silence.

Like vomit, your words spew.

“I can’t have children…. it’s okay.” You gesture over your shoulder, tugging on the knots. Not enjoying the silence, you swallow.

“Cum in me, please!” You wail, brows pinching. Tears forming at the corners of your eyes.

Curls stuck to your face by the sheen of your sweat, nearly tangled, and tears kissing your lashes. “You don’t have to be so cautious.” You laugh through a squint, blur of gray cotton. Laughing to guise the bitter twinge, making your words softer.

An odd glimmer passes through Natasha’s face. But it’s gone as fast as it came. Soothingly caressing your cheek, a flutter of her gaze catches Bucky, who nods so tenderly. Speaking through the silence, the need for the rush now dissipates to a kinder pace.

Natasha retrieves another condom, as Bucky’s thumbs caress you in circular motions. One part of your mind enjoys it and the other is sinking into itself, reminding you that he is touching your fat.

Bucky leans down, kissing the arch of your spine, “Remember your safe word—-” another kiss, “we’ll stop if we have to.” Two more kisses, and he gently adjusts by your waist, so his tip is just at your entrance. Curved and hung, stroking through your lips.

Natasha’s hands cup your cheeks, “Remember to breathe.” Your skin yearning with lust, and desperation. Just as your lungs expand, Bucky slowly sheethes himself inside you, earning a breathy sigh from both of you, his eyes fluttering.

Moaning low, as an odd sense of comfort. That he is meant to be here, inside you. A reminder that you are wanted. The taste of Nat lingers on your tongue, and it feels like home.

Starving for that high, reaching for it one more time. Your body can feel every thrust, but your mind is drifting. Stifling the thoughts, you try to focus on the pleasure.

Your body is a spongy blob, in need to be used. You are nothing, and the void must be filled. With a cock, or a strap. Replace the sorrow with the crack of a belt, or a striking hand.

Bucky fucks deep inside you, your breathing becoming heavy. Nat holds your cheeks, kissing you, swallowing your sounds. Her warm tongue slipped inside, dancing against yours.

It’s all so suffocating. To be between their presence. Bucky hit a curved angle, making you cry out.

Yes—- the familiar knot is tightening. The curve of Bucky’s cock stroking and punching that spot, that delicious spot—- his balls slapping your swollen clit.

Soft moans and guttural grunts dance together in the air. Natasha’s slender fingers gripping your throat, no doubt, she’s touching herself. To see her husband fuck animalisticly their third.

String of slick connects between Bucky’s sac and your swollen clit, spilt and weeping on his cock.

The pit in your belly is tightening, so close. Swirling thoughts plague your mind, distracting you from your approaching high. Trying to pay attention to Bucky’s grunts, and gripping hands, but the thoughts of ugliness and shame rip at your skin.

Closer… closer … closer…

A gasp and …. nothing.

“I didn’t … cum.” You spoke in a hush. Eyes moon-wide, lashes blink against the cotton, disbelief eroding within your veins. Staring through the barely mesh blind-fold. Your breathing becomes short.

“That’s okay.” Nat says, caressing your scalp. She’s a slight blur in your hazy vision, coming forth to you with gentle ease.

But all you feel is the rush of blood flooding your ears.

“I — didn’t cum.” You repeat, breasts heaving, the cage of your ribs erratic with breath.

“And that's—- okay.” Bucky repeats. His lips kisses your cheek, caressing the skin with his thumb. Bucky moves around you, being careful with your body. Blood rushes to your ears, dissociating into the void, as their footsteps fade from your mind.

Your head hangs low, eyes watery, and humiliated. Expecting at any second for them to cut you down, and make your grand escape. Ensure that you must resign, never show your face again, pretend you never existed—-

Soft hands gently start cutting at the rope, as another pair grabs at your body, making sure you don’t fall. With kind precision, Bucky pulls you to his warm body. Natasha flicks at the rope, splintering fibers into split ends. A white towel wrapped around his torso.

He caresses your body into a hug, and you’re speechless. Nearly sinking into your skin, like being swallowed by a black hole. Cringing at the realization of being naked. Trying to muster the words, to tell them that you don’t need help, and you’ll be leaving, but Bucky just carries you as a feather.

“Where—-” your words die in a groggy grunt, “—- where are you taking me?” Your eyes are bleary, brows knitting in frustration. Bucky chuckles, “You need a bath.” His lips curl into a smile.

“It’s okay, you don’t have to—” your words are snuffed by a shush, Natasha’s fingers stroke the hairs clinging to the sweat of your brow.

“We’re going to take care of you.” Spoken with such firmness, as if saying you’re not winning this. With such declarations in their tones, it’s enough to shut you up.

And they did. They took such care of you.

Bathing you with gentle hands. You can feel they were deep in thought, a shift now in the air. Silently cursing at yourself for being so compulsive with your words, sitting in the bath with empty eyes.

Pampered you with a soapy scrub, and comforting silence. Naked among each other, but not sexual. Bathing one another, as you slip inside the bubbles. The water is warm, and it nearly lulls you to sleep.

All you can feel is hands holding you gently, and the blur of the dim bathroom lights.

-

The phone is stuck in the grip of your palm, blankly staring at the screen. Desperately your thumb hovers over the keyboard, itching to just rip the band aid off.

You peek over the hill of your shoulder, making sure Nat and Bucky are sleeping. Fiddling with the hem of Bucky’s shirt, you always loved wearing his clothes— spacious and big to conceal your fluffy body; plus, it smells like him.

You couldn’t sleep. Restlessly your mind raced. The pit of your belly pinches, as you set your eyes back on the screen.

His contact picture mocking you.

Let him know. It’s over. No more enduring the humiliation of being nippicked, for what you can’t control. Why continue being with someone who doesn’t love you for yourself? Who always makes you feel less than dog shit?

A soft hand glides up from your shoulder blade to the cusp of your neck, earning a gasp from you.

Your eyes flit to your side, to see Natasha’s sharp eyes staring into your screen. It’s hard to read her face, it’s … void.

“I can’t have children either.” Nat whispers. Her eyes shift to you, a small smile lifts. “Doesn’t make us any less of a woman.” Her eyes blink with sympathy, unflinching.

No quivering in the truth. That’s one of the best aspects of Bucky and Natasha. Neither one lies. It’s always been pure honesty, never looking away from shame.

You wish to master that. To not let shame eat at your core, till it’s festering. To the point of crippling anxiety, falling apart at the idea of being perceived.

And yet, these two, have cracked you open, physically and emotionally—- has seen every bit of you with no judgment clouding their eyes. Found beauty and value within you—- but is it love? What if they found another?

You wouldn’t find this connection again—- “Don’t get lost on me.” Nat’s voice pulls you back, her knuckles grazing against your forearm.

“We can help you pack your things.”

Your brows pinch with confusion. Nat breathes a laugh. “While he’s gone, we can help you move in.” The light of the phone dimmed, but Natasha can still see through you. Her observant eyes unblinking.

“You want me… to move in?” Your voice floats on a whisper, feeling that anxious drop in your belly.

“We’ve been wanting that for so long.” Natasha says. Her eyes flew over to Bucky’s sleeping body, “I had to stop him from just taking you.” She smiles, laughing a bit.

“He was ready to tear the door down.” The image of Bucky barging in your home, and just taking you sent a jolt to your core—- so rugged. Natasha’s eyes gaze back to you. Her shiny nails softly graze your forearm.

“We love you.”

Those three words nearly make you cry. Yet, you have no love for yourself. It felt compulsive to ask—- “Why?” the question just spews. Natasha’s brows pinch.

“How can we not?” She asks, as if it’s the most ludicrous question. Your eyes filter away, staring down in shame. The light of the phone screen goes out, the darkness becomes your veil.

“Because my body is ruined.”

Natasha remains silent, you can only see a glimmer of her through the dark, not even the night slipping through the blackout drapes.

Soft fingertips graze the outline of your shoulder, it was the warm flesh fingers you are so familiar with.

“You’re not ruined.” A soft husk whispers behind you. With how he moves in silence, it should have startled you, but it didn’t. You felt Bucky’s breath fan the skin of your shoulder, caressing you with a shiver in its wake.

You have no doubt he was listening to the entire conversation— nothing could ever be hidden from either. You shake your head, your lips caving into your mouth into a tight lip.

“A lot of people would disagree with you.” You say, it’s second nature to speak with such defeatism, to never accept a compliment. It was always a rare occasion to be told that you were beautiful.

“Many people can fuck off.” Natasha snips. Her finger curls under your chin, making you look at her. A swirl of frustration and sympathy tastes her ivory-skinned features, illuminated by the dim darkness.

“I wish it was that easy.”

“It is.” Bucky hisses low, “You’re making it difficult for yourself.” His words sting, but the truth is all too bare.

He exhales a sigh, so soft you barely hear it. Your eyes staring into the void, straining to see your lap before you.

By now, the light of your cellphone is gone.

Bucky’s flesh knuckles stroke your shoulder blade, you can feel he wants to speak more; but he graces you with the chance to swallow his words.

“What would the team say?” Unshed tears sting your oculus, filtering from your left to right. Your head shakes in disbelief, trying to find words; but the vowels seem to limp from your tongue.

“What— wh…” you stammer, nose flaring to keep the tears at bay. “The three of us…” your lips wrinkle, “I don’t fit…”. Your entire face prunes in despair now.

“How would that look?” You speak hastily and anxiously, your throat feels raw, chest rising and falling rapidly. You can feel their eyes piercing through your entire body, the rush of blood and heat captures your ears.

“It doesn’t matter what people think.” Natasha says, her tone is edged. Her face leans in closer, her breath fanning your face.

“It matters to me.” You sniffle, your fingertips pointedly hitting against your chest. “I have lived my life by everybody’s opinions…their taunts… I… I don’t know how I…” you begin to fumble over your words again.

“None of them would be against us.” Bucky says softly. “Or mock us.” He takes your fingers into his, interlocking. You can feel his warmth encasing you, from his thumb stroking your knuckles.

“We wouldn’t let them get the chance.” Bucky’s voice is low, an edged husk.

“I don’t want to embarrass you.” You spoke in a whisper, grinding your teeth, restraining the itching in your throat. Droplets of tears rain down your cheeks, soaking the jut of your chin, down underneath your neck.

“We’re not embarrassed.” Natasha’s fingers guide your chin. “Far from it.” She kisses your scalp, earning just the softest hint of a smile.

A pregnant pause.

“I would love to live with you…” you speak as soft as a baby’s breath, “to feel loved for once…”. A resignation rests on you, weighing heavier and heavier. A battle of resistance, to grasp violently onto the sadness, and on the other side, is acceptance.

Just give in. Don’t you want love?

It’s not important what I want.

It’s all here… in the form of two souls… doesn’t it feel nice?

It does feel nice.

“What do I say… to him?” The mention of your boyfriend back home stirs an odd tug in your belly. “How do I tell him? A fight can break out—”

“How about you sleep on it.” Bucky interjects, as Natasha’s open fingers stroke your spine. You nod, trying to swallow the harshness in your throat, muttering an okay under your breath.

A fight won’t happen, Bucky thinks, he won’t let it happen. He can sense Natasha feeling the same. A silent agreement that if anyone tries to hurt you —- it would end quickly and six feet deep in dirt. But, your anxiety vibrates too loud at the moment, it’s best to just rest now.

Laying down between them, sinking into the sheets. Natasha and Bucky encase you, as Bucky puts your phone on the nightstand. Out of sight, out of mind.

You let your last message to your now ex-boyfriend be your white lie of sleeping over at your mother’s. Now, your bones melt into the mattress, tucked between two bodies—- you can start anew in the morning, till then, you just want to rest with the two people who make you feel safe.

[ms-boogie-man]

Ahem…

Left-wing dumbasses who have lost a debate with me — and they always do — go into my Archive and get images such as this one …

… flagged and hidden behind the blue Tumblr box of idiocy

This is due to the left-wing historically being the wing of idiocy

…and yes, those are the exact same images. The one that worked was run thru the gif-maker again and resized by 1%

You have to get up earlier in the morning to best me yo … that is due to my being a vampire, and I never sleep

Could you ask for a better patriot on your team??!!! *giggles I think not —

… this is all

Angie/Maddie🦇❥✝︎🇺🇸

[themoonunderstoodmydadjokes]

This is like… a long train of thought that I’ve had the past couple of days and I don’t know… maybe someone else relates.

Growing up super religious and with parents who demonized every thought and emotion and now dealing with bpd (which often sees things as very black and white) it’s increasingly frustrating and difficult to see the reality about myself. Sometimes I can see all the good things about myself and the growth I’ve had and committed to over the years. I can see where I’ve healed and don’t think like I used to or even respond like I used to. Sometimes I see all of that and the bad too and still think to myself “but you acknowledge and take ownership of those things”. Which yeah I do try to do. And on the flip side of it, I have a tendency to take accountability for mine and others actions in complex situations. And anytime I act out of a trauma response or trigger or have one too many emotions or vent or be anything less than palatable, I feel as if I’m somehow the worst person ever. That somehow the toxicity I’ve worked so hard to not let consume me is still there. That if I had a moment like that where I just melted down and was human (even if the response or action or words or emotion isn’t entirely right) that somehow any and all of that healing is erased. Which just isn’t true and I know that , but also splitting and mental breakdowns don’t allow room for that kind of reality 😅😅. I never want to be that person that makes excuses for when they lash out or respond from a wounded place. And most of the time I think I live up to that expectation of myself. But I have such a hard time between deciding if my responses to people are warranted and deserved or if I’m just perceiving something wrong and hurting people. I know I’ve hurt people. It’s inevitable as a human being, but there’s also the part where making amends and recognizing is important. I think I’ve been made to apologize for so long for my part in something as well as the other party in the conflict. And I always feel like if I have the slightest unsavory reaction to something that it’s somehow a moral failing. It’s just this guilt that I can’t seem to untangle myself from. And I end up in this limbo of am I actually a bad person? Am I really the bad guy in this? Or is it that there’s just two (or more) flawed humans trying to work through things together. And I’ve just been made to feel bad about not always getting it right my entire life and then not allowed the space to make amends and grow and learn??

[autism-swagger]

I hate the idea that you’re only allowed to like villains that have been redeemed, and if you like villains that don’t join the hero’s in the end, then you’re a bad person. We need to reject the notion that villains have to be redeemed or have some sort of tragic backstory to it to be acceptable to like them. Anti-intellectualism has been on the rise lately (especially on tiktok, oh my god), and nobody has any nuance or media literacy anymore.

[caffeinewitchcraft]

Ghost Eater

Summary: You don't like exorcists. They don't much like you either.

-----

You’d always thought big restaurants like the Brownie Industry only did well in small, midwestern towns like the one you came from. A year working in LA has taught you that, no matter where you go, people will always love garlic bread and sugar.

It’s your day off which means you’re pulling a double shift. You haven’t had time to wash your hair for the past two weeks so it’s frizzing out of your claw clip and flying wild around your face. The lighting is so dim that you’ve tripped over two black purses already, luckily not while you’re running food. The big dining room sounds like an apiary with the tittering laughter of the later adult crowd that’s filtered in from the theater across the four lane road. The main difference between the Brownie Industry here and the one back home is size. The ceiling soars overhead, supported by a series of concrete pillars separating the dining area into three sections.

Normally it would be three servers per section. Today, it’s just you in yours.

One more hour. That’s what the manager promised you. It might even be true if the host stand quits seating you after the table you’re approaching.

There are three people at the table. A woman whose hair might be light blonde or gray in the light of day, her eyes light and piercing. Her face is soft from age, emphasized by the tight, lace collar of her off-season sweater. She reminds you strongly of your mom’s nemesis on the HOA board. The man couldn’t be more out of place next to her despite their equivalent age. He’s wearing a leather jacket – again, it’s not cold here – and a Norwegian metal shirt underneath. His hair is definitely white, so white it almost glows. He’s frowning at the teenager across the table as if she’s touched his motorcycle without permission.

The teenager might be the first you’ve seen all night who doesn’t have their phone out. She’s decked out in what you consider grandma florals – a t-shirt scattered with daisy chains, a bucket hat made out of nana’s carpet bag, and a hand-crocheted scarf in pastel.  You can’t really see her face under the shadow of her hat and there’s an odd, blurred quality to the way she fiddles with her napkin. You let your eyes skip past her and back to the two adults. Teenagers don’t pay the bill.

“Welcome to Brownie Industry!” you chirp. You’re sweaty and red but the faded yellow light hides that. You’re a service industry pro so none of your exhaustion shows on your face when you ask, “Is this your first-time dining with us?”

If you weren’t so burned out, you’d have noticed before you introduced yourself.

“Are you Grady?” the woman asks. Her voice is more posh than you expected even with her lace collar. “Grady Pace?”

Fuck. There’s a noticeable temperature differential now that you’re close to them. The restaurant is warm from the number of bodies, maybe even warmer than the summer air outside, but stepping up next to their table feels like walking into an ice rink.

“I’m your waitress,” you say. You don’t have time for this conversation. You’ve got five minutes in your cycle to take their order and then you’ve got food to run. “If you need any other services from me, I have a website.”

“We messaged you,” the man says. His lips thin to the point his thick mustache covers them entirely. “You never responded.”

Because you’ve been making more money at the Brownie Industry than your other job. “I’ll take a look at it tonight.”

“Wait,” the teenager says, sitting upright. She looks from you to the adults and back again. When she smiles, there’s no humor in it. “This is why we drove eight hours to have dinner at the Brownie Industry? For her?”

“Katie, be polite—”

“I’m sorry,” Katie says, “It’s just—I found a priest, you know? An actual exorcist priest and you guys want to trust a waitress over him?”

“Ugh exorcists,” you say. The memory of sour cabbage is so heavy on your tongue that you stick your tongue out in disgust. When you see Katie’s look, you backtrack. “Effective! Definitely effective.”

“Your mistakes have cost us too much already,” the man says, shaking a finger at her. “We are not converting just for an exorcism.”

“I normally don’t agree with your father,” the woman tells Katie, “but in this case I would like to leave conversion as a last resort.”

“We wouldn’t actually convert,” Katie says, rolling her eyes.

“Pretty sure exorcists can tell when you lie,” you tell Katie. When her scowl deepens, you clear your throat. “Did you all need another minute to think about the menu?”

“We need you to help us,” the dad says. He scrubs a hand over his face. “Look, I know you’re at work and I’m sorry we’re bothering you.”

“We’re desperate,” the mom says. She reaches for her purse. “We’ll pay you. Triple the rate on your website or even quadruple. We need that thing gone by tonight.”

Katie covers her face. “Mom. You’re embarrassing me. Terry isn’t that bad.”

“Oh, he’s bad, young lady,” the dad says sternly. “A bad influence.”

“We caught her trying to perform another séance yesterday,” the mom confesses to you. She leans forward with a pinched expression. “So Terry’s friend Larry could visit too.”

“Interesting,” you say. The food bell rings, but you think you can ignore it for another minute. You study Katie’s blush. “Why did you do that?”

If she was being compelled, she won’t have an answer to your question. You’ve dealt with a lot of ghosts in your time, but so few are sentient enough – or powerful enough – for compulsion.

“Go on,” the dad says, gesturing at you. “Tell her.”

“Leroy, she’s embarrassed enough,” the mom says.

“No, she’s not, Sarah.” The dad – Leroy – gestures to you again. “Tell her.”

Katie huffs, clearly resistant. But when her dad huffs back, she caves. “So,” she says, “I have this YouTube channel—”

“I’m off in an hour,” you interrupt. You don’t care that you’re being rude. Your patience ran out as soon as she said YouTube. “I’ll meet you in the parking lot.” You turn to go.

“A moment!” Sarah shakes out her menu. “How’s the nicoise salad?”

Of course they’re going to order. They’d better tip too if they want you to help them with their ghost problem.

----.

“You said an hour,” mom Sarah says when you leave out the employee entrance. She’s shivering next to her daughter. Leroy is off smoking behind his motorcycle, parked next to the Tesla Katie is leaning on, but he stubs out his cigarette on the asphalt when you walk up. “It’s been two.”

“I had side work,” you say instead of it would have been one if not for you. You rub your bare arms when the familiar ghost chill washes over you. You want nothing more than to go home and wash the scent of garlic and brownie batter out of your hair. “Was there something wrong with my service?”

“No?”

You try to make your voice light. “I see.”

Sarah frowns at your tone anyway. “Why?”

“You tipped five dollars.”

Katie jolts like a scalded cat. “Mom!”

Leroy scrubs a hand over his face. “Sarah…”

“What?” Sarah throws up her hands. The parking lot lights catch on her Swarovski charm bracelet. “I tipped!”

“Like ten percent,” Katie says. She pulls her bucket hat over her eyes for a beat and then peeks at you from under it. “I’m so sorry. It’s not you, she’s always like this.”

“It was actually a six percent tip,” you say. You’re getting a clearer picture of this little family now. It’s becoming more and more understandable why Katie might have started summoning ghosts. “If you want to be precise.”

Leroy reaches for his back pocket. “Let me.”

Sarah swats at his hand. “We’re about to pay her a lot more than that!”

“For a completely separate job,” Leroy says. He pulls a twenty from his wallet and hands it to you with a grimace. “Sorry, Grady, I should’ve checked.”

“You should’ve paid if you cared so much,” Sarah retorts. She folds her arms over her chest. She taps her cheek and widens her eyes. “Oh wait… you never pay.”

“Sure,” Leroy says. This time it’s his turn to throw his hands in the air. “Sure, Sarah. I don’t pay for anything to do with our daughter’s private school or her dance classes or her health insurance—”

“If the court hadn’t mandated—”

“You make twice as much as me—"

“Guys!” Katie says loudly. Her mouth is a thin line of upset when she says, “Argue about what an expensive burden I am later when we don’t have an audience, okay?”

Her parents speak at the same time.

“You’re twisting my words,” Sarah says. “I never said—"

“Sweetie, you’re not a burden—”

“Can you just get this ghost out of me?” Katie asks you. She goes for nonchalance and falls short. “My parents haven’t been in the same room for the last five years for a reason.” She fakes whispering. “They don’t play nicely with others.”

Sarah bristles. “Katie.”

“God, I know how that is,” you say. The whole interaction is giving you the worst case of sympathy for Katie. Before her parents can say anything else, you change the subject. “How long have you been haunted?”

“Six months,” Katie says. She fiddles with her bucket hat so that you can see her eyes for the first time. They’re brown, like her dad’s, and have heavy bruises underneath. She shrugs. “They only noticed a month ago though.”

“I noticed your behavior had changed,” Sarah defends. Like her daughter, she fidgets. She plays with her bracelet and clears her throat. “I thought it was a teenage thing.”

“What signs did you notice first?” you ask the parents. They glance at each other and then away.

“Let’s just say we noticed different things,” Leroy says dryly. He pulls out his phone.

“Moodiness,” Sarah says. She ticks them off on her fingers. “Laziness. Disrespect. Over-sleeping.”

“Those are just teenager things,” Katie says with an astounding level of self awareness. She shrugs. “I’m a senior now. They’re lucky it didn’t start sooner.”

“I,” Leroy says, “noticed this.” He turns his phone towards you.

“Ah,” Sarah says, “Yes. That.”

You examine the picture. It’s of Katie on a small dirt bike. She’s wearing a helmet in the picture, but you recognize the fashion sense in the floral boots she’s wearing. The scene behind her is of the hills, low scrub brush recognizable to someone who’s lived in LA for the past five years. On the bike behind her is a smudge. It could be a cloud of dirt blown into frame or maybe a camera glitch. It could be if it weren’t for the leering face emerging from the cloud right behind her head.

“I just want to say I did not agree to getting her a motorcycle,” Sarah says.

“Mom, not the point,” Katie says.

“Look how close that creep is to my daughter,” Leroy says. He jabs a finger at Katie’s waist in the photo where you can see a ghostly hand. “I want him gone.”

“Dad, he didn’t mean anything by it!” Katie turns to you earnestly. “Terry never rode a bike before and I thought, like, what if he moved on after he got a chance to? It was a philanthropic effort!”

“Plant a tree if you want to be a philanthropist,” Leroy growls. “I want this guy away from my daughter.”

“He doesn’t mean any harm really,” Katie says. “He would move on if he could! He says he’s stuck to me because of how I summoned him. He’s like, really sorry. He even spelled out Sorry in the bathroom mirror once.”

“What,” Sarah says in a dangerous voice, “was Terry doing in the bathroom with you, Katie?”

Katie splutters. “Mom, don’t be gross!”

The family descends into bickering. You have heard about ghosts being stuck to a person before, but usually that’s when the person has some sort of psychic powers. Katie’s wearing crystal in her ears, but they aren’t charged. She might develop some talent later in life, but right now she’s a normal girl.

The parking lost is nearly empty now. You recognize a few employee cars, but very few customers. The kitchen will be cleaning for another half hour before they’re ready to go home.  The reality is that, if Terry is stuck, you might not be the best way to handle the situation. If he’s not…

Well.

It’s time to talk to Terry.

Opening your ghost sense is hard to describe. Some psychics liken it to a third eye, right in the middle of their forehead. You’ve always thought that sounded really cool like maybe the world gets cast in a blue hue when they do it and the dead appear like they do in movies. You’ve met other psychics who say it’s like a sixth sense. They know where the ghost is and it’s like they download all that information until their minds can just sort of conjure their image.

For you, it’s like letting your body remember it has a second mouth. Cats have an extra sensory organ on the roof of their mouth that lets them detect scents better. Your second mouth is a bit like that. You can still smell brownies and garlic and the city air of LA, but you can also smell/taste something else.

Something like…pepper?

Your eyes water and you sneeze so viciously that your eyes close. When you open them again, four people are staring at you in surprise.

“Gesundheit,” Leroy says.

“You sneeze like Dad does,” Katie says.

“Did no one ever teach you to cover your mouth?” Sarah asks in disgust.

“I wish you would’ve sneezed on her,” Terry says, nodding to Sarah. “She’s such a bitch.”

“Thank you for the commentary, everyone,” you say. You wipe your nose with the collar of your shirt as you consider Terry. It’s dirty anyway. “Terry. Interesting name for a ghost.”

Terry hasn’t noticed that you can see him yet. He’s floating behind Katie, one arm casually flung over her shoulder. It’s hard to place when he died based on his appearance alone. His hair is chin length, emphasizing the width of his jaw. Squire cuts have been popular for several decades and the bowling shirt he’s wearing could either be a modern fashion statement or a dated uniform. He looks to be in his mid-twenties, sun-kissed and with the air of someone who tells a lot of jokes at the expense of others. His arm around Katie strikes you as possessive, the glare he gives her parents venomous.

“I didn’t name him,” Katie says. “He said it’s short of Torrance.”

You blink. “Wouldn’t he be Torri then?”

“That’s a girl’s name,” Katie and Terry say at the same time. Their cadence is so close that it actually sounds like Terry’s baritone comes out of Katie’s mouth. For a moment, his arm flickers, clipping into her shoulder like a bad animation. When it does, Terry’s form grows brighter, more solid. Then Katie shivers and he’s forced out of her.

You and Terry click your tongues at the same time.

You remember how Katie’s hands seemed to blur at the dinner table. Terry’s not just haunting Katie. He’s trying to possess her. You wonder if that’s why Katie looked up an exorcist rather than a simple spiritual cleansing. Did she know how much danger she was in?

“Okay,” you say. You tear your attention away from Katie and Terry for a moment. Business first. “Sarah. Leroy. Who was it that found my site?”

“I did,” Sarah says. She raises her chin when you can’t hide your surprise. “When Katie was looking up exorcists—”

“She didn’t mean it,” Terry says. He pats Katie’s hat. “Right?”

“—I looked up alternative solutions,” Sarah says, not having heard Terry. Her confidence falters for a moment and she rubs her arm. “I have had some… negative experiences with exorcisms. I don’t want my daughter to go through that.”

Katie’s head whips towards her mother. “What? I didn’t know that.”

“It was a long time ago,” Leroy says. For the first time, he reaches out and hugs Sarah with one arm. You don’t know what surprises you more; Leroy hugging Sarah or Sarah leaning into his side. “When Sarah told me, we decided to put our differences aside. I vetted you through some of my contacts and they all agreed you’d be a safe bet.”

“I am,” you say. You’re not bragging either. You’re probably the safest bet in half the western states besides your older sister. “There are some…peculiarities in my method.”

“Charlatan,” Terry whispers in Katie’s ear. He’s grinning now. “Only charlatans are that confident. Look! She can’t even see me!”

Katie looks doubtful.

Usually, you’d try to talk to Terry at this point. Sometimes spirits can be negotiated with. They can be encouraged to move on or to take on a less aggressive form of haunting. Those that are truly stuck can be helped with the right sort of ritual work. But the way Terry’s affecting Katie’s mood and that fucking arm around her shoulders…

You don’t really want to talk to Terry.

“We can ask Terry to move on,” you tell the family.

“Nooooooo,” Terry says and flips you off. “Pass!”

“Sometimes spirits don’t realize how deeply they’re affecting their hosts,” you say.

“You don’t even know how deep I’m about to be,” Terry jeers at you.

“Many ghosts are confused when they’re called to interact with the living,” you say. “It can blur their understanding of death and, as a result, they cling to life. If they stick around long enough, their presence will affect the living like what’s happening to Katie. It’s not always malicious. It can be a symptom of that confusion.”

“Katie, tell her to piss off,” Terry hisses in the teen’s ear. “I’m not confused, I’m bored.” His voice deepens. “Tell her we don’t need her help. Tell her we’re going home.”

Katie opens her mouth robotically. “That’s…” Her brow creases as she tries to figure out what she was going to say. “It seems like we don’t need help then. Terry will move on when he’s ready, like I thought.”

“We aren’t paying you for a ghost therapy session,” Sarah snaps. It’s only because you’re really focusing that you can see the unease under her anger. She’s noticed something wrong with Katie. “Katie, Terry is going away today.”

“Fuck you,” Terry says.

“Fuck you,” Katie says.

Leroy’s head rears back. “Katie, you don’t use that language with your mother!”

“Fuck you too,” Katie and Terry say. The parking lot lights flicker.

“No, fuck you, Terry,” you say, stepping between Katie and her parents. Leroy starts like he’s going to pull you out of the way, but he doesn’t.

“Terry?” Leroy asks. He looks scared. “Terry said that? Is Terry possessing my daughter?”

“Not yet.” You eye Terry’s arm and the way his fingers are sinking into Katie’s arm.

“Oh fuck,” Terry says. He doesn’t look scared. Not yet. Instead, he grins. “You can see me.”

“Not every ghost is malicious,” you tell the parents without taking your eyes off Terry. “But some are.”

“I’m not malicious.” Terry runs a hand through his hair, still grinning. The parking lot lights flicker overhead again. “I care about Katie a lot.”

“Terry’s never hurt me,” Katie says.

You ignore her. She’s not even shaking Terry off now. Her gaze is dull on your face when you say, “I don’t mean to sound like I’m some sort of ghost therapist. However, it’s important to differentiate between malicious and non-malicious hauntings in my practice. My methods are unconventional and, if used indiscriminately, I can get in a lot of trouble.”

“We won’t tell anyone,” Leroy says. He steps into your periphery. His gaze flicks from you to the spot you’re staring at over Katie’s shoulder. “We want Terry gone.”

“Not a soul,” Sarah promises. She comes up on your other side. “Please help our daughter.”

“Terry,” you say. Your second mouth is yawning wide somewhere in the back of your brain. The taste of pepper isn’t as overwhelming now. “Last chance. Renounce your claim on Katie’s soul and slither back into whatever hole you came out of.”

“We’re soulmates,” Terry says. He bares his teeth at you. “Go on, Charlatan. Call on your God to banish me. I’ve been around for decades and no exorcist has ever been able to put a scratch on me. And when they manage to push me out?” He laughs and the temperature drops another ten degrees. An unholy light flickers in his eyes. “I just come right back.”

“Then I guess I won’t feel guilty,” you say.

“Guilty?” Katie asks.

You walk forward two steps and grab Terry’s face. Terry’s skin is soft and jelly-like. His facial bones undulate like rubber under your grip. “Hi, Terry.”

Now Terry’s afraid. “What the fuck, you can touch—?”

“Bye, Terry.” You drag him towards you. His fingers pop out of Katie’s arm with a wet sucking sound, and he claws at your wrist.

“Wait! Waitwaitwaitwait--”

You eat Terry.

People come from all around to eat at the Brownie Industry. They love the density of the desserts and the heaps of garlic spread over home-baked (shipped frozen) rolls. It’s a treat to know you’re always going to enjoy the meal even if you’re far from home or eating at the same location a hundred times. It’s consistency, sugar and butter. An easy addiction to have.

Eating ghosts is like that for you. They fizz in your second mouth like champagne and melt like fudge. It’s hard to describe and the ephemeral quality of it sends shivers down your spine. Somewhere Terry is screaming in anguish, maybe crying. You think that the family you’re helping is screaming something too, but the sensation of eating is so consuming you can’t hear the words.

Terry is younger than other ghosts you’ve eaten. He doesn’t have the depth of flavor you’d once been addicted to back in Illinois. The best ghost you’ve ever eaten had been like a six-course meal with all the centuries she’d been carrying. In comparison, Terry is like a bag of pepper chips. Interesting, but gone in a moment. Still, he hits the spot.

When you’re done, you burp a purple cloud of ectoplasm into the still night air.

Leroy is the first to speak. His eyes are so wide you can see the whites all around them. “Pay her, Sarah,” he says breathlessly. His hands shake as he reaches for Katie, steadying her on her feet. “Now.”

You smack your lips and graciously accept the wad of cash Sarah hands you. You raise your eyebrows. “This is more than three times my rate.”

“Consider it a tip,” Sarah says. She’s more composed than Leroy, but still pale. She studies you. “That was…revolting.”

“You didn’t have to watch,” you say. You put your money away and then perk up at a sudden thought. “Hey, if you can, can you leave me a review on my site?”

“I thought you didn’t want us to tell anyone?”

You wave your hand. “Secrets are bad for business. Besides, Terry deserved it. I’m sure they’ll understand if you write that in your review.”

“They…?”

You smile and don’t answer.

The family don’t ask many more questions after that. The parents promise to leave a review and Katie just stares at you as if concussed. You assure the parents that she’ll be back to normal as soon as the soul-shock wears off. 

“And if it doesn’t?” Sarah asks.

“Message me,” you say.

“You don’t check your messages,” Leroy says.

“Oh,” you say, patting your stomach, “I’ll be checking them a lot more often now.”

You’re hungry again.

---

(Patreon)

[luna-azzurra]

Writing a Morally gray character

Think about their backstory, what shaped them into who they are? What do they believe in? And, most importantly, what pushes them to get out of bed every morning and keep going? These characters aren’t simple good or bad. They’re caught in the middle, in that murky, complicated space between black and white. That’s where they get interesting because they’re constantly wrestling with themselves, trying to figure out the right choice, or if the “right” choice even exists for them.

You need to show this internal battle. Imagine your character being torn between what they believe is morally right and what they actually want. This is where the real drama comes in, it’s like watching them juggle their principles with their desires in real-time. They’ll mess up, and they’ll make decisions that are sometimes questionable, but that’s what makes them human and relatable. One way to really highlight their complexity is by putting them in situations where there’s no clear answer. You know, those moments in life where everything’s kind of a mess, and you’re stuck trying to figure out what the hell you’re supposed to do? Your character should face situations like that. These gray areas create tension because readers won’t know which direction the character will go, and honestly, your character might not know either.

And don’t forget, growth is a huge part of writing a morally gray character. People aren’t static, they change based on what happens to them, and your character should too. Maybe they start off with a strong sense of morality but, over time, that starts to shift. Or maybe they start with shaky ethics and slowly become a better person as they learn from their mistakes. Growth can also go the other way, they could spiral downward, giving in to darker impulses. Either way, they need to evolve, just like people do in real life. That’s what keeps the story fresh and unpredictable. The last thing you want is a character that stays the same the whole way through.

Also, please, no stereotypes. A morally gray character doesn’t have to be a brooding anti-hero with a tragic past (unless that’s your vibe, but even then, switch it up). Give them quirks that make them unique. Maybe they have unexpected motivations, like they’re doing something shady for a cause they genuinely believe in, or they’ve got a weird sense of humor that throws people off. Whatever it is, make sure they feel like an individual, not just a copy-paste character we’ve all seen a million times.

Even when your character makes decisions that aren’t exactly clean-cut or heroic, the reader still needs to understand why. Show their vulnerabilities, why they doubt themselves, why they hesitate, and why they ultimately make the choices they do. It’s all about making them relatable, even when they’re walking that fine line between right and wrong. People might not always agree with them, but they should at least be able to see where they’re coming from.

And remember, every choice your character makes should have consequences. They don’t exist in a bubble. Their decisions should ripple out and affect not only them but the people around them. Maybe they make a selfish decision, and it ends up hurting someone they care about, or they try to do the right thing, and it blows up in their face. One last thing, just because your character lives in that gray area doesn’t mean they don’t have any sense of right or wrong. They might have their own personal code they follow, even if it doesn’t line up with society’s morals. Maybe they justify their actions in a way that makes sense to them, even if other people wouldn’t agree. It’s all about exploring that space where they’re not totally good, but not totally bad either. That’s where things get really interesting.

Think about where your character is going. Is their journey going to push them to become a better version of themselves? Will they fall back into old patterns and never really change? Or will they stay stuck in that moral gray zone, constantly torn between doing what’s right and doing what feels right for them?

[erinelliotc]

A few years ago I used to be that annoying "transmasc lesbians don't exist, this shit is harmful and invalidates both transmascs and lesbians" person, and now I'M the transmasc lesbian. Seems like the tables have turned, huh?

I've spent so many months, years, trying so hard to fit into these categories that I saw so many people talk about as if it were the definitive truth, and this shallow and simplistic vision seems to be gaining a lot of attention and traction here in Brazil. Isn't it ironic to free yourself from cisnormativity and heteronormativity and all these binary boxes to find yourself again trying to fit into other boxes and norms that don't actually describe your experience correctly? Because your experience with gender is so chaotic and confusing (as expected of a nonbinary identity, and even more so if you're neurodivergent too) that there's no simple way to describe it. Then when you find out what describes this, people say you can't identify yourself that way because two or more of your identities are "incompatible". I see people treating non-binarity as if it were an exact science, as if it were math, as if it were something simple and logical, as it is precisely the escape from what has been established in our society as the only two possible options, generating countless identities within a gray area outside this black and white vision, so of course it's something complex, abstract and subjective.

EDIT: One of my reasons for thinking this way was that I ignored that the transgender experience and the cisgender experience aren't and will never be equivalent. It's obvious that a cis man can't be a lesbian, but the same doesn't go for transmasc people, and I thought that admitting that was the same as being transphobic, denying the masculinity of transmascs, denying their male identity. I already had a debate on Twitter because people didn't want to admit that trans men and transmasc people in general can suffer misogyny and male chauvinism (as society can still see and treat us as women) because they also saw it as the same as saying transmasc people are women. The identity of trans people is a very complex experience that involves a series of factors that cis people will never experience. We cannot equate the trans experience with the cis experience.

I thought identifying as a butch lesbian was enough to describe my masculinity, but I realized that I felt like it didn't encompass everything I felt, I still felt like something was missing. Preventing and depriving myself of identifying with more explicit masculine identities was actually making me feel bad and dysphoric. So yeah, I've been avoiding identifying with male-aligned identities because I thought that would mean having to stop identifying as a lesbian, and I didn't want that, and I don't really feel like calling myself straight makes any sense.

I have a text in Portuguese talking about my experience as a butch lesbian, and I feel that now it also serves to describe my experience as a nonbinary transmasc (the part where I talk about not identifying with "traditional masculinity", but with a "different type", like "soft masculinity", is directly related to the fact that, in addition to being nonbinary, I don't identify as a man, I don't feel comfortable with the term "man", but rather with "boy"). I spent a few months wondering whether I was libramasculine or boyflux, and I ended up deciding that if I can't identify which one I am, maybe it makes more sense to just adopt both identities, maybe I am both then! I'm tired of trying to fit into supposed rules about being nonbinary. This is exactly how non-binarity shouldn't be. I'm supposed to feel free, not trapped again. My identity is my identity and that's nobody's business.

[rey-129-fan]

Gotham-Amity Co-op AU Part 3

Part 1 | Previous | Next

“Hola beauties, and welcome back to Fashionable History, I’m Paulina,”

“And I’m Star, and on this channel, we teach you how to be at the height of fashion, no matter what time period you find yourself in.”

“Now for our long-time viewers who missed our community posts, you might be wondering about the change in location.  Well, we are moving up in the world.  That’s right, fam, we are officially-

“College girlies!” The two shouted into the camera.

“Ah, such a big step,” ‘Star’ sighed.

“Indeed it is.  And to celebrate, let us dress up like we’re going to meet the queen of fashion herself: Marie Antoinette!”

***

“So you would think it would be hard to demonstrate Amity Park’s weirdness while no longer living there, but you would be wrong,” a black man said into the camera while walking down a hallway, his glasses fallen ever so slightly down his nose.  There were voices in the background progressively getting louder.  “You see, Danny’s mentor popped by this morning, and apparently, he decided that the perfect way to tutor Danny and piss off his bosses at the same time was to allow a bunch of college kids to summon a historical figure of their choosing to discuss their area of expertise.  Once a week.

“Jazz got to go first.”

The black man stopped in a doorway.  Much clearer in the background was a woman’s even voice.  “And Jazz, being the future psychologist that she is, picked the most sex-obsessed man in history.”

The camera flipped to show a young red-head sitting across an older man with a white beard in a blue three piece suit.  In the background was a younger man, his blue eyes glazed over as he sat there sipping from his mug, his head of black hair bobbing as he fought to stay awake.  Really, it wouldn’t gather a second glance, except for the tiny detail that the older man’s skin was as green as a sunburnt person’s was red.

“-indeed homosexuality is not an illness, and in fact the only link between it and mental health has been observed to be caused by familial and community reactions.”

“That is good to hear.  Indeed, many people throughout history were homosexual, and a lot of them did not show any other signs of mental illnesses.”

“It is.  However, with the recent pushes for public acceptance of those not heterosexual, many have come forward with sexual orientations beyond just hetero and homosexuality, including those that are attracted to both men and women at the same time, as well as those who experience no sexual attraction or are completely repulsed by the idea of anything sexual.”

The camera flipped back to the first man.  “She is explaining how psychology has developed in the last 100 years without trying to rip apart Freud’s work.

“This isn’t even the first time something like this has happened.  Occasionally, we’d get guest speakers that would turn out to be some famous author or pioneer in their field.  It’s how our English teacher got his copy of the Tempest signed by the original author.  I think this might be the first one that won’t end in a raid by government idiots in white, though.

“So yeah, we occasionally get to talk to dead celebrities and don’t bat an eye at it.  Amity Park is very weird.”

***

“Danny!  You left your cups in the sink again!”

“How can you tell it’s mine?”

“They’re glowing green and you’re the only one that drinks ectoplasm!  Now take care of them before you bring the food to life again!”

“Fine…”

The camera pans over to a goth woman giving the camera a flat look.  On screen, there’s some text that reads: ‘When your boyfriend forgets to clean off his dishes after his mildly radioactive smoothies.’

***

“Urgh!” Just die you stupid, lazy skeleton!”

“How long is this attack going to be!”

“I don’t care, because when it’s finally my turn, I am going to stab the dust out of this depressed sack of bones!”

On screen was a couch, and on that couch sat 3 young adults, two women and one man.  One of the women was Valarie Gray, US National Taekwondo Silver Medalist, was jabbing her thumb down on the d-pad of her controller, lips pulled back in a snarl.  The other was Samantha Manson, more known for the TikTok channel Our Strange Lives.  The man was a muscular blond.  All three were focusing on the screen, their eyes emitting faint light and Valarie’s teeth seemed to be getting sharper.

Quietly a blond woman walked on screen, a backpack slung over her shoulder.  The woman was Star Strong from Fashionable History.

“You guys are still streaming?”

“This boss is stupid difficult and Manson and Gray are the only ones willing to play.”

“What happened to the guys?”

“Fowley, Wes, Singh all had work.  Fenton got to the first boss and then lost it because ‘Goat Mom just wanted to protect us’ before getting a call from his lil sis asking for help.  Kwan is working on a lab with a guy from his chem class, and Kyle passed out a couple hours ago.”

“Stop dodging!”

“Wanna play?”

“Can’t.  Going to the library to study for a calc exam I have coming up.  See you guys later.”

“Later.”

“FUC-”

***

“And so, with this polaroid image, we have evidence to prove that-”

“Hey, Wes, do you have something I can use for a collage?  Oh sweet, thanks bro!”

“What?  No!  Kyle!  Get back with that! That was the proof I was going to use to prove the existence of Yetis!”

“Oh damn.  This is some nice creature work!  Danny, your friend has an incredible costume, man!”

“Thanks, Kyle!  I’ll pass it on!”

***

Tim paused the video right as Wesley Weston stood to chase his older brother.

There.

The red-head’s eyes had a slight glow to them.  Tim clicked over to the other images he had gathered of the Amity Park teens, all with their eyes glowing or other signs of something inhuman.

Tim had been introduced to this group by Stephanie when she found a martial arts demonstration Gray did that involved breaking multiple boards, all several feet above her head.  Stephanie had meant it as a ‘check out his cool person doing what we’re doing,’ but Tim noticed something.  All the boards were being held by seemingly the same person- or at least people dressed very similarly.  And not in a way where they’re sitting on a ledge above Gray and are switching out the board each time she broke one.  More that there were multiple companies of the same white glove all holding a board and all floating several feet above where they should have been.  That was already a little weird, but it could’ve been some special effects or just a uniform.

No, what caught Tim’s attention was the quick glimpse of the face of one of the board holders.  It was youthful- late teens- but with paper white hair that showed no signs of bleaching.  Now these features would have been a thing to cement the mysterious person in Tim’s mind.  But it wasn’t that.

No, what got Tim to do some digging to find out about a previously unknown supposed hero from a small town that has been blacked-out by the US government, was his eyes.

His calm, glowing Lazarus green eyes.

***

So we finally get a taste for the shenanigans our liminals are up to. Sam, Tucker, and Danny all share a TikTok where they show off how weird the other two are and how weird their town is. Wes is trying to prove cryptids exist, which Kyle ruins. Dash has a gaming stream that most often Kwan joins in on, and Paulina and Star do dress history. Oh, and Valarie is a national taekwondo because karate has only been an event for one Olympic games, but taekwondo has been an event since 2000 and Val seems more like a kicker than a thrower. Plus, I actually took taekwondo when I was younger.

We do get another Bat showing up at the end. There is absolutely no plot, however, so who knows where this is going. Certainly not me!

I'm still looking for names (please, I need them). As for majors:

Jazz-Psych (obviously)

Kyle- Liberal Arts (I wanna put him in accounting, but Liberal Arts works for now)

Tuck- Comp Sci

Danny- Poly Sci, minor in Astronomy

Sam- Double Poly Sci and Environmental Science

Val- Criminal Justice

Dash- Undecided (both me and him)

Kwan- Pre-Med for now, though he wants to do Child Development/Education

Paulina- Fashion Marketing

Star- Sports Science

Mikey- Music

Wes- Journalism

[the-hydroxian-artblog]

Any tips or guides on how you draw such wonderful mechanical/toy-like characters? It feels robust but not overwhelming, love it.

Thank you! So a lot of it is just knowing how to slap the joints on a normal humanoid body. If you research stuff like figma action figures and real life robots, you'll quickly build up a mental library of mechanical joints that correspond to different body parts. Many things that apply to robots apply to toys and things, though it always depends.

Once you have this library built up, you can kinda just do Whatever. Answered a similar ask a long while back that goes into more detail as well.

Some robots are much more detailed than this though, and the main inspirations I have for Normal Robots in particular are from Portal 2, particularly in Atlas and P-Body; the trick they use is having all the mechanical bits (usually pistons) being colored black and dark-grays, with the shells and casings being white or some other contrasting color.

This is an excellent way of having your cake and getting to eat it as well, because the colored casing draws your eye, and you get rewarded with taking in all the finer mechanical bits without getting distracted by them first.

This main principle is what I use for Kaita, who has mechanical parts, but often shows more subtly in her neck and torso/abdomen.

If you just quickly glanced at this closeup of Kaita from this older bit of art I did here, you'd probably not completely realize she's a robot, but seeing the strange geometric shapes etched into those areas might clue you in. To reiterate: while robots like Kaita are more complicated than toys, they share a good deal of mechanisms for stuff like rotating the arms, turning wrists, etc.

It's also just kinda a character design thing in general, is using strong shape language and going for something... toyetic. Which sounds redundant, but you'd quickly understand what I mean when you look at something like, say, Fortnite characters, or the designs to Ben10 aliens. They're not toys, but they all kinda have that Look to em, and they look like that not just because they do in fact have merchandise, but because that kinda blocky look is really readable, and excellent for action scenes and poses. Just that blocky shape language and strong color-schemes can do a lot of heavy lifting on even the simplest designs.

My main inspirations are Sonic and TF2, which I feel is weirdly obvious when you look at someone like Victor if you look at the blockiness of his body and the way I stick to a limited color palette. As-is he wouldn't fit in either universe visually, but you can kinda see how the design principles bleed into how he looks now.

[paigebueckersmommy]

not tonight.. but - p.b

dom paige turned sub x fem!reader

warnings: 18+, smut, fingering, p eating, literally pure filth

you and paige had been dating for 11 months, your one year approaching in 3 weeks. paige had told you to sit back and relax as she did all the planing and work. she was that way in most areas, especially in bed. paige loved being in control, hearing your pleasure while moaning her name, it was her favorite thing. you had just started your period two days ago, and paige had called you about an hour ago to ask if she could come over. you of course said yes, and with you being on your period you wanted to treat paige to a suprise, knowing that she deserved it since she was always in control by her own choice.

you heard her keys jingle in the door and ran from your bedroom to the door of your apartment to greet her. she opended the door, wearing a white nike sports bra under her gray zip up and black sweatpants, her average outfit. “hi ma i’ve missed you so much,” paige says already touching on you, touching your bare collarbone since you were wearing a tube top. she pushes you against the wall kissing you as her thumb slips under the waistband of your sweatpants. right after she does that, “baby i’m on my period.” you say, seeing the disappointed look on her face you follow up with, “but you know how hard you’ve been working lately,” you say touching her neck and brushing your hands against her clothes abs. “i’m just so proud of you, y’know that right baby?” you say in a needy ton, looking up at her as you are just 5’3 and paige stands before you in her 5’11 glory, with the added height from her tennis shoes.

“oh, my submissive princess is gonna fuck me?” paige says looking down at you with a smirk. “hell yea.” you say , hands around her waist leading her to your couch, she sits down as you lap her, kissing her passionate ad your hands cup your face as her hands fall to your ass. still kissing her perfect lips, you tug at her shirt and start to pull it off her. once it’s off, you pull away from her face stroking the strap of her sports bra you say, “baby can you take this off for me?” paige licks her lip then chokes out, “anything for you,” with a giggle. you slightly lift yourself off her, still straddling her and you lower her sweatpants and her panties coming with. once they’re fully off, you start to lick her nipples, earning a gasp from her followed with multiple heavy breathes out.

you lick down her abs, and lower your slef to her thighs. you kiss her upper and inner thigh. “ma please,” paige says, breathing heavy. “please what, P? use your words sweetheart.” paige moans out, “y-your mouth please,” you smirk, you had never seen paige so submissive, you loved it. you starting flicking your toung over your her clit, earning many desperate moans from paige. you brought your fingers up and down her folds, using her wetness to make it easier to slip two fingers into her sopping cunt, earnings loud and breathy moan from paige. “holy shit holy shit fuckkkk, i- i don’t know if i can last baby” paige choked out in between breathy moans.

paige tasted so good, and when she melted under you in orgasm she tasted even better. “fuck fuck holy fuck” paige said, still catching her breath. you pumped your fingers into her thrice more before taking them out and straight into your mouth as you didn’t want any juices to fall off your fingers. you kept eye contact with her the entire time. “holy fuck.” paige breathed out once again, you had loved every second of that. “baby i might have to take that role more often.” you said with a smirk after plopping down next to her on the couch still keeping eye contact with her as you kept eye contact with paige still. “y’know i definetly agree, baby u did so good.”

[amywritesthings]

silver underground. | chapter 23

( Read on AO3 )

Pairing: levi ackerman x f!reader (attack on titan / shingeki no kyojin) Word Count: 4.6k Summary: the night of day 163 - also known as the final confession

Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI - angst, mentions of death, sensuality, levi is sad(tm) but we are finally giving him what he needs! Credits: dividers by @saradika-graphics

Previous Chapter. / Next Chapter. | Masterlist.

As soon as Captain Levi hauls himself upright on the saddle of his horse, he’s gone.

Like a bat out of hell, his horse takes off towards the direction of the old Survey Corps headquarters.

Dust and dirt from the hasty exit licks at the tip of your boots.

The rest of the Levi squad had only finished settling on their own horses, with you the last to remain on the forest floor.

“He seems eager to get back,” Petra states with a slow apprehension to her tone.

Oluo grunts in reply, and you know.

You can feel his eyes locked onto the back of your skull.

Asking—

What happened between the two of you? 

Why do you remember the outcome of the last mission? 

What aren’t you telling us?

The myriad of questions are not lost on you, because you ask them yourself.

After all, you were barely given a chance to explain.

To understand.

Even before the rest of Levi squad made it to the fall site, the tension between you and Levi was palpable.

The way Levi stared at you, held you, in the aftermath.

Trapped between the before times and what you’ve been reduced to before his very eyes —

“James, are you good?” Gunther asks, softer this time, but it's all white noise.

Figure out if you mean it.

If you really do remember — any of this.

Levi's voice is the only one registering in your mind.

If you think you know me, then say it with your whole damn chest and hold nothing back.

You do. You know him.

Captain Levi.

Child of the Underground.

Captain of the Special Operations Squad.

Though you know him as something else; something profound; something too devastating to lose.

The one who almost got away.

Before you can say a word, your body moves on autopilot: you shove your foot into a worn stirrup and jump up and onto your horse with the reins gripped in both hands.

Snapping them with newfound urgency, you leave the remaining members of your squad behind to bridge the gap between you and Levi.

Go.

Wind sweeps your emerald cloak like wings behind you as you ride, urging you horse faster, faster, faster—

And you inhale.

The more that you breathe, the more that you push yourself forward, your body feels less like a foreign entity. 

Your fingers flex without a detached delay. 

The leather against your palm feels right, like—

…like you’ve finally woken up on the right side of the bed again.

By the time you reach the headquarter courtyard, his midnight horse is already tied to a banister at the stable.

In a rushed dismount from your saddle, your shaking hands hurriedly tie the knot around the same banister and rush towards the open doors.

As you run inside your shoes switch from crunch to click, from dirt to concrete floor.

The sky, once swirling in uncertain grays, opens to a light rain. 

An incoming storm echoes through cavernous hallways, turning grayed stone to black.

Everywhere you look, he isn’t there — the foyer, the rest areas, the abandoned offices —

"C'mon, c'mon..."

As you turn the corner towards the kitchen, your eager ears pick up the leisure pace of two sets of boots.

You move faster, hoping to see that familiar head of raven hair.

To your surprise, you find Hange and Moblit at the very end of the corridor chatting after a meal. 

When they notice your arrival, Moblit gives a little half-smile of recognition while the Section Commander holds out their arms, eager to greet you.

“Hey, hey! She’s back from all the action!” Hange yelps with excitement. “Now tell me, how—”

“Where’s Levi?”

Your sharp question interrupts Hange’s cheerful greeting.

In this light, Hange appears so much clearer to you. Gone is the fuzzy confusion; their outline now just as sharp as their wit and wonder.

(Something like a found safe space, warm and comforting.)

“Levi?” they question. “Huh, I didn’t think he was back.”

So they don’t know yet.

He didn’t say anything.

But he's here, you know he made it back here—

Urgently, you step towards the two.

“I need to know where he is. It’s urgent.”

“Did something happen?” Moblit gently presses.

“I remember,” you state, as if that’ll explain anything. They blink in tandem. “I don’t know how, but it—”

Your hand rises to your mouth, covering it and giving yourself a moment to think.

Except the problem is that you need to say it — thinking, second guessing, slows this down.

Focus.

Your hand drops, and your voice says the first thing that comes to mind.

“Hange — you and I once drank Moblit so horrendously under the table that he was bedridden for two days.” 

Hange’s boot squeaks against the floor in an echo as they stop dead in their tracks. 

“And whenever we meet in the city, Moblit and I order dumplings from that one nice old woman just outside the hospital. I think — you get the most basic order and always make sure to bring something back for Hange.”

Moblit’s eyes shoot wide. “Whoa, that—”

You hold a hand out to placate Hange, who looks like they’re two seconds away from screeching with elation.

“I can’t explain to you know I know all of this, and I don’t have time to figure that out right now. It’s just sort of word-vomiting out of my damn mouth the longer I let myself talk — so I don’t want to stop talking, and I’ll figure out the details and the rest with the two of you later, but it—”

It could disappear at any minute.

You can’t breathe.

It’s so hard to breathe, but do your best to gulp an inhale anyway.

“Please, just… I need – to talk – to Levi.”

Before I forget again.

Before he thinks I’ve forgotten him all over again.

Both Hange and Moblit stare in a haze of surprise.

By the time you open your mouth to plead a third time, Hange holds up a hand. 

Their expression darkens with a seriousness they so rarely possess.

“If he’s not by Erwin’s office or with us, then chances are he’s in his bedroom."

His bedroom.

Relief floods your system.

“Right,” you exhale, jolted by adrenaline. “Thanks, Hange.”

With that, you speed off in the opposite direction.

Up the stairwell.

Down the hallway.

Be here, be here, be here.

Fist raised, you lunge forward towards the wooden door—

Yet the door opens freely, and you’re trapped staring into the eyes of Levi Ackerman.

He blinks away his surprise to that evergreen mask of indifference — resignation? 

There’s no edge to his shoulders. They’re sagged.

Lowering your fist, you’re met with silence. 

(You’ve come to hate silence more than anything.)

So you speak first.

“Can we please—”

“Yeah.”

No pleas heard. No begging to be done.

“Yeah, might as well.”

Levi simply agrees.

The hand gripping the edge pulls the door towards him, conceding with an invitation inside.

Terrified doesn’t even begin to cover it — you push your way through, only to pause when your mind begins to recognize just how familiar this room feels with the light dance of rain outside an open window. 

Everything is so neat. Clean.

(And in the back of your mind, a voice says it’s exactly how you left it.)

The door locks shut, and the rest of the world ceases to exist.

Levi casually walks past you, pulling a chair from his desk and flipping it to face his bed.

He sinks down onto it, knees spread apart while his arm rests casually over the back.

“Start, then.”

His voice is guarded, shortened, as his eyes watch you from under wet, black fringe.

You stare, twisting your fingers around and against each other to self-soothe your nerves.

Your nostrils expand as you muster the courage to speak.

Yet when you do, your voice is smaller.

(So much could go wrong in one single moment.)

“I’ll start, just…"

"Just what?"

"Don’t shut me out.”

His eyes narrow. “I told you I wouldn’t.”

“I know, but this is different,” you argue weakly, wetting your lips.

“Try me,” he flatly goads. “I told you from the beginning—”

“—that you weren’t going to hand us our memories, fuck, I know already,” you bite to chomp off the rest of his statement, tired of hearing him push further distance between you. “Let me talk this bullshit out at you, alright? Not with you — but at you. Because the more I talk, the more things come back — it’s like my fucking unconsciousness is working faster than the rest of my body.”

His jaw clenches, but he says nothing.

When a few moments have passed, you take several steps forward to meet him — but turn to sit on the edge of his bed.

(Like you know belong there.)

He stops moving entirely, brow knit as he watches you descend.

Start, then.

“Before everyone swooped in, I told you that I thought I knew who I was. But… the more time goes by, it isn't a maybe anymore."

Your eyes remain on your hands, noting the calluses and age-old lines of scars across your fingers and palms. 

"And the longer time goes on, the more I talk, it becomes so much clearer."

Remember.

“I never knew my birth mother,” you continue, “not really. As far I know, she died when I was small. A lot of the details are still fuzzy, but some other sick bastard took her place. I think it's so hazy because there’s not much to remember about her. Mother... cared only about winning money."

Lost in your own thoughts, you drop your chin to your chest and exhale.

"I might have had siblings. None of them actually looked like me. They were just... stuck, too. And so many of them died."

All nameless faces.

All battle fodder for the almighty coin.

“I knew that the only way to live was to fight, so I fought. Hard. Every damn day until I couldn't stand on my two feet sometimes. That’s how we met.”

When you lift your eyes to stare him, he doesn’t react.

His nostrils flare in a twitch, but Levi remains in control of himself.

“My mother pit us against each other for money,” you continue softly. “That’s why I kept seeing this small, skinny boy in my dreams at a pub. For weeks, over and over, it was you. I gave you food — I wanted a friend. And…” 

You trail off, chewing on your next words very carefully. 

“And you gave me that. A friend. A chance to join your gang and live a life that was mine.”

Absently, your hand raises from your lap to your neck.

In the hopes of quelling your budding anxiety, your fingertip runs along the delicate silver chain at your sternum.

An old habit that won’t die, even in a state of memory loss.

Yet you catch him, right as it happens:

Levi’s hardened eyes shamelessly drop from yours — to stare at your fingers.

Your fingertip dips and circles the gray gem, mindful of its smooth texture.

Moments pass.

His eyes do not lift.

A familiar warmth spreads through your chest.

“My necklace.”

Then his eyes raise, as if suddenly aware of where he’s staring. 

“You gave it to me, didn’t you?”

You see him in your mind’s eye: a younger version of Levi sitting there, embarrassed to be offering such a delicate, sentimental gift to another person.

His gangly, teenage self overlaps the exhausted, battle-worn Levi across from you in his chair.

Both fighting.

Both surviving.

You feel so small as you try to remember the finite detail. Hitting a wall the longer the silence stretches, you're unable to pinpoint the exact memory.

Your nose scrunches in frustration, searching for that train of thought like a life line. 

“It was for my fifteenth— No, maybe my seventeenth—”

“Eighteenth.”

His voice is barely a murmur. 

Levi’s eyes do not leave your face.

“It was your eighteenth birthday.”

He manages to capture the memory eluding you before it can float away and dissolve to the wind.

A smile loaded with relief passes your lips.

It’s only a small nudge in the right direction, but it’s all you need for the memory to blossom like a flower on the surface in Spring.

The image of yesteryear blooms— 

White, billowing sleeves rolled to his elbows.

A cinched vest kept his clothes from flying off his small frame.

“With a lot of alcohol.”

“Yeah.”

“And a lot of extra cleaning the next morning.”

He exhales, slow and drawn out. “Something like that.”

You inhale sharply through your nose, emotions overwhelming you.

“Ever since Hange gave the necklace back to me, I can’t help but touch it any time I feel stressed or panicked. It’s like all of those bad feelings, they… go away. Disappear like the way titans do.”

Worries, gone like ash.

A ghostlike sensation runs against your lips, forcing you to reach and run along their seam.

Even if it's far away, you see it: a tilted head; black fringe.

Even now, you feel it: his lips so close; eyes wandering; the loss of reason.

“And you… you kissed me that day.”

Your first.

Both of your firsts.

When you smile, you notice then: his knuckles against the back of the chair turn translucent white.

“Wrong,” the captain tightly states.

Wait.

You freeze, fear settling in your belly.

“What?” you question. “But... but you did.”

He’s gripping the wooden backing so hard it could snap.

“I didn’t,” he forces out. “...you kissed me.”

Oh.

Oh. 

He’s not shutting you out.

Elation sweeps over your mind like a soothing balm as memories of pawing hands and inexperienced desire enters the forefront—

Finally clear as day.

Do you regret it, his voice whispers in the abyss.

“I never regretted that,” you reassure him, like you can finally answer him with absolute honesty. “Though technically you leaned in, and I ran with it.”

He huffs in disbelief. "Yeah?"

You smile with certainty. "Yeah."

Kisses between you two were just the tip of the iceberg. You know that now. 

You’ve seen it, felt it, tasted it—

In this very bedroom.

After a pause, the captain’s voice comes out strained.

“Of all the damn memories, that’s the one that stands out?”

You can’t help but huff with exhausted amusement.

“It isn’t the only one," you reply. "There are a million fragments I’m still piecing together and not everything makes sense, but there are some things that are just so vivid to me now. like…”

“Like?”

“Like our friends.”

Emotion flickers across his expression as he sits up further.

It’s like he’s been waiting to hear the names of your deceased comrades on your lips.

“You remember—”

“Isabel,” you whisper. “And Furlan. Yeah, it’s… bits and pieces just like everything else, but we grew up with them. I remember how we'd all spend hours zipping around that damn stolen ODM gear like we owned the joint. Somehow four kids managed to make an entire home in the Underground. And I wasn’t — I couldn’t be there when they—”

Profound sadness hits you like a ton of bricks, clipping your words.

I couldn't be there when they died.

The picture isn't complete, but you remember the sinking feeling in your belly when he had told you. So much time had gone by — you can vaguely pick out Isabel's wild red hair and recall thinking maybe the sun looked just like that. Furlan's infectious, warm laugh echoes in the back of your mind.

And you nearly joined them as a memory.

(No wonder why Levi was so angry with you at the start of it all.)

The rain continues to tap against the stone walls outside as another stretch of silence befalls the room.

One of Levi’s hands reaches for his face and runs down the length of it, tugging the skin as he goes.

His eyes drop to the floor, his dampened fringe shielding them from view.

“Un-fucking-believable…”

Your brow furrows.

“What?”

“This.”

That same hand sweeps a frustrated gesture between the two of you.

“This shouldn’t be possible,” he grunts. “You hit your goddamn head almost a year ago and — and you nearly did the same fucking thing again today, and you’re telling me that’s all it took to suddenly wake you up?”

The harshness of his words cause you to rear your head back. 

Hange nearly ran to you with open arms when you told them you remembered.

You had thought perhaps Levi would do the same once you had proven your mind to him.

Yet he’s reluctant.

Angry.

“That isn’t what I’m saying,” you retort, narrowing your gaze. “I tried telling you months ago that my memories were fragmented, but you didn’t want to hear it. What, were you hoping I wouldn’t remember?”

Instantly his eyes are back on you. “I didn’t say that.”

“It sure feels like that, Levi,” you snip. “Was it because of our fight?”

The whites of his eyes explode.

“Our what?”

“Before we went on the last expedition,” you clarify under your breath. “When you tried sidelining me with counsel to Erwin. I asked you why you didn’t trust me to fight at your side, but it wasn’t that you didn’t trust me.”

What is the excuse you always, always, use?

It was such a vicious question in the heat of the moment.

Levi doesn’t hide his surprise this time.

Although he doesn’t answer your question, you can see it:

The same turmoil that pushed him to the brink of shouting, coming back to haunt him.

Because if I lose you this time, then that’s it!

The rattle of the storm increases in volume right outside his open window, billowing the sheer curtains from the wall.

You promised.

You promised him so many things that day.

Nothing will happen to me.

I’m not going anywhere.

“I won’t die on you, right?” you say to yourself, as if in a daze — trapped between the present and the past. “Because if I did, you’d drag my ass from Hell yourself.”

His face twists, contorts in pain, only for a second.

He catches himself at the precipice before he can truly react, swallowing it down—

And then it hits.

You understand what he isn't saying.

“You haven't stopped blaming yourself,” you realize out loud in a bewildered whisper. “Even after saving my ass a second time, you're still holding onto that guilt like it was a choice you had made instead of me.”

You stand abruptly from the bed and cross the room towards him.

Levi immediately jumps out of his chair like a cat that’s been dunked in water, terrified you’ll push him back under.

No matter how compelled you are to be near him, he repels. 

“It wasn't your fault,” you urge, softer this time. “Look at me. Levi — it wasn't your fault.”

His bluish-gray eyes narrow in defense. “Don’t start this—”

“When I fell—”

“No.”

“Levi,” you chastise. “You said we could talk.”

“I did,” he hotly retorts. “Not about that day.”

The air in the room shifts.

“Anything but that day,” he repeats, softer this time. “Please. I just —”

Struggling with what he wishes to say, his chin drops to his chest.

“...despite all my best efforts, despite whatever plans I put in place, I watched you fall in the same shitty forest not once, but twice, like it's a sick fucking dream I get to repeat over and over until I learn.”

All of your facial muscles smooth with sadness. “Except there wasn't anything to learn because you did nothing wrong. Levi, you caught me.”

“But not the first time,” he says simply. “Not when it mattered.”

The way he speaks about himself…

Humanity’s Strongest, reduced to one perceived failure, as if he could rewrite history and control your mistakes. 

Timidly you slide a boot forward, testing his resolve. 

Levi doesn’t move. His head remains bowed.

“You have spent months punishing yourself for something that I chose to do,” you urge under your breath in a damn-near plea. “What is it that Erwin tells us to do? Dedicate our hearts?"

"Don't use that shit against me, James," he warns.

Raising your hands in surrender, you shake your head wildly. "I'm not. Believe me, I'm not, but you need to understand it was my choice. I wanted to save the others. I wanted my life to matter."

You see his jaw clench like he's forcing himself to hold back what he wants to say.

You step another boot forward.

"Six months ago when I first saw you in that hospital wing in Trost, when you tried to rile me up, it was—”

“An error in judgment," he interrupts.

“Exactly what I needed,” you finish over him. 

His head lifts. 

You meet, eye to eye.

“I couldn’t understand why I was so transfixed by you,” you continue softly with the utmost sincerity, hoping he will hear you out. “You walked out of that room and all I wanted was to know you. To understand you, like you held this invisible key this entire time that could unlock whatever the hell it was that I was missing. But all you ever did was pull away from me, hide from me, trying to convince me you were some villain in my life—”

“James.” 

Abruptly Levi steps forward as if ready to walk straight through you—

—like you’re nothing but a ghost’s apparition.

Instead he is met with living, breathing warmth. 

Your eyes can’t leave when his breath tickles the skin of your face.

Levi stares back, entranced by the color of your eyes.

Infected, plagued, by the reality that stands before you both.

One false move, and it’ll be a repeat of the conversation in the tree tops that made him retreat.

“I have tried to keep you safe almost my entire life," Levi murmurs, and you can practically feel the vibrations of his voice rocking through your body.

“And you did.”

“I didn’t.”

“Levi, you—”

“I pushed you into danger—”

“Pushed?”

“—and I am sorry—”

Your hand shoots out, turning his cheek to look you dead in the eye. 

“Stop it.”

Levi freezes, looking so much more uncertain now that he did ten minutes ago.

“Stop," you repeat with exasperation. “You're not listening to me. I'm here. I'm right here.”

He swallows to coat his throat, motion thick. His neck bobs.

"I don't know how else to convince you it isn't a fluke," you continue, voice cracking. "You won't let yourself see me. You won't let yourself believe I'm not dead. Levi—"

And just when you think you’ve lost him—

He turns towards the warmth.

His cheek nuzzles your open palm, eyes wearily slipping shut, as if helpless to do so.

You’re holding the first face you remember and the last face you’ve seen —

The partner you left in the forest so long ago.

The man that wants more than he’ll ever allow himself to take.

Levi's confession is barely audible:

“...I don't want it to be too good to be true again."

The floorboard creaks as his foot shifts towards you, angling himself towards you. 

He inhales slowly through his nose, relishing in a private thought, before shaking his head. His hair nearly tickles your forehead.

When he doesn't open his eyes, you decide to take matters into your own hands.

If he won't see you—

Slowly, cautiously, you reach for his hand until yours curls over it.

At first his fingers flinch in your grasp, his blue-gray eyes snapping wide to watch.

Then eventually they relax, surrendering.

Higher and higher, you skim it past your ribcage and pull it up to your left breast. 

His arm tenses, eyes shooting wide. 

You remain relaxed. Focused.

“What is it you feel?” 

“I don’t under—” 

“Just… pause, for once in your life, and tell me what it is you feel.” 

You press his palm harder against your chest, your heart hammering beneath your skin. 

“Please.”

Albeit apprehensive, Levi doesn’t move away. 

His eyes dart to your lips, your sternum, until they lock onto your joined hands.

“You.”

Strained — he chokes on his response.

“I feel… you.”

As if pulled by gravity Levi steadily leans closer, brushing your nose with his.

His jaw clenches, the muscles taut in his mouth, before his palm flattens of his volition against your chest.

Your eyes flutter, relishing in his proximity.

You turn to him, seeking out his body heat.

For the first time in months, you feel it with such certainty.

Familiarity.

His free hand rises to your cheek, cupping the side of your face.

You suck in a sharp breath between parted lips, and he makes a small noise like he’s agonized over being apart from you.

“Every time that I’ve been given the choice, I always choose you,” you confess softly, a mere whisper. “I run right towards you even when I don’t know you. You are the only thing that has ever made sense to me in this world.”

There — you memorize the slide of his calloused palm, running gently along the height of your cheekbone.

Slow, as if mesmerized by your skin’s softness.

Shakily, you continue and choose the point of no return.

“Tell me you don't want me anymore, and I’ll stop running to you. If I have somehow misjudged you and what you might still feel—”

“Say it.”

Levi’s voice engulfs you — the heavy baritone, barely touching your lips.

His expression darkens like he wrestles with two separate trains of thought.

Conflict etched in his brow, he swallows once more and speaks with a tenderness you only remember in dreams.

“Say you remember me.”

After all this time, you've waited for the puzzle to connect.

The pieces that were once scattered now sew themselves together; anew.

He asks without asking.

You answer without uncertainty.

“I remember you.”

As if mesmerized by the curves of your body, Levi’s hand glides from your chest up your throat—

Until his fingers cradle the back of your head.

His other hand remains on the side of your face, holding you as though you could turn into water at any moment.

"Say it again."

You don't hesitate to obey his command.

"I remember you."

To make your point, you turn your chin into his hand — eyes locked — to press a gentle kiss to his palm.

He nearly hisses from the physical contact.

"Again."

Levi's breath slides into your mouth like a phantom kiss of his own.

(Touch starved after so many months apart.)

“I remember you, Levi Ackerman. I remember you, I remember you, I remember—”

You stop talking when he leans in, lips barely brushing yours. 

Your breath halts. 

His is ragged. Soft.

Then he speaks, as if to pray after a long night of war:

“Dirty trick."

That’s all it takes.

Levi reaches out whip-fast, using the palm against your skull to pull you into a searing, life-altering, mind-numbing kiss. 

You go pliant against him, melting like candle wax, willing to take anything he’ll give.

Lips press and pull, his breath hot on your tongue.

His hands search you as if he doesn't know where to touch first — your face, your neck, your shoulder — until he decides to loop his forearm at the small of your back to dip and lift you without ever breaking the kiss.

You jump until your knees bracket his hips, and he pulls you flush to his body.

Levi hastily kicks the chair out of his way to carry you directly to his bed.

And after all this time, you feel it — know it — remember it.

The absence dissipates.

The world finally starts to turn.

You have found your way home.

.

author's note:

...hehe. So how are we feeling, Levi Nation? Let me know in the comments!

Thank you for your patience as I took a little break this summer to write some modern!Levi with Press Four for More Options. To readers old and new, I am so grateful for your encouragement and support. (Every reblog gives this writer wings.)

[msbigredmachine]

You Again (Roman Reigns) - Part 1

That awkward moment when the biggest star in pro wrestling happens to be your high school bully…and he’s in your office. A 2-part series.

Pairing: Bully!Roman Reigns x OC

Word Count: 2,500

Warning: Hints of smut, stalking, bullying

FINALLY! I've fleshed out this WIP. I'm so proud of myself! Hope you like it. Enjoy!

---------------

Evelyn squeezed into the crowded elevator, relieved that she’d gotten in before the doors could slide shut. She combed her fingers through her wig, smoothed down her blouse and took a deep breath as another work day that came too soon was about to start. Stepping out on the fifth floor, she fixed her face like she didn’t wish she was back in Cancun sipping on some Piña Coladas at her beachfront cabana. 

The offices of Wow Magazine buzzed left and right, with employees and staff bustling about as the latest edition of the fashion Bible was published on print and digital media today. Evelyn plastered a smile on her face and accepted their glowing compliments on her outfit. Dressed in a cute off-white sweater blouse, a white pleated miniskirt with sheer Fendi ‘F’ tights and black stilettos, the ‘Editor-in-Chief’ nameplate pasted to her door reminded her every day that she couldn’t be caught dead looking a mess at any time.

“Latte for Miss Ashton?” Her assistant, Faith, entered her office ten minutes later with her usual Starbucks order. “Welcome back, boss. You look refreshed and ready to go already!” she chirped, setting the Styrofoam cup down on the mahogany desk. "How was your vacation?" 

"Way too short. I wanna go back already," she replied. "So what's on my agenda today before I change my mind and get outta here?"

Faith laughed and scrolled down her iPad. "You got a meeting at ten with Tessa on September’s feature cover. Your lunch meeting with Roger from Finance is at noon, then there’s a couple of itineraries that need your approval. I’ve already emailed them to you."

"Sounds good." Evelyn took a sip of her coffee and chatted some more with Faith before she was left alone to get settled. At five to ten, she was walking to the conference room when she caught a glimpse of a tall, powerfully built man standing at the reception area, his back only visible in profile. His well-tailored pinstripe gray Gucci suit was a perfect fit on his big frame and all the musculature underneath. A jolt of interest pinged through her for this attractive stranger, but it was quickly replaced by shock as he turned around and his dark eyes met hers.

This was no stranger at all. It was her worst nightmare!

It had been several years, but there was no mistaking that face. It was bad enough that she’d had to look at it every single day for much of her teen years. Said face also haunted her TV on Friday nights, and given how he'd made her life miserable, she couldn’t forget it if she tried.

Oh no. No, no…no!

She felt her stomach drop when his eyes widened. Fuck! He recognized her, too! She couldn’t tear her eyes away from his fiery stare as his lips formed her name.

“Evie?”

Hearing him address her by her shortened name snapped her temporary paralysis. Ducking her head, she almost stumbled in her heels as she rushed into the conference room and slammed the door shut. Flattening her back against it, she exhaled shakily, her heart racing at a million miles a minute as she struggled to process what she’d just seen.

More frightening was the sight of him walking into the conference room just a few moments later with Tessa, Wow’s Artistic Director, a cheery smile on her face as she announced,

“Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce to you the cover star for September’s edition, WWE Superstar Roman Reigns!”

Focusing on the meeting was difficult. Staying professional was even tougher knowing her tormentor sat mere feet away, staring a hole through her the entire time. She wanted to throw up as Tessa gushed over the magazine’s newly-penned partnership with WWE, which came with a cover feature for its biggest star in their most popular edition of the year. This also meant that in just a few short weeks, Evelyn would have to see him again, as it was her job to oversee his photoshoot, wardrobe, and the interview itself. Even more nauseating was that Management was to hold a lavish yacht party this coming weekend celebrating the partnership with Joe as their special guest of honor. Clearly, a lot had transpired while she was away, and she didn’t like any of it one bit.

Neither Tessa nor Faith noticed her eagerness to get out of there when the meeting finally, thankfully ended. She quickly darted into the break room nearby and fought to catch her breath, hating that she was running around like a cornered rat. Luckily the room was empty, meaning no one could see her in her flustered state. She was known for her cool calm demeanor, but one asshole had just come into her world and turned it upside down. Again.

She couldn’t believe this! Why was the Lord testing her like this? 

Joe Anoa’i had single-handedly almost ruined her entire high school experience. For one, he made sure no boy came near her during her first three years. She was the constant butt of mean jokes thanks to his stupid football teammates, led by him and his twin cousins Jon and Josh Fatu. Her locker would often be spray-painted with derogatory names or overflowing with trash, and, at one horrific time, used condoms. She remembered the tears she’d cried after she had to clean up that disgusting stuff all by herself in front of everyone.

When her father was transferred out of state right before her senior year began, she had been beyond relieved. Most teenagers would have been devastated to be uprooted for their last year in high school, but Evelyn was ecstatic. She was never going to see Joe or his cronies again, and it was the chance to finally have a normal high school experience.

She could vividly recall the last time she saw him. She'd been so happy at the prospect of escape that, when he paused in the hall to watch her clean out her locker for the last time, she made full eye contact with him for once and laughed in his face.

"Sayonara, bitch," Evie cheesed, smiling smugly when a scowl darkened his irritatingly handsome face. 

"What are you doing?" he demanded, walking up to her, his expression intense.

"Gettin’ away from you and this fucking school forever. You’ll never see me again and I don’t gotta deal with your bullshit anymore," she replied coldly. Stepping past him, she almost fell over when he grabbed her arm and yanked her back, colliding their bodies together.

Joe leaned down, towering over her petite figure, and growled, "Oh sweetheart, trust me when I say you'll see me again. I’ll find you wherever you are, no matter how long it takes. That’s a promise."

Evelyn recalled his raspy last words with trepidation. That he had indeed found her, just like he’d threatened, spooked her to no end.

Behind her, the door clicked open, and the air in the room changed. Shifted. Charged with a palpable tension. Through the reflection of a nearby window, she saw Joe shut the door behind him. With her heart in her throat, she kept her back turned and did her best to ignore his approaching footsteps. But with only a few long strides, he was standing right behind her, boxing her in his much bigger body. She hated the way her skin prickled and the fine hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. Blood pounded in her ears as his familiar scent reached her nose, triggering memories of when he had mercilessly tortured her in school. She stiffened at the reminder and struggled with her body's response to his closeness. Close enough now that there was very little room for her to escape even if she wanted to.

His hard chest molded against her back. His thick, muscular arms stretched across the table she leaned on from both sides, trapping her. She could feel every inch of him, every muscle attached to her like steel to a magnet. Her breath caught, torn between shoving him away and giving in to the arousal that pulsed through her body. When she felt his mouth close to her ear, a shiver coursed down her spine. 

"Evie," Joe breathed. His low, husky voice uttering her name set off the butterflies in her belly and spread heat through her body. As his hands moved to her shoulders, her skin broke out into goosebumps and her nipples hardened into sharp little points, chafing almost painfully against the lace of her bra. Despite her body's involuntary reaction, she held herself rigidly, staring straight ahead, giving no indication that she could feel anything.

"I thought I was imagining things," he went on in that gruff, yet velvety tone, "But no. I'd know that face anywhere.”

“Oh look, the leader of N’Stink is here. Long time no see,” Evelyn finally spoke up, her tone cold and clipped.

“Leader of what?” he laughed. She didn't see what was so funny.

“That was my name for you and the evil twins. Jon and Josh. I remember you all,” she said.

Joe smirked. “Who knew little Evie Ashton was so creative.”

“I’m not ‘Evie’ anymore. I go by Evelyn now.” She dared to glare up at him and despised the way her knees weakened immediately. He was more gorgeous than he was twenty years ago and was still able to effortlessly awaken her body with just one look, with just his proximity. It reminded her how, as a teen, she had been so confused and embarrassed by the way she simultaneously loathed him and desired him. Unfortunately nothing about that had changed. 

"This is the other reason I knew it was you." His mouth was by her ear again. To her complete shock, he pressed himself against her, and she sucked in a breath as what felt like an impressive erection lightly prodded her backside. "All you had to do was come near me and you had me so hard I couldn’t walk straight sometimes."

Hold up!

Her eyes went wide. “What are you talking about?”

“You have no damn idea how much I wanted you, Evie,” Joe elaborated, licking his lips as he gazed at her. “I wanted a taste of them soft lips. Your tits. Your pussy. Hell, I still do.”

Evelyn clenched her thighs together, failing to stop the rush of warmth between her legs at his unexpected words. “You’re fuckin’ lying,” she stammered. This coming from the same guy who regularly made fun of her skinny frame and horn-rimmed glasses back then. Total bullshit!

He shook his head. “I'm not. You feel that, don’t you?” He grinded against her again, nudging the back of her skirt a little higher up her thighs. She opened her mouth to tell him to get the fuck away from her, but all that came out was a whimper. She glanced down, seeing his strong, tanned hands now grasping her hips, lining up her ass directly against his crotch. Mindlessly, she pressed back against him, her body giving into the urges despite her brain’s protests. Lust coursed through her, drugging her into docility. The same thing kept happening back in high school. Even when she was furious at him, he'd affected her so strongly on a physical level that she felt almost drunk when she was around him. What was worse, he was the first and only boy who had turned her on like that without even lifting a finger. Not even Chuka, her ex-fiancé, ever set her body on fire like this, despite his numerous attempts. 

As a teenager, she would daydream during the day, and at night, laying alone in her bed, fantasize about being with Joe Anoa’i…wondered what it would feel like, imagined the heights he could take her to if they ever had sex…

Encouraged by her complacency, Joe’s lips trailed the crook of her neck, and her head tilted back reflexively. His steel length felt like it was branding her through her skirt. She panted heavily, air expelling in short bursts from her lungs as his mouth trailed ever closer, ghosting over her jawline and her cheek before finally landing on hers, sucking her bottom lip. For the life of her, she wondered why she didn’t push him away. Perhaps it was because she was starved for a man’s touch which had been missing for the past year. Or maybe because it was a kiss she’d dreamed of; a kiss that would set her ablaze and burn her from the inside out. It was the kiss she’d wanted for two decades but never got. Until now.

Evelyn could hear her inner, mentally-scarred teen scream for joy as she turned in his arms and kissed his soft lips back with a defeated moan. The energy between them had amplified tenfold, making her heart race, urging her to dive into him. Joe seemed to read her mind and, pushing her up against the table, slipped his tongue into her mouth, his hand leaving her waist to curl around her throat. It was the simplest, yet the kinkiest of touches which unleashed a tsunami between her thighs and another moan against his lips. She felt his dick pulse against her belly as the kiss became more urgent, hungrier. With a gentle nudge of his foot, he spread her legs wider apart, and her body jerked with surprise when he shoved his other hand inside her skirt, boldly cupping the mound protected by her panties.

“Just like I thought, you’re wet as fuck. Did I make you wet like this back then? Huh?” Joe goaded, his lips an inch from hers, making her feel every word he uttered. "Tell me."

Evelyn couldn’t stop her eyes from rolling back, or her body grinding against his fingers as they circled around the dampness on her underwear before tugging the satin material to the side. His hand on her neck slipped lower to grab her breast, fondling it in his large palm as his lips latched onto the side of her throat. It was an attack from all fronts and Evelyn was very much losing the fight.

Until his finger dipped inside her wetness, which her brain computed as one lascivious act too many and finally snapped her back to her senses.

“Okay, stop! Stop it!” she hissed in a panic, pushing him off her. She glanced around the room, hoping no one else was there as she adjusted her clothes, and then raced out of the room as fast as her heels could carry her, desperate to get away. She slammed her office door shut and did not come out again until he left.

On her desk, the invite to the yacht party taunted her in its fancy, elaborate lettering and graphics, a craftwork that would have impressed her if it didn’t make her want to vomit and run away forever, or better yet, book another flight to Cancun never to return.

How the fuck was she going to get through the week? 

And where the fuck was her vibrator when she needed it?

END OF PART ONE

----------------

Thoughts?

Credit to the owners of the pics and gifs.

🏷️: @jxtina-86 @wrestlingprincess80 @fame-ass-ers @southerngirl41 @alyyaanna @jstarr86 @murrylove @thewarlordsworld @mzv11 @nayys-world @hunnidmilly  @tribalhoochie @cyberdejos2 @papireigns-05  @harmshake @niknakbucks92 @captainwithoutmakingitlove @sovereigngoth @aisharmi @kennedi0818 @alichesmi @thesamoanqueen @questionable-behaviour @tribalchiefreigns @2-muchsauce @thatbxtchsblog @raya-hunter01  @marchi36753 @lovelysuccess @christinabae @wooahmiri @thatonecarebear @tabletheofhead @rheaanddamianfan @vebner37 @hanley1577 @princessesareforsuckers @-naturally @joannasteez @bbygirlky18 @lilucey @theninthwonder @melaninsugababy @chocovibesonly @msbluehaz3 @shes2real @trippinsorrows @scarlettnoir01 @heerah34 @empressdede @tbmotw @darkangelchronicles @visionarymode @marasdeathnote @aintnorainbows @meggylynnloves @shantinextdoor @femdisa @harlemblipster  @trc-punzel @afterdarkprincess @nbanenefrmdao @sassginaswanmills @purplehairgawdess @holisticcoach @girlwhogaf @royalkay23 @heyitsnajabrinee @stoner2k @reci1996 @catxo @iamimanim @lookmais @ts1mp0ne @lizzyd1ish @m3llowww @skyesthebomb @final1miya @kia1996 @randomuser0711 @yourtribalqueen @katymae12344 @that-one-anxious-mango @yana3sworld @caramelcleopatraa @truefant4sy @thetribalqueen @bhjszsdxc @paigereeder @christinabae @justazzi @maknaehyucks @mindairy @headoftheetable @truefant4sy @mscarter213 @ariiaeltheedonn @sageispunk @xbriexx @heauxvibez

[gudgurkan]

Got any tips in shading stuff in black and white digitally?

Hi Anon!

You're in luck! I'm currently wrapping up a book which is shaded digitally, so I've been thinking a lot about this recently.

How I do this is by no means the only way, so take from these tips as much or little as you want! When I add grays and shadows to a line art drawing, I try to think about these things:

Preparing the image

I like to work with a file that has a white background and a layer with only line art on top of it. Between these two layers I add new layers where I use the pen tool and bucket to fill areas with black, then I lower the opacity for that layer to get a value that I want.

This method works well for me, and for simpler pieces I don't need more than 3 layers with different values - light, medium and dark grays.

I work in Clip Studio. Here's a picture of the layers of a recent drawing. Each layer is actually completely black but you can see the opacity percentages by each layer. Lower percentage -> brighter value. This makes it super duper easy to change the value of a layer, no need to repaint it, just change the opacity!

Value composition

For the best result, do a couple of value sketches with a limited set of values and find something that works well for the image. Getting the values right is what will improve the image the most! Here's a quick tutorial on muddycolors. Muddy Colors is a very nice art blog to check out. Looking at grayscale storyboard drawings or value sketches are great ways to pick up on this too.

I try to group values when working with grays. Take this image for example:

The character in the foreground has mainly dark grays, which separates her from the background, which has mostly light grays. Then the windows are white and the roof black.

Value composition is a huge and complex area and I recommend anyone wanting to learn to be more conscious about their values and to do value sketches. Analysing art you think has good values is great too.

Shadows

Not every piece needs shadows, but they can add a lot to an image! I use three kinds of shadows when I work in grayscale.

Inked shadows - these shadows are added during the inking stage and usually show areas where light would have almost no way of getting there, such as under this tent.

Gradient shadows - these shadows usually represent something getting further and further away from a light source or an area that would bounce light. This tree receives a tiny bit of light from a campfire on the ground and moonlight that bounces on the ground and up, fading as we get higher up in the tree. But mainly I add these gradients in ways that look cool and will help the overall composition.

Hard shadows - these shadows appear when a strong light casts shadows and can be used on a shape or to cover something. Here's a werewolf with shadows on its back, which gives it a better sense of mass and is interesting visually!

You can also cover an area in shadow like this, where the tree casts a shadow down on the archer and the cliff.

Texture

I like to add a layer of noise as a finishing touch. In Clip Studio you can create a noise layer with Filter->Render->Perlin noise... Find a balance of scale and amplitude that works for the image, then change the layer mode to "Vivid Light" and lower the opacity of the layer to around 30%. I like how this looks, it's not super visible usually but helps make the drawing feel less artificial and digital.

I hope that helps! Here are some nice links too:

Muddy Colors

Android Arts

Gurney Journey - Read his books!

Happy drawing!

[redtsundere-writes]

Jinx | Sukuna Ryomen

mma fighter!sukuna ryomen x femalecoach!reader

Part 1. The King Of The Ring.

| Next →

Spynosis: Sukuna is a world champion with anger issues. It's believed by many that he is untrainable. Yeah, you can't train him, but you can dominate him. Contents: Fighting. Sukuna being Sukuna. female reader being dom. Jinx AU (the BL, not the character from lol) Warnings: Cursed words. Sexual harassment. I only read it once, lmao Word count:3016 words. A/N: Hiya! Well, I am up-to-date with Jinx, and even tho it's so fun to read, I just fucking hate Joo Jaekyung so much! So, I decided to kinda write my own version with my favorite toxic man. Hope you like it, folks!

“Sukuna Ryomen, ladies and gentlemen! He showed us once again why he is the king of the ring!” The excited narrator exclaimed, meanwhile the king flexed the golden belt around his waist after another amazing fight.

His body glossed in sweat, his proud smile and the blood of his opponent sliding down his tattooed skin. A dangerous beast who just caught his prey. They showed the repetition of the final hit in slow motion, a perfect punch in the perfect moment. Luck doesn’t exist in the world of mixed martial arts, we have unique opportunities instead. I used to believe that, until I witnessed it myself.

“It’s here,” I thought out loud when I saw the giant sign that read “Team Black MMA Gym” in bright white and red letters.

It was the most important MMA gym in Tokyo. I heard that they only accept the fighters with the most potential of the country. My trainer used to tell me to at least try out to be surrounded by professionals. As a woman, I wasn’t particularly interested in entering a male-exclusive gym. The only other woman there is the physiotherapist.

I took the elevator to the gym’s floor. When the doors opened, the smell of sweat and the sound of the metal weights welcomed me. I just stepped inside, and I already had eyes on me. I was expecting it to be honest. A woman in a gym filled by rugged men isn’t something you see every day. It didn’t help that I was using an oversize gray hoodie which covered my shorts, making it seem that I wasn’t wearing any pants.

The gym was divided into training areas for different martial arts. In the corner, there was a ring that stood tall for fighters to simulate real combat. Along the gym, there were several punching bags, weight stations and resistance equipment.

The sound of the punches and kicks, mixed with the instructions of the coaches, created a threatening and energetic environment. You could easily notice who were the fighters with discipline. Those working hard to perfect their skills, showing off their determination in every move. The place was impregnated with a spirit of self-improvement and sportsmanship, where the passion for martial arts was in every corner.

“Welcome, miss.” A tall blonde man called me.

“You must be the manager, Nanami Kento,” I greeted with a bow, which was reciprocated.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you in person,” he greeted back. “Let me introduce you to your trainee.” He led the way through the heavy equipment to the outstanding ring.

Sukuna was simulating a fight with another member of the gym. Nanami and I just waited for them to finish so he could introduce me formally. Sukuna was constantly moving towards his opponent, creating closure enough so he could punch him better. The power difference could be noticed from what they were wearing. The King of the Ring was just wearing a black compressed shirt and gray shorts, showing off his defined abs and powerful legs, meanwhile his black haired opponent was wearing the gym uniform and all the protection equipment available.

It was a different experience watching a fighter like him live in action live. The details like the sound of his punching winds and how Sukuna’s muscles flexed with every move were lost on the TV. When Sukuna threw a definite left jab that left his opponent on the floor, I couldn’t help but gulp hard. He was a killing machine.

“Great job!” Nanami applauded along with some other fighters who were witnessing the fight as well. I clapped so I didn’t look so out of place.

Sukuna turned to my way and a grimace of disgust appeared on his face when his eyes landed on me, a total stranger with no pants on. He took his gloves off and threw them to my feet. “So this is how it is going to be?” I asked myself, not even bothering picking them up. Sukuna gritted his teeth when I didn’t pick his expensive gloves up.

“What an awful cleaning lady you hired, Kento,” Sukuna said disdainfully.

“She is not a cleaning lady! She is your new coach,” Nanami introduced me, ashamed by the attitude of his star athlete.

“Kick her out, I don’t need a new coach,” Sukuna groaned.

“If I knew this was going to be like this, why am I here?” I asked myself in my mind, starting to take back my decision of becoming the coach of a well-known fighter with anger issues. Ah, I remember now. I needed to see something for myself.

“Hello? Am I talking with Y/n?” A couple of weeks ago, Nanami Kento called my gym, desperate.

“You are talking with her,” I answered, thinking he was a sponsor or someone in the UFC.

“My name is Nanami Kento, and I am Sukuna Ryomen’s manager.”

A famous fighter in the MMA world. The world champion in the light heavyweight weight class. The king of the ring and a wild tiger during interviews due to his lack of humbleness. A horrible person to the simple eye, a magnificent opponent in the ring.

“I’ll be straight forward. I don't know if you saw his last fight…”

Sukuna’s last fight was against Suguru Geto in Las Vegas, another amazing fighter. The interesting thing about that encounter was seeing two great fighters specialized in opposite areas. Geto specializes in floor fighting, while Ryomen is an incredible boxer. Everyone went crazy when the fight was announced, could Sukuna beat him with just his bare punches, or would Geto be able to bring him down to his advantage?

In the middle of the fourth round, Geto pulled him to the floor and Sukuna was in trouble. Obviously, Sukuna has some training in floor fighting, but that wasn’t enough when you are against the best. Geto caged him like an anaconda, ready to choke him to surrender him. Sukuna tried to set himself free by force, but his punches weren’t good enough to win the fight.

“It will be a technical knockout.” I thought out while watching the fight from the comfort of my living room. I was eating chips mindlessly until I saw a unique opportunity.

Sukuna, somehow, freed himself from Geto’s strong grip to reach for his head. With great momentum, he punched him precisely in his jaw, completely knocking Suguru out. I knocked my bowl of chips when I jumped from the couch to watch the repetition closely. I had seen Geto do that chokehold a thousand times, no opponent can just simply "free” themselves like that. My eyes couldn’t believe how clean that killer punch was.

“The thing is that his coach and I believe he must improve his floor techniques,” Nanami explained the situation.

“There are many more renowned coaches who specialize in floor, why me?” I asked, curious at the whole conversation. I have heard rumors that Sukuna is pretty picky with whom he lets in his gym.

“You are right. You have been the tenth coach I have called today,” Nanami answered honestly. “Sukuna is too stubborn and doesn’t want to admit that he was also beaten in his last fight. He goes out of his way to get rid of every coach we bring him.”

“Why do you think I will accept?” I asked. If he was calling me, a famous woman for a specific quality, there must be a reason.

“If I believe someone can humble him and teach him some discipline, it’s you,” he declared.

An offended smile appeared on my face. I wasn’t going to let Sukuna Ryomen treat me like I was a slack to deal with. Now I understand why every coach gave up on him, you cannot train something that doesn't want to be trained, but you can tame it.

“Sukuna, we already talked about this. You should train with someone who specializes in floor so what happened in Vegas doesn't happen again,” his coach, Satoru Gojo. A tall white haired man in an all black coaching uniform. He was standing beside him with his arms crossed, clearly stressed from dealing with his bratty attitude all day.

“What happened in Las Vegas stays in Las Vegas. I don’t need another stupid coach,” he defended himself while he brushed his hair back with his fingers.

“You win, I won’t train you,” I said in defeat. I turned around to make my way to the elevator. “Either way, I don’t train assholes,” I said loud enough with a sly smile. A howl from the fighters who heard me echoed through the gym.

“Stop!” He barked. I turned around to see what he wanted.

“Didn’t you want me to leave?” I asked, trying to keep my act together.

“What did you just call me?” He dared me to repeat myself.

“Gotcha!” I thought, proud of myself. I know how the male brain works. They can’t let anyone challenge them just like that. I hid my smirk and faced him again.

“Did Geto hit you so hard that you went deaf? I said, ‘You are an asshole!’” I shouted from my place.

Nanami quickly got to me, so I behaved better, but I couldn’t back down now. Sukuna scoffed and snapped his fingers at me.

“Get up here,” he demanded as another fighter gave him back his gloves. He wanted to fight me.

“You don’t have to, miss,” Nanami warned me in a whisper.

“I know what I am doing, don’t worry,” I answered in the same volume.

I put the mouth guard I brought with me on my pink shoulder bag. I wrapped my hands in bandages while Sukuna was analyzing me from top to bottom while preparing myself for the fight. It was understandable, I was a dangerous wasp in his bee hive. The rest of the fighters stop training to get around the ring to witness the match.

When I finished wrapping my hands, I took my hoodie off, revealing my abs and toned arms. Some whistled and applauded as if I was a stripper, when I could shut them up with a kick in the nuts. Sukuna, on the other hand, just kept staring, looking for weaknesses. He could be an asshole, but he respected his opponent at least.

“You better not be wasting my time,” he angrily barked. His red eyes still looked at me from head to toe without shame.

“You are already wasting mine,” I answered. Sukuna smiled, not believing what I just said to his face.

“We are really going to let this fight happen?” Nanami asked Gojo.

“It looks like it's the only way he will accept her,” Gojo shrugged before stepping inside the ring. He told us the basic rules for the match, asked us if he was clear, and we just nodded. “Touch gloves so we can start.” I placed my gloves in the middle so Sukuna could bump them, but he just backed away. “Fucking pussy” I thought, backing up to my side.

A small audience gathered around the ring for an unusual show. A light heavyweight champion against a random girl that just showed up. It looked like the possibilities of winning weren’t on my side. I started moving my legs and arms to warm up. If Sukuna was a lion, I had to be a fast gazelle. His prying eyes were on me all the time. I smiled at him. He could look at me everything he wanted, he didn’t scare me. It was my time to show him who was boss.

“Fight!” Gojo shouted.

There is a golden rule in mixed martial arts: “The first hit is the most important.” Sukuna flew towards me with a superman punch. He was open. I dodged it fast enough so I could jab him against his left cheek. The surprised audience gasped collectively. Sukuna quickly got used to my rhythm and changed his posture towards me. I created distance between us, so I could evaluate my options. I didn't have anything other than going for his legs, but that wouldn’t be a simple task. His legs were too strong to just sweep him off his feet with a single kick. I needed to do something more drastic.

Sukuna kept closing the distance between us to punch me directly, he was looking for the knockout. He was more of an offensive than defensive fighter, like I already knew. Sukuna hit me a couple of times and was celebrated by the public. They stung with power and intense pain. He was giving the best of him. I needed to answer with the same power, but in a more clever way.

I kicked him in the stomach so he could back down, but he pushed my hand down just in time, so my kick didn’t connect well. I tried kicking the other side, this time he stopped me by grabbing my ankle. Big mistake. I impulsed myself with my other leg to kick him on his face to knock him to the floor. Sukuna fell with a big slam that made the whole audience howl in surprise.

I quickly got onto him to lock him down against the mat with my legs around his neck and torso. He tried getting up, just like with Geto, but I wasn’t going to let him. This was the only chance I got to beat him. I could listen to Sukuna growling under his breath. He punched me against my sides, but I couldn’t give up. I latched my left leg on his right arm, making him turn around slowly. The audience screamed confusing instructions to Sukuna because they knew if this continued, the fight was over. I made Sukuna turn on his belly. I reached for his head, so I could choke hold him in between my biceps. The screams kept getting louder, but I didn’t give a damn. I needed to end him, if I wanted a place in his gym. Sukuna started to breathe with difficulty while his hands tried to loosen up my powerful grasp. He was reliving what happened in Las Vegas.

“Come on, Sukuna! Finish this!” Gojo ordered among the hollering.

Sukuna sighed and obeyed. He tapped my arms three times in surrender. A technical knockout. I quickly released him and I stood tall, leaving him space so he could breathe.

“Y/n “Medusa’s snake” Y/ln is the winner,” Gojo announced while raising my arm in victory. The fighters applauded me in approval. I took my dental protector to breathe comfortably through my mouth. Even though I won, I wasn’t finished.

“Good fight…” Sukuna groaned under his breath, giving me his hand to shake. I shook it, even though he was visibly mad. I could understand why, I just kicked his ass in front of his entire gym, but I didn’t give a shit.

“This means you will train Sukuna?” Nanami asked me with hope in his voice.

“No, I said I didn’t coach assholes,” I shrugged. Sukuna’s face turned from angry to offended in a hot second.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?! I am a world champion, you should be honored to train me!” He shouted in my face, but I didn’t budge. He wasn't upset that I had to train him. Now, he's just mad because I didn't want to train him anymore. We were making progress.

“I am not interested in training the world champion of assholes,” I seriously said before putting my hoodie back on.

I hung the bag on my shoulder and quickly walked away from the whole situation. I dodged the other fighters on my way out. Nanami kept following me, asking me to reconsider the offer. I took the elevator, leaving the chaos behind me. Once the doors closed, I collapsed against the wall behind me. Fighting against Sukuna was an entire workout. The bruises started to show up in purple hues, my legs were trembling weakly, and my lips were begging for water. Dealing with Sukuna wasn’t an easy task.

The elevator’s doors opened on the first floor. I stepped out just to rest my body for a minute. I took my water bottle out to drink some while I waited. What I was waiting for? I really didn’t know, but I needed to wait for someone to come chasing after me to beg me to stay. Maybe it was going to be Nanami, Gojo or any other fighter. It could be anyone.

“Wait!” The last person that I thought would come for me said behind me. It was Sukuna, looking tired and agitated. He was wearing a black hoodie, and he wiped the sweat off his forehead.

“What do you need, asshole?” I asked without taking the straw off my mouth.

“Don’t call me like that,” he groaned.

“I will once you stop acting like one,” I said, putting my water bottle aside. Sukuna rolled his eyes and sighed. He was so done. “Now you know that you need me?” I asked with a confident smirk.

“I don't need you, but you are good. I want you in my team,” he corrected.

“Fine, on one condition.” Sukuna raised his chin at me to continue. “You must accept that you are terrible at floor fighting.” He laughed at the “absurd condition.”

“I am a world champion, I am not terrible in floor fighting,” he said angrily.

“It’s not good to lie so much,” I said, replicating his condescending tone. I turned around to exit the building. “If you don’t want to fulfill my condition, I can’t train you.”

“Wait!” Sukuna grabbed me by the arm to stop me. “Fine,” he sighed again. “I am terrible at floor fighting, are you happy now?” I turned to him with a bright smile on my face.

“See? That wasn’t that hard.”

“Hush,” he groaned, clearly embarrassed. His cheeks were a bit flustered, it was kinda cute.

“When do we start?” I asked with a proud heart. The Medusa’s Snake had beaten another terrible man.

“Right now,” he pulled me with him, back to the elevator.

Next Part→

Masterlist.

Order your own fanfic!

Let me know if you want to be added to the tag list!

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

ALL THE THINGS WE SAID WE WOULDN'T DO (VIII)

NAVIGATION || RAVISHING ALLURE MASTERLIST || NEXT: CHAPTER IX

PAIRING: Nikto x F!Reader (Soulmate AU)

WORDCOUNT: 13.2k

WARNINGS: Angst, stalking, guns/weapons, very dark/toxic modeling standards/expectations/abuse of power, body image issues, food issues, alcohol, scar descriptions, gore, light torture insinuations, hurt/comfort, NSFW, not full-on smut, fingering, descriptions of masturbation, praise, multiple orgasms, etc. (Series 18+)

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

“Oh,” you breathe out a long sigh. “This is horrible.” 

Pale eyes blink at you slowly from the side of his vision, Nikto watching your face fall as his brow lightly rises. 

The hotel is large—one main area with sectioned-off rooms much like any upscale hotel would be. But the decorations were…well, there wasn’t much you could say in their favor. It was all white, at least, all pale enough that you assumed it was entirely white. The walls, the countertops, the chairs.

“What are people's fixations with white and gray?” Your body moves forward, slipping out of your heels before you cross your arms over your chest. “I swear, I can’t even see color and I know how to style better than them.”

Blinking at a painting on the wall, which seems to be no more than a black line down a pale canvas, you look at Nikto in exasperation. You motion with a shaky hand to it. “What is this even supposed to be?”

You grumble the sentence, tilting your head at the artwork. 

Nikto’s low chuckle moves through you, and the void slips past as he moves farther into the hotel room, looking around. 

“It is not your…style,” he mutters, shoulders rolling. All of your bags sit in the front hallway right by the door, stacked up and up like the basework of a home of fabric. The image of the man in this glaring place is stark, and you blink through a smile.

“You can say that again,” you huff, but you quickly devolve into soft chuckles.

Nikto pauses, looking over his shoulder at you. He stares with confusion as your quivering form covers your mouth with your palm. 

“What?” The man asks, glancing around. 

“You,” you laugh loudly, walking closer one uneven step at a time. Nikto watches, still. “You look silly standing here. Like a blackhole just opened up.”

Pale eyes narrow, a thin grunt wafting out from his chest. 

Your hand carefully rests on his bicep, giggling heavily as an infectious amusement leaks from your lips. Nikto’s expression fights the sudden soft sweet that threatens it—mouth quirking as he sighs. 

“That is not funny,” he grumbles, head tilting away from you.

“Oh,” you breathe, rolling your eyes and moving away. “The irony.” 

Nikto watches you look around, coat hanging off one arm and your face lighter now that you've had a small rest. He hadn’t woken you up until the car had fully stopped in the street, only then shaking your shoulder until your eyes had fluttered open softly. The expression you had worn was still in the back of his brain, that open and airy thing—body shifting with tiny grunts that made his thighs twitch. 

The sensation of your skin under his; the warmth of it. 

Nikto’s eyes blink slowly, fingers at his sides twitching as his throat takes down saliva. 

Rolling his neck, the Russian shifts his legs and follows after to find where you’d gone off to. 

He won’t admit it to you, but he liked the simplicity of the hotel room. Yet, the exasperation you gained from it, he liked more.

Your hands open all of the doors, searching the bathroom and the room—the realization only hits you when you once more lay your vision on Nikto, who had been watching you glance around silently. 

A heat pulls at your cheeks, and with a low clearing of your throat, your sheepish face implores, “Did you see a second bedroom?”

The Russian's large body seems to take a screenshot, stuttering before his head roves the visible rooms to them. 

One bathroom. One bedroom. 

Immediately, he says, “We will take the couch.” 

“No,” you shake your head, waving a hand as if to convince him that it wasn’t the only option. “No, that’s alright. I don’t want you to feel pressured to—”

The front door gets a hard knock on it, and the both of you straighten. 

Eyes locked, your body releases a sigh before you shift and make your way back to the entrance. Nikto passes by, a hand brushing your arm as his boots thump on the floor. A flash of pale eyes leaves you widely staring.

“I will sleep on the couch,” he grunts, and then he’s already at the door and checking through the peephole. His opposite hand shifts to hover over his beretta, long fingers skimming the metal. 

Blinking, your hot face flares again, and in your stomach a swirl of heat levels. 

Something about him had changed again—just like you’d seen throughout your time together. It was a slow thing; delicate. Like taming a wild animal that stopped by outside of your porch once and a while, the eyes on the thing slitted and teeth bared. 

But it was undeniable at this point, no matter how much you wanted it to be false. 

Yefim has been slipping from your mind lately. The mantra you’d sworn to follow. 

Don’t get attached. 

It was easier said than done, and just as everyone always thought you were a mindless fool, you agreed with them in this instance. You were a fool. A beautiful, stupid, fool. At first, it could be pushed off as hope, maybe. An attraction to a big, dangerous man in the time after a traumatic event—his body promised protection; his hands, violence. That could be brushed off, only a sentence said in the therapy session you very much needed, but, now…

Now you were afraid it was far more than a simple distraction.

Wringing your hands a good distance away, you take down a low inhale and try to force the memory of his gloved fingers running your flesh. Or, worse, his bare skin pressing firmly into the bastardus scar on the back of your head—something you would have never let anyone see if it had been up to you. His hard hold, his easy work of your weight when he picked you up. 

The thump of his pulse right beside your ear. 

Even that small car ride had been suffocating with something unnamed. 

You run a hand over the back of your head, feet shifting over cold tile. 

“Nikto,” your voice carries. “Who is it?”

“Man,” he scoffs, moving back and looking with that mask over his shoulder. “He has suit on. Blond hair. Короткий.”

Fuck, that mask. Those eyes. 

You can’t even focus—what was going on with you?

“Okay,” you clear your throat, walking over as quickly as you’re able. A hand easily grabs your sleeve when you accidentally get too close to the side table, nearly bumping into it. You conform to a hard Kevlar chest, breath hitching. 

Rotting wood infects your nostrils, and you nearly sag instinctually into Nikto, pupils widening. With shifting legs, your fast feet backtrack, and the scent dissipates. 

“It’s probably Iakov—Iakov Mironovich Lisov,” Nikto narrows his eyes on you, looking up and down your body slowly in brief confusion. “He’s my media coordinator.” 

Grasping the handle, you open the door easily and come face to face with a casual greeting.

“Seraph.” You smile, albeit, you very much feel the presence of Nikto behind you—his low breath on the back of your head. Your ears twitch to the movement of his gear. 

“Good to see you again, Iakov Mironovich.”

“Ah,” the blond shakes his head. He was short; dressed nicely just as he should be. “We know each other, do we not? Iakov is just fine, my girl. No need for formalities.” 

Your smile is a bit more genuine now, and you chuckle, nodding. 

Iakov was kind to you—you wouldn’t say confident in all of his actions, but he knew how to present himself as such. New clothes, new watches, and jewelry. His job here was to update your portfolio as soon as possible, which meant he worked far closer to the photographers than you do. Iakov also plans out shoots, too; when to get that perfect shot for ads and media. 

“Have that schedule for me?” You sigh, faking a frown. 

The blond was all over AMA at any given time—you’re surprised the CEO had the resources to let him come along. 

Iakov hums. “I gave you breaks, Seraph, don’t worry. You know how I know you like them.” 

“You’re a lifesaver,” you mutter, smiling widely. 

A folder is passed your way, continuing outfits to wear and when to do so—locations and times. So much work.

The man chuckles, shrugging. “I’m always looking out for you.”

Nikto’s hand curls around your waist and takes the folder from you, asking for it under his breath in a way only you would hear. Shivering, you let him, and nearly feel his grunt of satisfaction at your spine. 

Aly’s jokes were getting harder to want to deny at this point.

What would it feel like to have him on top of you?

Your voice is a bit breathless as you push out, “A-and I’m very glad of it, thank you. Do you want to come in? We can talk some more about tonight and where I’m needed?”

But Iakov’s eyes aren’t on you—they’re on Nikto. 

And Nikto’s are staring right back from above your head. 

Blinking, you glance backward at your guard, brows furrowing. Your heart skips a beat at the intensity of Nikto’s piercing gaze, chin tilted down and his face dead-set forward. He isn’t even blinking. 

“...Boys?” You frown, shaking your head and moving to dispel tension as you usually knew how. Flirting. “I know I look ravishing, but please, don’t get into a catfight over my affection—it gets boring. At least do it outside.”

Nikto snaps out of his strange trance, wide eyes turning to look directly at you as you flutter a smirk to your lips. 

“I’d cheer for you, Big Guy, don’t worry.” Growling through his rapid blinks, Nikto detached himself from behind so close to you and disappeared into the room as you laughed loudly. 

“Enough!” Is the heavy bark, but it means nothing to you. 

“You’re adorable, Nikto,” you call, but only the suddenly stuttering pound of his boots is the answer. 

Grinning widely, your attention turns back to Iakov. Even you can see the pigment on his face, though it’s simply a deeper shade than the rest of him. The man’s legs shift—he looks…well, you can’t really place it. Something like annoyance slashes his expression, though it’s gone before you can comment and offer an apology. 

“No,” he grumbles, already moving away. “No, I need to speak with that photographer about the equipment.” 

And then the blond is walking away quickly. 

Frowning, you stare after him before you back up and slowly close the door, pausing at the entrance and looking down at your hands.

Peeling your grip from the handle, you confusedly glance at the clamminess of your palm before you lick your lips and shake your head. 

“Nikto?” You wonder, and a small smile comes back to your lips. 

“What?” Is the numb call from the kitchen.

Your legs carry you there, and you see him with his bag on the counter, large arms rifling through it before taking out all sorts of things. The papers were pushed to the side and looked through.

“What is that?” Your shocked voice makes his attention flicker to you, eyes swirling with dull amusement. 

“M13,” is the accented response. Casual, as if a regular walk in the part and not an Assault Rifle being set down to the hotel’s expensive stone countertops. Nikto’s smirk is heard as it moves like honey into your lungs, keeping them stuck together. “Big gun, yes?”

“What’s it doing in the kitchen?” Your confused face twitches. “I trust your cooking skills, but I don’t think you…” you pause. “Well, I, can’t eat metal even if you do attempt it.”

“Haha,” the Russian’s harsh speech only makes the mockery more funny. He huffs. “I am cleaning it, Птичка. For tonight. I will not have it jam if it comes my time to pull the trigger.” 

Your mouth opens, and you begin to ask if he’s even allowed to do that before your breath gets caught. 

“...What does that mean?” Pale eyes blink, hidden face tilting your way. 

Nikto grunts in question, taking out the same cleaning rag from his belt that he’d used all those days ago in his Beretta and setting it down. 

“I do not understand.”

Your tongue trips up, the word slipping together, but you get the chuck of it out that would need to be said, rough, though it sounded somewhat similar. You can only go off memory.

“Ptichka?”

Nikto’s fingers pause over the gun, and while it was impossible to tell, you feel the air go utterly still. He blinks, the Russian, at that moment, is highly confused and taken aback.

“We did not say that.” He slowly replies, rolling his shoulders before clearing his throat. “Must have slipped our tongue.” His hands visibly twitch from where you watch.

Face pulling in, your eyes narrow slowly, face tight. A deep curiosity brews like soup in a pot, and you instantly latch on to it.

Птичка. You stuff it away for later, but it sings in the back of your brain.

“Alright…” Trying to push past it, you smile teasingly. “Well, I hope you’ll enjoy the suit I reserved, anyway. The stylists should be bringing it up soon with my outfit.”

It isn’t easy to hide your glee when sharp eyes dart back up to meet yours.

—

“Stop moving,” one of the women hisses, the makeup brush moving over the lid of your eye. 

“Sorry,” you mutter, hands held together in your lap as you get ready in the bedroom. A large vanity is in front of you. 

You have three women working on you right now—you can’t recall their names, as you’d never met them before, but all are unyielding to your attempts at conversation. The one currently is working on your eyeshadow, the second on your clothes across the room, and the third on your jewelry. 

All you wear are your lacy undergarments, harsh ring lights relentlessly assaulting your already sensitive eyes. 

“Sit straight,” a hand is forced into your spine, and you breathe in sharply before you comply, eyes shut tight while she works. “Like child. Fidgeting.”

You clench your jaw and stay your words.

It was getting harder to fight the anxiety in your blood as the time grew nearer to leave. 

In half an hour, you were needed at a large building near the center of the city—dressed to the nines and slathered in perfume; dripping luxury in the dress that your boss had given you. 

You dreaded even looking at it, afraid about how far the slit up the side would go. How deep the neck. You didn’t have to hypothesize the color. 

“Open.” At the command, you open your eyes and blink quickly at the light. 

Instantly, your chin is grabbed and your face moved to the side as you make a noise in the back of your throat—lips getting pressed down by the tip of a lipstick tube.

Gray pigment is moved over the flesh and spread firmly. 

Face burning, you avert your vision from looking into the woman’s eyes, awkwardly looking around. This was by far one of the worst parts of getting ready for events, but nothing compared to how your night would go if prior parties were anything to compare.

“Get dressed. I have done all I can do,” you’re released and a large sigh is echoing through the room. 

She begins to clean up her items as you nod and stand up, muttering, “Thank you.”

A huff is all that’s offered, and you breathe out before padding over to the bed. Body tight, you play with your fingers in front of your abdomen with lingering unease. Your skin feels dirty already. 

One stylist comes over and grabs at the side of your strapless bra, peeling it back and letting it slap the skin. You startle, flinching. Something in Russian is muttered, and the women all chuckle to one another, sending sly glances as you stare dumbly, lips going thin. 

“Get dressed, Girl,” the one nearest smiles, but it isn’t comforting. “Long night for you, yes?” 

Your body curls into itself, and in that instant, you want to exit the bedroom in nothing but sweatpants and an oversized shirt; you want to sit in the kitchen and let Nikto cook dinner. You would eat an entire platter if that was all you needed to do to get out of this situation. 

But you can’t.

And you can’t go back to your penthouse either. You have no trinkets here—nothing to make your own. White walls, white floors. Gray bed.

Shame stuck into your face, your head snaps away to the dress you would be forced to wear as fingers pinch at your waist. More giggling. More words you can’t understand. 

You clear your throat, blinking away the sting in the back of your eyes that swells up at the sight of it. It was beautiful, you can’t deny it. Just as beautiful as you’re sure you look right now with all this makeup on your face like a mask. 

The top was essentially just a corset, the low-dropping neckline a wide oval ending at points only halfway up your breasts. The ‘v’ of the corset ends at your navel, and under, the pale silk of the train cascades down in a single cut, which would be your only cover beside a very sheer layer of lace underneath. Pearled adornments would sit on your arms, looped to the backing above the meat of your flesh. They weren’t sleeves—it was an accessory. 

They wanted you to show skin tonight.

The slit left little to the imagination, it would end far into your upper thigh. One tumble, and you’d be showing off your underwear to everyone. Never mind a tumble, you think. A single misstep. 

And this dress would make you more than beautiful—it would make you ethereal.

But you never said that was what you wanted to be.

This is all I’m good at, you take down a shaky breath, looking to the side until you can calm yourself and close your eyes. 

Heart hammering and your intestines going to mush, you rub at the back of your scar. It’s only a moment before you steel yourself and reach with shaking fingers. But you’re not entirely sure if they’re quivering from the brain damage or just the fear.

You’re not sure which you’d prefer.

Slipping into the dress, you huff and force your hips through the opening, grunting as you feel the fabric pull tight to your flesh.

“Eat too much, Girl. You’re struggling to get into that?” The comment is said under breath, but it’s like an arrow aimed directly at your throat. Snickering makes your lungs quicken. “Getting fat.” 

“I’m not…I’m not gaining weight,” you say, not looking back at them as you pull harder. “I never…”

But you had been eating more, hadn’t you? Nikto’s food was always on your mind nowadays—his hearty breakfasts, the warm lunches. Dinner was always a surprise; it always made you eat like it was your last day on earth, despite the alarm bells.

Blinking quickly, your lip wobbles.

“I can fit into it,” you whimper. 

But it’s just laughter as you pull harder. 

The dress pops over your hips, and you take a large breath, looking down at it as it sits around your waist, nearly panting from desperation. In a quick act, you peel it all the way up and hold the material there as hard as you can. 

“See?” Your voice quivers, turning as your legs stumble. “I got it.”

One of the stylists rolls her eyes, and the one cleaning up her materials scoffs and waves a hand to the others. A smirk is on her lips, and you can’t help but compare them all to dark-eyed harpies. 

“Lace her up. Tightly.” Fingers poke and prod, and as you bite your lip, flinching at every hard pull, trapping you into this modern contraption—this cage—until you feel your lungs push into your guts. Your sides burn and your head goes light by the time they’re done completely and the laces are tied. 

Putting a hand to your stomach, your creased face only softens at all at the faint sounds from outside of your bedroom door. Hard boots. Moving travel bags being organized by scarred fingers. You have to focus on it to bring away the infection of black dots in the corners of your blinking eyes, not-yet-dry mascara making the lashes stick momentarily. You rip them back open and steady your bare feet, fingers vibrating over the material suffocating you. 

Hands grab at your shoulders and turn you away from the bed, pearls clacking together. As if your shell-shocked being meant nothing, heavy jewelry is stacked over your throat and wrists. Pearls dangling from your ears, surrounded by precious metals—necklaces that are engraved with angels and feathered birds. Even the bracelets, dangling things, are weighted by luxury and meaning.

They still just felt like shackles.

When it’s all said and done, the heels you’ll be wearing are near the bedroom door. The women flock out and pass glances over their shoulders to you, left standing in the middle of the room as your eyes remain locked to the ground. Not speaking—barely breathing because the pinch in your chest aches if you do. 

Just a doll left sitting on the top shelf, waiting to be grabbed by grubby fingers and pawned off at the nearest thrift store for nothing else but notoriety. You don’t know how long you stand there, trying to gather what little strength you have for tonight above the relentless brutality of your heart to your ribcage, but it’s long enough to where you hear a sharp knock on your door. 

“Seraph,” Nikto calls to you, his glove-less fingers rasping over the wood. “The women left—are you…” His brows tighten. “Acceptable.”

The Russian’s low grunt exits his throat, boots re-situating themselves. His hidden ears twitch for your answer, looking to the side for a moment as your thin voice wafts out. 

“Yes.”

Nikto’s scarred face pulls at that, confused. If that was the case, then why hadn’t you edited your room yet? Were you nervous?

Pale blue eyes blink at that, slowly tilting his head in thought. You had expressed anxiety over these parties, perhaps that was what this was about. Nerves. The man’s lips thinned, staring hard at the woodgrain ahead of him. He can practically hear your fluttering heartbeat in the air.

“We have ten minutes, yes?” He utters, a low dread filling his chest. A pause. “Where have you placed the suit?” 

There’s a lapse in noise as Nikto’s words fully resign him to his fate, his eyes dulling with a slow acceptance. Only when the door clicks to open, does he decide that if it got you out of the room and gave you a distraction, being in a suit wouldn’t be the worst—

His throat tightens to hide a sharp inhalation of breath.

You stand in the doorway, and it’s like he’s looking into the sun.

Your dress trails behind you as your eyes stay stuck to Nikto’s chest, mumbling out. “I think the stylists left it over near the door,” and swiftly passed.

Trying to hide the pain that leaves your heart aching at the railroad-straight nature of your spine, you shuffle to the hanging suit left on the coat rack. Grasping it, you take as deep a breath as you’re able and turn around. 

“I didn’t know sizes, so I tried my best to get as close of an estimate as possible just by…” Your words trail off. 

Nikto stares at you so openly that the last bit of your breath is taken away in one swoop of a sparrow’s wings. 

Pale eyes are unblinking as they gaze through wide attention, hand still outstretched from where it was knocking at the door. Stopping in your tracks, you blink slowly, a pulse going through your body that you feel all the more wearing this dress.

The Russian doesn’t speak—he doesn’t say anything. He watches. Vision moving along the dip of your throat where those pearls sit; conforming to the swell of your breasts and the view of your cleavage. Then to your waist, tight and formed, and, finally, to the open view of your leg, and that bit of tantalizing lace.

Nikto felt his pulse under his skin, that flipping in his abdomen that was becoming that much harder to ignore. Yet, the sudden stiffness of his pants is a new one.

“You are…” He begins, voice low.

“Please,” you interrupt, “don’t call me beautiful,” you whisper. A small, broken smile comes to your lips. “I feel like a pig.”

Nikto flinches lightly, though you don’t notice it. All carnal attraction dissipates at a single word, as if in complementary action to your own. Something seems to have taken the air from his lungs before he clears his throat and nods his head stiffly. 

“You do not like it?” He grumbles, glancing up and down.

“Not at all,” you chuckle but stop when you get lightheaded. “I’m sure you’ll look handsome in your outfit, though.” Walking to him, you hand the suit over slowly.

“You change the subject,” Nikto huffs, eyes narrowing on you as the intent of his sockets is leveled with yours. “Why?” 

All you give is a twitch of your lips. “I put a balaclava in the pocket,” you nod your head. “I didn’t want you to feel like you had to change out of your mask, but I wanted to give you the option if you wanted to take it. The bathroom’s free, I won’t be needing it, so go ahead and take all the time you want.” 

Stepping back you don’t look at him again as your legs walk you to the window. Hands moving to wrap around your middle, you don’t clock the pale orbs that follow.

Nor the worried sheen at the sight of your far-off eyes. 

Nikto stands for a moment, struck dumb, and only after you pass him one confused glance, does he quickly turn and walk away.

—

The Russian pointedly avoids looking in the mirror—in fact, he actively avoids the bathroom altogether.

Slipping off his Kevlar and setting it to the floor, Nikto’s nostrils are stuck with the scent of your perfume; it travels on the airways, getting stuck to his skin. Grunting, he gets halted in his thoughts about your averted face as his fingers fiddle with his belt, pulling it out of the loops as his covered face frowns.

Why did you look like that? Why were you…afraid? 

Nikto didn’t like that look, and how could he? When he thinks of the face you wore when you slept in his lap, anything else seemed a sin to be marring your features. It was a slow realization that he’d never seen you more calm than when a killer’s hands were caressing the base of your head. 

Growling under his breath, the man focused on the dress pants you’d given him; a bit tight around his thighs and backside, but nothing he couldn’t work with as he stepped into them. 

“Absurd,” he huffs, grasping and stuffing himself inside so he can zip up the fly and button the top. “Why do we do this?” 

Because he hated seeing anything other than a soft smile on your face, that was why, and he can’t stop denying it like a fool. With a horrid weight on his chest, he rolls his wide shoulders and welcomes the chilled air on his bare flesh.

What he doesn’t welcome is the sudden opening of the door behind him.

Freezing like a deer in headlights, his ears pick up a sharp gasp and a rapid apology. Nikto’s still eyes stare ahead to the wall silently.

“I-I’m sorry, I thought you would be in the bathroom!” Your panicked face darts away. “I forgot my heels over here—”

It was your turn to be struck silent at the sight of your companion, and struck silent you were as your rapid eyes locked onto his scars. Not only scars but a tattoo as well.

They were…rabid, those healed cuts. You can feel your shock and horror as clearly as day when you look at them in their gray glory. Long, violent—almost made as if by an animal who just learned how to use his claws. Burns, too. Patches of skin that melt together around the dark ink of a snarling bear. 

Apt, your hushed brain thinks.

You should leave right now, you tell yourself. Leave immediately and forget what you’ve seen like you’ve tried to forget the pictures you’d been sent. But something is in the air that you can’t explain to anyone except your instincts.

Not making a noise, you take a single step forward as Nikto’s back muscles are wound tight; hands clenched. A bitter shaking that’s less noticeable than a dog in the bushes.

“I didn’t know you had a tattoo,” you whisper, and the air is thick with unsaid words. “It’s…beautiful, Nikto.”

Not even you can predict your next move, not here—not like this. Why were you still here? The view was jarring and violent, and the longer you looked, the more your throat filled with bile at the thought of what had happened. These wounds had been made with intent, and the very recognition of that made your lip quiver, eyes wide with a bare horror. 

A pain.

Nikto’s chest jerks, his heart hammering inside of his breast. But for the life of him, he can’t speak. Can’t move.

Why can’t he move?

Your feet take another step forward, and a long shiver runs down your spine when you can begin to make out the individual dips and digs of long-gone blades. The fizzling skin—where cigarettes had been put out as if Nikto was someone's ashtray. 

You have to tell yourself to take a deep breath before you pass out.

“I…” But nothing comes out.

You don’t want to touch him, but at the same time, your fingers are shaking for it. You quiver, and you don’t know why.

If you were able to see color, you think you might have sobbed then and there—you might have been left a heap by the shades of abuse, written so plainly in a way you would never know. 

And blackened, inkish, eyes only stare you down as you stand there, dressed all in white. And such a strange thing it is, that ink, and how sad it looks.

If it could speak, what would it say? To you, the answer seemed simple.

I don’t know why I bite. 

Clearing your throat, you hurriedly begin to turn back around. “I’m sorry, I’ll leave you alone. That was rude of me, I should have knocked first—”

“Do you mean it?” Nikto’s voice is so low you think for a moment you never heard it, only pausing when the rumble moves through your eardrums. 

“Mean what?” Your voice is even lower. Layered with regret. “That I’m sorry? Of course, I do—”

“Нет.” It is swift and gruff. You swallow and shuffle your feet. “...Красивый?” 

“I don’t understand what that means,” you lick your lips, hands clammy again. It was time to leave soon—you need to get out and let him dress. 

Nikto’s muscles writhe, shifting, pulling. Small, beady eyes move from over his shoulders, and you’re caught by them; a bird in a bear’s jaws. The pupils are so small they almost make you flinch.

“Beautiful?” 

Your mouth goes dry.

It’s a long moment before you answer, and when you do, your thighs have already pushed themselves together from below you, the skin trapping in the betraying way your insides pulse.

“I meant it,” you whisper, unblinking. Without any thought, your hand raises slightly. Pale eyes slash to it, and you stop, not beginning again until nothing in refusal is said as seconds tick longer. Your middle finger brushes over burn scars before the others conform to healed flesh, laying delicate, heavenly, pressure. The bear tattoo shifts just as blotchy skin does, calling to you along the back of a broken man.

“...I like the eyes best,” your lips utter, and you feel the Russian shiver under your touch, breath hitching. Heaving lungs. Locked eyes bleed color you cannot see.

And so you stay there, fingertips gaining hellish heat as skin melts into skin—pulse into pulse. A fire of a different kind moving under flesh.

And then Nikto turns, and a hard hand is under your chin. 

“You do not like the word,” he grunts, and in his eyes, you see nothing but feral, desperate, pain. A wounded dog. A speared boar. He’s talking about how you’d reacted to his words from before—was he still hung up on them? But when he holds you like that, you can’t even begin to warn him about your makeup. Let him ruin it. Let him taint it. Spread his violence into your skin like fangs. His grip tightens. “Why?” A growl, nothing more. “Do you not believe you are, Girl?”

“It’s because I know I am,” you breathe, and watch his eyelids narrow. “And I know it’s all I’ll ever be.” 

A scoff. “I do not understand it.” 

You don't want to comprehend this word game. Your body aches. “I don’t either.” 

And for the first time, you want him to kiss you. Just to see how it hurts when he does. 

Your lips flicker, and his thumb moves the length of your jawbone; bodies so close your heart patters opposite his, chests brushing with every stuttered pull of intoxicating air.

Rotting Wood. Gunpowder. 

Alluring ambrosia. Mind-silencing touch.

Gold-chained necks, both.

“If I call you beautiful, will you promise to call me hideous?” It is a small gift the universe gives Nikto when your phone rings from the nightstand after you speak.

If you hadn’t startled back and hobbled over to grab it, he would have done something horrible. Irreversible. Just as a rabid dog would as it snarls at a hand so willing to touch it.

He would have grabbed on and never let go, even if it ended up drawing blood. Even if his whimpers filled the room. Even if his mind told him not to—not to take the food that you offer him, not to put that collar around his neck that he already knew was there.

Oh, it is a horrible thing to know the color of someone's soul, and even worse to know one’s own.

Your body hurries out of the room as Nikto’s voided eyes stare at nothing, snatching your heels and speaking to that friend of yours.

Even after the door clicks shut, the imprinting of your hand burns far hotter than the fire ever did, and Nikto knows it’s never going to leave.

—

You pull the designer coat harder across your body, and the fake smile on your lips seems anything but to the finely dressed men and women who pass by.

No one returns the grin, but you supposed the thought counted on your part.

The flashing cameras jar you as you hang off of Nikto’s arm, having just gotten out of the car moments prior, and already you were the center of attention. Heels meeting the long trailing carpet, your eyes threaten to close at the fast blinding light.

“Nikto,” you whisper under your breath. 

He hums, glancing down from over the tight clutches of his skin-tight balaclava. The Russian guard’s suit was pure black, and despite the size up you noticed he needed…he looked good. 

Insanely good.

The outfit showed off the bulk of his biceps—as big as your head—and the strength of his thighs; the push of his abdomen, which was very clearly the result of hard work and raw power. His tie was only partially crooked…the hardness of a bullet-proof vent underneath all of it.

“What is it?” Nikto grunts in question, accent rough. Your stint in the bedroom is pushed to the back of your mind, and it seemed it was the same for him. It was time to go to work.

Around his chest, his rifle is slung, and at his thigh, the beretta. Unknown to you, a combat knife was sitting comfortably under the tail of his suit jacket. Sharpened and only a fast jerk of an arm away. 

“The camera flashes are making it hard to see—the stairs. How many are there?”

“Seven.” A pause. “Lean into us.” 

You do so, shoulder finding his arm as you turn your head and grin at the photographers; the shouting comments and pleas to come their way. 

“Thank you,” you utter, and as his body rises, slowly, so you compel your own to do the same—clearing your throat.

He doesn’t answer.

“Seraph! Seraph!” It’s your moniker that rises above the rest. “The stalker, tell us about the stalker! How do you feel about three men being dead?!”

Your fingers tighten over your guard’s bicep, and the only thing that keeps you from tripping on the last step—the tip of your heel clipping the edge, is Nikto. He leans close and grumbles in your ear, lifting you discreetly with only the strength of a single arm. Hot breath puffs against the side of your ear as your breath gets caught.

“That one looks like horse,” he grumbles. “Long face, all legs, yes?”

“Nikto,” you hiss, but the growing smile can only be quickly covered by your fingers before a belly-deep laugh slips out. From behind your barrier, you whisper, “You can’t say that.”

Pale eyes narrow on you, amusement in the far backs as your giggles continue. Cameras increase their barrage tenfold. “Why can I not?”

You only shake your head, side-eyeing him as your face becomes hotter than the sun. 

“You’re horrible, you Brute.”

Nikto barks that hyena laugh, chest jerking. There is an undeniable rumble in his body that you feel roll through you, grip tightening on his suit’s sleeve. 

You blink away for a moment as you both walk forward and glance at one of the doormen, who blinks widely at you. Your words tumble out in a quick under-the-breath jest. 

This game was letting the anxiety leak away one grumbled sentence after another. A sliver of joy seeps in to take its place.

“The doorman looks like an owl. Can you see it?” Nikto’s head secretly shifts, and he looks above your head from the corner of his piercing eyes. 

Tall, lanky, big eyes; dark hair with pale spots.

“We see it…Very good.” Your heart palpitates at that, blinking a few times before an almost giddy expression comes to your face. 

Lord, you were in too deep.

Walking through the front doors, you thank the ones who come closer and ask for your coat, letting go of Nikto’s flesh and moving. People barely retrain their gasps as your skin is laid to light, and the extravagance of luxury is plain to see by the way the pearls lay over your body—the jewelry, the lace. 

Nikto’s presence sets them on edge, however. 

You don’t exactly know what clearance he has for him to carry around an actual rifle, the very one that his hands now find and rest on carefully, watching you. A handgun? Yes, you can understand that, but the thing around his chest now was anything but a handgun. Your mother had said that in order to keep good relations, your survival was very important. 

Maybe you’d underestimated how important.

Passing off your coat and nodding to the person who takes it, you shift back into Nikto’s side and let him walk ahead. 

“Do I make you nervous?” the question takes you back, but as your heels begin clicking in uneven steps to the marble floor, your reply is simple.

“No.” His eyes scan the entrance as the sounds of laughter and clinking glasses meet your ears, making them twitch. 

Nikto moves his shoulders, nodding his head to the M13. “This?”

You pause, brows furrowing slowly. “Not…not when you’re the one holding it.”

Pale eyes shift to lock with yours, and the flare of your flesh along his back makes him bite back his tongue from uttering anything else. A grunt moves across the area.

“Good.” Then, firmer, as if to reassure you, “We will not use it tonight.”

“Then why bring it,” your face is curious, form getting closer to the opening at the end of the hallway.

Gray eyes shimmer. “Threat.”

You can’t dwell on the revelation before the main room of the building unfolds in front of you.

You’d grown so used to these things and the events that took place during them, that you no longer cared about the expensive decor. This was no different, though you did admit they went all out. From the gargantuan chandelier on the ceiling, greenery and elegant gems were strung like hanging vines. At any given point, servers would walk around with sweets and champagne on, what you assumed, to be silver platters. Everyone was dressed to the very best of their abilities—dresses, suits, jewelry; makeup. 

Whispers are rampant, that murmur of secretive conversation in Russian and fast eyes to others all around. 

This was a party of equal opportunity, and your boss had sent you to be the most alluring of all. It was already working. 

People look over and blink in shock, whether at your dress or seeing you here at all, you don’t truly care. Men jeer, gazing openly as their eyes slip down to your chest and legs. Clearing your throat, you stutter for a moment and carefully lean your head closer to Nikto’s muttering casually even as your heart pounds. The words feel like poison as they slip out of you.

“I may have to slip away for a little bit to meet with potential investors for AMA.” Immediately, there are firm and heavy eyes digging into you. 

“Нет.” 

“Nikto,” you stop yourself from biting into your lip as a server comes over—you smile stiffly and quickly grab a flute, fingers tapping it only once before you curl your digits around it. “I have to, this is my job. I was sent here for a reason.”

“And this is mine,” he says. “You will go nowhere that I can not see, Seraph. That is not up for question, yes?”

You begin to open your mouth again, a kind of stiff refusal that is entirely foreign to you. Nikto has already picked up on that—his hidden face tight and confused; fingers twitching to try and understand. 

And then someone walks up to you. 

“Seraph,” you get called into conversations that you care not to be in, and brushed by hands that shouldn’t be touching you. Hands that hold rings and bracelets, pulling intention that your body writhes at. You don’t know anyone here, but all of them know you.

They know your body. 

You smile when you know it’s acceptable, and you see Iakov in the crowd as well, always glancing over before he’s once more lost. Flashing cameras, though now it’s more subdued, but they still always follow you. The woman who had made news because of that steadily growing problem. 

Nikto stays a respectable distance away, but you never lose sight of him. An ever-present dog at your heels, who walks with a high-held tail and sharp ears. More than once you’d seen him throw vile glances at the people who talked to you—specifically the ones who only spoke in Russian. 

You’re leveled with swift and jumbled sentences, making your head burn with how you try to take the throaty language in an attempt to decipher it. More than once you have to wave up a hand and shrug helplessly, embarrassed at the disgusted looks you get, and Nikto moves forward with a bark of something. 

People move away faster at that, of course.

Until Oriel Grigorovich Tarkovsky. 

His hand is resting on the back of your shoulder blade, thumb moving up and down on your flesh. Older—he had to be in his late fifties, wrinkles were on his face surrounding sly eyes, and a beard. He looks down at you like a piece of meat, and only because that was exactly what you were. He organized this party. He was why you were here. 

Rich, influential, and looking for investments wherever he could stick his fingers. He also had a daughter your age, whom he was considering sending to AMA. Like all rich men, he needed a reason to feel he was winning something out of it.

Sometimes, you don't have to wonder why they always put you into white.

“Fedorov told me you were back to doing parties,” Tarkovsky chuckles, the watch on his wrist glinting in the light. “I did not believe him.” He licks his lips, looking down at you as your fingers quiver, reaching for your fourth flute of champagne this evening. You want to be drunk for this.

The gray liquid sloshes in your grip and you fake a laugh, body tingling. 

“Here I am,” you don’t offer more than a glance his way before staring ahead again. 

“I expected the other girl—tall blonde.” A small grumble, slight annoyance emanating from under his breath. 

“Aly couldn’t make it, unfortunately.” You clear your throat. “Mr. Fedorov only sent me. I hope that’s acceptable?”

Fingers tighten over your flesh. “I suppose. You look well enough in that dress.” Lips near your ears, making you restrain a heavy flinch. “I hope you look just as good without it. Fedorov knows I can be a generous man, let’s make sure he gets what he thinks he will, hm?”

Dark eyes dig down into you, and Nikto, who stands far behind near the wall, taps his fingers against the barrel of his gun. He can’t hear what’s being said, but he doesn't like it regardless. You don’t look comfortable, yet you haven't once looked back at him to show you needed him to intervene. Nose scrunching from behind his balaclava, the Russian’s gloved fingers flex above his weapon. 

He needed to get his head screwed back on, and the lingering scent of your perfume was addling him. Your actions in the bedroom. 

“Сосредоточиться,” he orders under his breath, glancing away from the back of your head, and what he knows that lies there. 

No one has approached him while he’s been here, but all flock to you. Nikto takes a head count, memorizing faces and the names that seep into his ears. Everyone here glances at him and then quickly averts their eyes, but that second is enough. 

If your stalker was here, Nikto could point him out if he had to. But then again, the man’s eyes slip to stare in reverence at his M13, he might be able to put a stop to this once and for all—his way. Those investigators of yours were worth less than the dirt under his boots.

Pale blue eyes move through dresses and suites of every color, unphased until they lock back onto your white pureness. Your goodness.

Except for the fact that you’re gone.

Startling, the guard’s body is rendered iron-rod stiff before action is taken like a bullet to a brain. Pale eyes snap back and forth; rabid.

Feet slamming forward, a low growl echoes in Nikto’s chest, shoulders wound up just as much as they’d been when you’d entered in on him changing.

“Seraph!” He has no reservations about barking over the noise, and his large body shoves people over without a second thought. 

He won’t admit it to himself, no, never, but the feeling he forces down is far more than duty or pride. It makes Nikto’s blood pump as his black-ink form shoulders your media coordinator and his gaggle of lessers, all calling after him to try and get him to come back. Cameras flash, rich people curse at him. 

The Russian’s skin itches—his breath is low and heavy. The only thing that mattered was finding you again. Quickly. Efficiently. Without a single scratch hurting you. You can’t have gotten far. With his head constantly at a swivel, it was like a dove to a hellhound as the hard set of Nikto’s eyebrows peeled back. 

Pale blue locks onto a whisper of your gown as you turn a corner far off into the party, and then he shouts. You were too far. 

Too far from him. 

“Птичка!”

—

Your face is devoid of blood, and more than once you clip your thigh on the side of some table or decorative statue going down the hallway. 

You’re led with a hand so hard on your bicep, that you fear it’ll bruise. A part of you had wanted to tell Nikto about the real reason you both were sent out of Yekaterinburg, but a larger part knew that if you wanted things to smooth over, then it was imperative that you didn’t. You’d be back to the rest of the party soon. Maybe you can say that you had to rush off to find the restroom. 

You knew that Nikto had already picked up on something making you nervous to come here, but you were always nervous now. 

Just get it over with, you think to yourself, pearls clacking as they connect to one another. It’s no different than all the others—just block it out. 

“Have you met your soulmate yet, Girl,” Oriel asks. “I can’t imagine letting my own get played with like this. I keep her tight to me, even if most days I hate her guts.” Dark eyes narrow, and a kiss is pressed to the corner of your mouth. “But she fucks good, so I suppose that makes up for it.”

Eyes not looking into his, you wipe at the left-over saliva and state, numbly, “I don’t know.”

Confusion litters the old man’s face, and he drags you closer to his chest. You let out a surprised yelp at the pain in your arm from his grip. A sheen of fear mildly makes you want to call for Nikto to come barreling down the hallway. 

I don’t want this. I don’t want this. I don’t. I’ll take being fired—I’ll take the social suicide, please, I can’t do this again.

You want a bear tattoo and burn scars—you want burning flesh. Rotting wood. Dark metal. 

Pale eyes.

“What—?” A hand wraps Oriel’s wrist and completely snaps it back. 

A crunch of bone leaves itself ingrained into your mind far faster than the scream, and only your stick-open eyes can process it. 

Stumbling back as a strong grip shoves you behind his shadow, you snap a hand to your mouth and gasp loudly. Heart pounding, you place your palm on Nikto’s back to steady yourself; your raw shock is more intense by the second. 

“N-Nikto!” You yell, but he’s not looking at you—he’s not listening to you. 

It’s a low and steady command that meets the air, left in an accent so thick you struggle to understand it as your head swirls. 

“Do not touch.”

Oriel still shouts and grasps at his wrist, which bares bone to the light in the form of a brutal and bleeding compound fracture. You gaze from over Nikto’s side, hand not leaving the firmness of his spine as fingers press deeply and dig into the expensive fabric; creasing it. 

Your head goes a bit light, truthfully. 

The old man divulges into his native tongue, curing loudly, screaming in that fearful desperation that you know well—a hiccup of horror was the best way to describe it, really. 

But you were only looking for a mere second before you were suddenly being dragged off down the hallway. 

Mouth opening and closing, your heels skid across the hard floor, and with your other hand quickly sliding up to claw into Nikto’s sleeve, you’re rendered speechless. It isn’t long before the Russian turns a corner, and then, nearly instantaneously, rips open the door labeled ‘складское помещение’ and moves you inside. 

It’s only then does sense return.

“Nikto,” you shout, eyes blinking wildly as your hand connects with a wall. It was dark in here—and there were metal racks on one side; mops and buckets. A storage room. “What the fuck did you just do?!”

The Russian doesn’t answer, but when you’re fully able to look at him without squinting—eyes adjusting—it’s a very angry and silent man who greets you. 

Nikto’s hands are clenched, and across the front of his hidden face, there’s a spray of dark liquid across his visible eyebrows and nose bridge. 

“What did we say to you, hm?” He utters, not looking away. Your lips fall into a flat line, heart already going far faster than it should be. A guilty tingle of hesitation makes your shaky hands increase until you’re like a woman out on ice. “Tell me.”

Your brain is deathly still. 

Nikto takes three firm steps forward, and then his fingers are under your chin, and he moves it up as you pant, eyes tiny. 

I can’t tell him, you think. I can’t tell him that. He’ll never look at me the same if I do—no one ever does. I can’t tell him. 

“Tell me,” Nikto growls, and your throat bobs, lips wobbling. 

“You said not to get out of your line of sight,” you breathe, locked into pale orbs that spear you like a snake. 

“And what happened?”

“I left,” you whisper. 

Damn this corset—damn this dress. Black dots shimmer in the sides of your vision. You’re breathing too fast; the women laced it up too tight. Lungs tight against your ribs, you clear your throat and attempt to calm down. You’re not sure if Nikto is helping, or making it worse. 

“Why?” He asks as you move back from him, trying to focus. “I did not take you as a woman who leaves to get…” rough words trail in a low growl. Nikto scoffs, looking you up and down. Something sparks in his eyes, a roving monster stuck behind pupils. “No one touches, until we clear them.”

“It isn’t like that,” you’re desperate to say something similar, and you don’t know why. You quickly shift, knees hitting together until you right yourself. Nikto watches after you, head-turning and emotions unreadable. 

“It’s not like that, really. I wasn’t going to…” But you were, weren’t you? You clear your throat again, fingers pulling at the front of your corset—too tight. 

Suddenly air was hard to come by, and it was worse than what it had been in the bedroom. When you speak, it’s a painfully fast spillage of words—a flood of fear. 

“It’s not like that,” you repeat for the third time. “I…I it’s not like I have a say in it, you need to understand. It’s what I get sent here for—I’m not,” your eyes snap everywhere but at him, and you keep trying to back up farther. Nikto stares. “I never want to, it’s not my choice. I was going to try and explain it earlier—”

“Seraph.”

“—But none of it would have made any sense, and then I’d have to go back to AMA and…and then I’d get let off because of the deals Fedorov made going unfulfilled. I’d be out of a job, out of a home, I can’t go into anything else because I’m not good enough to—

“Seraph!”

“I wouldn’t be able to get another job with everything that’s wrong with me, and then I’d have to tell my mom that everything fell through. I can’t do that—I can’t lose this, it’s the only thing that makes sense anymore,” a hitched sob slips out, and then there are hands stuck at your cheeks.

Nikto’s heart is heard through his suit, fast and hard. You suck down wheezing breaths, tears dripping off of your lashes and a certain far-away look to your eyes as the Russian moves out quick words you can’t hear. 

Too tight. Suffocating. 

There’s a moment of nothing, and then gloved fingers are grasping at our shoulder and moving you around, a snap of laces as quick as a cat’s claws, and then a ripping of fabric. A gleam of a cruel knife as a rifle bounces off a chest.

You gasp sharply. Air once more gets moving down your closing airways as the two edges of the corset are opened in one fast push and a hand sticks itself at your pulse. 

“Breathe, Seraph. Дышать, Птичка. Slowly, now.” 

Your back is to the wall, and you don’t even realize it before fingers weave to cup the base of your skull, Nikto’s knuckles scraping against the material so your skull won't. Blinking through the vile tears that slip past your cheeks, your wide eyes flutter and snap about, mouth open like a stressed animal. The air is hot—sweltering, but you can’t stop the way your body is shivering. 

“Stop,” Nikto utters, and the heavy set of concern in his visible skin is bare even to you. “Do not speak. Успокойся. У меня есть ты.” 

You don’t know what he’s saying, but the way the harsh words bleed into comfort is just about the most addicting sound you’ve ever heard. 

“I…” 

“Hush,” Nikto tilts his head in a shake. His grip and gaze are not for one moment straying. “Listen to us, yes?” 

So you do, and when he hesitates, when his body tenses, and when his forehead lightly bends down to bump into yours, you continue to listen even as the delayed shock sets in.

 “You are leaving and you are coming with me. I am taking care of you. That is it.” Every word is hard. It’s like a stamp at the end of a letter—nothing bleeds as the mold forms to wax. Dog-ish eyes and a heavy creasing to the flesh around his sockets. There was no room for debate. You shouldn't have expected anything else, really. 

Violent dogs rarely give a reason for why they take to softened flesh.

You can’t nod, but the heat of his body melts into you one temperature rise at a time. You’re guessing your face gave something away because Nikto grunts softly from above you.

“That is it. Good.”

“I wanted to tell you,” you whisper, tears dripping off of your jaw. 

“You just did.” Nikto mumbles. “There will be no more of it. None. We will take this one problem at a time.” He pauses, the fabric of his balaclava shifting over your flesh. “But we will not allow this to continue. Нет. No.” 

You don’t have the strength to argue right now, certainly not when he’s here—so willingly close to you and letting you bend into him like a stem to the wind. 

“Sorry,” you whisper and only hear a large sigh in response. But Nikto doesn’t comment on the apology, only lightly squeezes the base of your skull and blinks at you. 

Your breath mixes with his, and his dark lashes move as his eyes shift over your face. A large thumb comes up to swipe at your tears, pushing them back as a wobbly smile goes over your face. The tension in the air was still there. An underlying anger. 

Because, and make no debate, Nikto was angry. 

Angry at himself for losing sight of you, angry at that man for touching you in that way, and…and he was angry at you. Angry that you’d not told him about your body being sold like goods—that you’d come here while dealing with a million other problems, and still, you’d held this one close to you. But nothing could beat the burning rage at that fly-eyed CEO. 

Suddenly, a broken wrist on a man seemed pointless. Bloodlust shimmered; broken bone was too easy a thing to get away with.

And he was angry, too, at the worry that you make him feel. 

He’d never felt that to this extent before—save for men in his old unit, of which none he holds to that same loyalty anymore.

And you. A woman dressed in a beautiful white dress, contrasting the rabid unholiness branded into Nikto’s soul with every step and swell of lungs—the lungs that had stuttered when you stayed near to him. Leaning into him. Breathing him down. 

Such things as this were against everything he’d told himself to forget; to cast into the fire with his stabbed and burned flesh. To throw away like a slim hope of ever finding a soulmate that would complement his flaws without even speaking. 

A soulmate? Nikto had discarded that reality to the blood of the corpses he left in his wake. 

Ever since he’d come back from the bleak nothingness of a momentary death in that concrete room, blood on his flesh and rope around his limbs, and found himself seeing in all color. 

And then you’d walked through that door in the Consulate building, and he’d seen your face—open, curious. You were different to him, and he couldn’t understand why. It scared him, there was no use denying it. 

This violent, desperate need. 

Your touch was like a drug. A deadly pair of fingers around his neck; sliding down his scars until he was left panting and begging for it like a mutt. 

Mutt, mutt, mutt, that was what he was. A dog, a large, brutish, beast of a thing that shadows you and lets you use him. Collar to neck, leash in hand. 

“Nikto?” You ask him, and he knows that even being a pet was what he would revel in, if only he could be called yours.

“Что это такое?” Your eyes blink slowly, tears in the lashes, and the Russian repeats. “What is it?” 

“I really do think you’re beautiful, for what it counts.” Your hands are on his chest as you whisper to him. “I just thought you should know.” A small, weak, chuckle. The light in your eyes was slowly coming back, and your heart was gradually returning to an even pace. 

It’s only then do you both realize how close you are to one another. But no one moves. 

“I think your scars are pretty. I wanted to tell you, but,” you smile, another tear slipping out. “I got nervous.”

It’s a ploy to change the conversation into something more comforting, and Nikto is astounded by how fast it works on him. 

Clever, he thinks. If he were a dog, you would be the fox.

His own pulse now skips a beat, and he’s back to that deer-in-headlights mindset that he had in the bedroom. He doesn’t know how to respond to this.

Nikto grunts, eyes shifting away as he leans more heavily into you, acutely aware of your grip on him. His suit is suffocating like a noose. 

“You do not have to lie,” he huffs, eyelids narrowing. “You should not have seen them.”

After a moment of hesitation, your fingers move to brush against his jaw, capturing it and drawing his attention back. Pale eyes flinch wider, locking quickly with your own. 

“I’d never lie to you,” you utter, and the man’s hidden lips part. “Not about that.” Your breath pauses. “I like them. Believe me?”

“...Да. Я верю тебе.” 

His grip slides to your waist, sitting above your hips. He can say he believes that you believe that, of course. He didn’t doubt you. 

Nikto doesn’t know the words that spill from his lips, and he also doesn’t know how long you’ve both been there as people rush past outside, calls of alarm on the air. He knows you don’t look away from him—he knows you look beautiful, yourself, even if he knows you don’t want to hear it. 

So he blinks slowly and softly utters as the pads of his gloved thumbs run circles into your flesh, playing along the slit of your dress.

“Hideous.” 

It’s after a tiny moment that your giggles meet his ears that he can truly sigh into you and grunt out a rare chuckle. Hands roaming his chest, you hum, eyes soft. 

“That was funny…are you making jokes now?” 

“Perhaps,” he huffs. “Do you like them?”

Your head shifts, and before Nikto can realize it, a kiss is placed above his balaclava directly where his lips would be—those cut and brutalized things. That half of a Glasgow smile. Frozen, your hands spread over his abdomen melted into him as the press of the rifle in between you is of little concern, digging against your lace-cut corset. 

Pale eyes are wide open, staring into the wall as you breathe against him.

“Yes.”

“Seraph,” Nikto lowly warns, but it wasn’t like he wasn’t reacting the same. The Russian’s fingers tighten on your flesh. 

You move back and re-attach your forehead to his, and both of you stare. Not another word is uttered, but in the air that same fire from before flickers. Nikto swallows down saliva and watches your throat bob with the same nervous and, yet eager, self-soothe. 

A second. Two. Three.

A beast can’t move from the promise of a warm invitation. 

“Tell us,” Nikto grunts, his fingers flinching. “...Tell us what you need.”

You take a long, low breath. Adrenaline coursing your veins, mixing with some semblance of warmth. 

“You.” 

Nikto stares, studying, and a stuttering dip of your hand slips to his belt, staying there. A minute passes before one hand goes to wrap your wrist firmly; shifting it back to your side. 

“No,” he whispers, emotions unreadable. Nikto’s shoulders widen, feet moving close to yours. A slight sinking feeling emanates from your stomach embarrassment infecting your veins, until he speaks again. It didn’t feel right.

“Not like that, hm?” 

Your face creases in confusion, pupils wide, before Nikto’s hand dips into the slit of your dress. You gasp lightly, and the man watches without blinking, humming under his breath as he grips at the lace layer and pulls harshly. 

A rabid rip of fabric emanates around the storage room, and your heart pounds against your chest. Pulse flaring, your attention doesn’t stray even as your legs twitch open, electricity over the air. Nikto’s hand slips in, but as gloved fingers trail over the top of your panties, he licks at the corner of his lips. 

He waits, stiff—stuck like a pillar of stone. 

Neither of you thinks that this is an entirely smart idea, but even now your insides have turned to mush, a slickness seeping out of your core as your thighs tingle. You were never against sex, but you were cautious with it; especially with everything going on, most of the time it was a quick affair that never even got you off.

You’d never…had someone work at you like this—care enough to not seek their own pleasure. It excited you and, at the same time, made you hesitant. 

You hadn’t expected this. 

“Let us take care of you,” Nikto murmurs, head tilting as you shiver and shake. “Make you feel good, yes?” He grunts, looking down and you feel his fingers twitch, palm moving to cup your cunt. You breathe heavily, a small whine slipping out as the heel of his hand brushes your clit. “Give us an order, Seraph. Leave, or no?”

“No, stay,” you instantly push out, hand slipping down and sliding between the M13 and latching onto his forearm. The Russian stares. “Stay,” you say again, firmer. 

Nikto hums in approval, lightly grinding his hand in a bit harder. Your mouth opens, eyes fluttering. Your insides bunch and tighten, teeth biting your lip as a shiver moves your spine; an itch that needs to be scratched deep in your abdomen. 

Nikto’s palm rubs slowly, and your hips move with it, trailing farther open the longer his actions continue. You sigh, small noises in your throat that exit into the air as the material of your panties gets stained with slick. It felt good—very good. It was the push of hard pressure and the subsequent vanishing of his hand that made you desperate for it; white dress flowing around your feet.

The Russian’s large feet step closer, and he leans into you with his face going to your ear. 

“That expression,” he breathes, smirking. “It looks good on you.” His palm grinds harder, and you gasp, nails digging into his flesh as your brows tighten, M13 almost like a tree branch as it rubs against your chest with every movement. “Little face, skin screwed up.”

“Nikto,” you huff. 

“Hm?” he asks, boots going to shove open your legs farther. “Don’t worry—we won’t let you fall, Seraph. I want you to feel it, yes?” 

You want to think about how this messy situation just got a whole lot messier, but then thick fingers are pulling at the elastic of your lace and letting it snap back to your skin. Your hips jump, eyes jerking over to stare at the man who chuckles under his breath at your frazzled attention and fast-blinking eyes. 

Your dripping cunt is left to pulse around nothing as the scent of sweat and carnal action perforates the storage room. Getting touched back here wasn’t on your plans for the night, but, damn, if Nikto’s eyes were going to be watching you like a hawk, giving attention solely to you and not the hard-on that ruts against your abdomen, then you’d willingly become his mouse. 

His claws could enter your skin without a fight.

You stare at him, breathing hard and your thighs desperate to close as the chill of your ruined panties makes itself known. Your tongue licks at your lips, and pale eyes follow before leather gloves move. 

“Wet,” he grunts next to your ear, groaning as his fingers move to play, shifting your clothing until the fatness of his digits are sliding up and down the length of your slit, gathering what he can with every intentional brush of your clit. The sounds can be heard through the layers of fabric—the squeak of leather. “Hear it, Girl, hm? Hear that?”

You nod, panting harder as your feet shift unconsciously to his teasing. 

“Inside, Nikto, please,” your mouth breathes, voice tight. “Feels good.” 

“Patience, Птичка. You’re not ready for that.” Pressure moves over your weeping cunt, feeling it, circling. “Let me play, first.”

You moan softly as his wet thumb moves up to your clit, circling until your desperation makes you whine at him to move faster than this slow, tortuous, pace. 

Nikto clicks his tongue, his hand still behind your head and cupping the base of your skull, he angles your chin up and stares down at you, puffing a breath with every grind of his limb. 

“I’ll give you my fingers, Seraph, I promise. Я обещаю.” You can hear the brush and sound of shifting wet skin, leather gloves moving slightly quicker as your noises start to increase. All the while, those pale eyes stare, wide and blown to the max. 

If you had to take a guess, above the fog of your brain and the building pressure in your core, he was getting off on this just as much as you were.

Strange, you’d never seen someone so eager to have you cum on their hand before. 

Your breath hitches, legs shaking. 

“Look at that,” Nikto breathes. “Nikto’s good girl.”

You clench over nothing at that, locking eyes and face pulling in, pearls clicking together in a steady rock. 

“Harder,” you order, lips swollen from being bitten over and over again. “Fuck, Nikto harder, I need it.”

“You like getting off like this?” He tilts his head, keeping you pressed against the wall, gun stuck between the two of you—hard metal and heavy pressure making your mind almost lose itself to the hypnosis of the groves and bulges. “Tell me.”

“Yes,” you say it louder than you intend, moaning when his pace increases. 

Your legs move and tighten, eyes going glossy as your whines get tighter and faster. Slick drips from your cunt and its stretched panties, dripping near booted feet and the flinching heels. 

The word is whispered in your ear as your first orgasm rips you open, your breath getting caught and your eyes shuddering closed; walls tightening and flexing, needy for anything to fill it.

“Beautiful.”

There’s little waste in between, and even as your lungs heave and your mind fights to focus, there’s a prodding at your pulsing hole. Gloved fingers push inside, and your brain short circuits.

“Leaking,” Nikto breathes, feeling your cum dribble off of his hidden knuckles. He looks hungry for it—and the erection that tents his dress pants aches something painful. But he isn’t hungry for that. His heavy hand can do all the work he needs, if he must. He’s hungry for that pleasure on your face; that mindless arousal and the thin line between sense and animalistic instinct. He didn’t need to stuff you full of his cock to watch your face blow out with release, and with that, he felt nearly smug. 

He wanted to show you how good it could be to be attended. He can’t make it all better, but he can certainly redefine what it means for you one orgasm at a time. You had said you wanted him, and he was selfish in the way he wanted you—until he felt you were ready to get stretched open under him, naked to his eyes as his pelvis fucked into yours, he’d give you this, instead.

Two fingers enter your drooling pussy, and the squelch of the flesh is vulgar as they start to fuck you open until the entire length is engulfed in heated flesh and textured walls.

You whimper airly, body numb and still reeling from before, the same sparks itching at your skin as another coil forms as your mindless hips snap. It’s a stretch, a small burn around the ring of your entrance as it yields willingly.

“Nikto,” you cry, head shifting to press into his shoulder. You didn’t know what else to say. Your own fingers had never stretched you like this. The slap of skin makes you clench, and the Russian groans lowly in his chest, chuckling. 

“Tight for me,” his digits curl, and your back arches, hands snapping to his waist as you stare pleasure-blown from over his shoulder before more feral sounds bounce off the walls. “Give me a second one. Let me feel you break.” 

Nikto whispers into your ear, fingers carefully on your scalp and caressing the hair—a calm de-escalation that doesn’t match with the abuse of his bullying fingers minute after minute.

The fact that he had snapped a man’s entire wrist with the very hand that was playing with your cunt was lost to you. But it was a shameful admission that, if you had been thinking about it, you would have shattered far sooner than later. 

“God,” you moan, shoving your burning face into his neck, keening into it, and gasping. “Want you to feel it. Never felt this good with something inside of me—working me so well.”

His fingers crook inside of you again, digging; searching. He finds that point again, incredibly easy, and continues to stroke it with every fast flex of his arm. You clench your eyes shut, arms tensing.

“Yes?” Nikto smirks, arrogant. “We are glad. You are my charge, Seraph. Remember that.” He leans in close to your ear, humming as the sweat under his suit makes him chuckle. “Want to make sure you are always satisfied.” 

Your stomach rolls, and the pace of his digits increases as his palm brushes your sensitive clit, making you shake and whine at the overstimulation. It wasn’t enough to hurt, but it ached in such a way that made the pleasure sharp like a knife. 

“Break for us,” the Russian mumbles, grinding his palm between every thrust of ruined gloves. 

The second orgasm is stronger than the first, and it makes you bite down on the man’s neck in a play to try and silence the loud, long, mewl that escapes your lips. Nikto grunts and feels your walls spasm, trying to push him and force him in all at once.  

It was instinctual the way his mind went to how it would feel around his dick, but the thought was put on hold until tonight when he could do all of the imagining he wanted. 

He’d wait until you went to bed, and then he’d shift out of his belt and shove his hand into his pants like some desperate boy. Fisting his cock to the remembrance of your cunt and your hips—the clench of your thighs as cum dribbles down his wrist and soaks his suit sleeve. 

A mutt he was.

He’d keep jerking himself off until he was whining from the pain his red tip would cause him, spending so much seed onto his clothes that they weren't even worth keeping. Legs shaking and hips rutting into the air, eyes blown wide open and staring at your bedroom door. It was shameful, he admitted, but he’d never claimed to be anything but. 

And then he’d keep going. 

You snap him out of his thoughts, sagging against Nikto’s chest and panting, hands clenching and unclenching into his sides. The Russian feels the large stain of pre-cum on his pants and finds it pointless to try and hide. 

Licking his lips, he hisses at the brush of fabric at his erection, but only grinds once into your body before he pulls his fingers from your heated core and breathes into your ear. He’s patient. He can wait.

His heart is rabid, and yours is too, but the tired smile into his black and blue neck is welcome, he thinks. Sweat dribbles from his brow.

“I am taking you back.” A teasing pause as you sigh, fluttering an eye open. You’d expected him to take something from you, maybe. But leaving? Without any expectation of you getting on your knees for him? Without sitting in his lap and letting him rail you open? A tiny smile moves your face up—something far more pure than the actions that had just taken place moving softly to your flesh. Nikto was just…strange. 

But you suppose that made two of you.  

“Sore? Do we need to carry you?” The man huffs, eyes glimmering. 

For now, there was only a calmness—the explanations would start tomorrow, a long and hard one, but now…now it was just a still middle point of the aftermath and the events yet to come. A peaceful present.

A joint pair of tired chuckles wafts out of the storage room, where a man stands alone, hands clenched. 

This dark shadow looms as the party is cut short by the result of the host getting his wrist snapped, worried looks moved out and high calls of alarm. Yet, he stands, listening. Unmoving to what he just heard. 

What he’d cracked the door to witness with burning eyes. 

There’s something about him that isn’t quite right—a bit ragged in appearance, blinking quickly as if in an animalistic shock. Blond hair a mess as if it’s been run through multiple times. 

He breathes heavily, eyes stuck to the door. 

And then he’s gone before the two individuals can walk out moments later.

TAGS:

@anna-banana27, @random-thot-generator, @midwesternwitchery, @pumpkinwitchcrusade, @halfmoth-halfman, @alpineswinter, @blingblong55, @cryingnotcrying, @lxne20, @not-eclipse, @theecoffeebean, @phoenixhalliwell, @h3ll-guttz, @tiinkerbell, @genjilvr, @azush4rp, @escapefromrealitysm, @neelehksttr, @aeneanc, @finnigansxz, @cowboybaby2, @delaynew, @doggydale, @zapphir, @littlemisstrouble, @xxtmoe, @grizzersmamma, @andreas-river, @blogdddxx, @jade-jax, @emthegrace, @lovebugmsyd, @makariaspresence, @noisyprofessorhoundsalad-blog, @scythebot, @blueoorchid, @kra-rino4ka, @caramlizedtomatoes, @strawberymilk,@frazie99, @homicidal-slvt, @develised, @crispyhusband, @cathnoneofyourbusiness, @ghostslittlegf, @generalcloudtraveler, @azsteris, @rvjaa, @creminemisinthehizzyforshizzboy, @comsyki

[notaplaceofhonour]

“it’s hypocrisy for people who celebrated the idf killing sinwar & nasrallah to be appalled by people celebrating luigi mangione killing brian thompson; either you care about sanctity of life no matter what or you’re okay with celebrating killing terrible people”

as someone who isn’t really celebrating either, but is more worried about the latter than the former, I would like to present another option.

there is a fundamental difference between:

killing a member of a military structure as an act of war VS. extrajudicial vigilantism and murder against another citizen

a terrorist organization that exists to destroy a country & slaughter its civilians directly carrying out a massacre with clearcut genocidal intentions VS. a healthcare company that exists to both provide coverage for care to its customers and profit to its shareholders making decisions that indirectly lead to death through a failure to provide care when they prioritize profit over care

an agreed upon military action by official members of a structure that has (ostensibly, or at least is supposed to have) a means of oversight/accountability VS. one rogue person serving as judge, jury & executioner with no oversight or accountability

a military attack that deals a significant & strategic blow to a structure that exists to cause harm VS. a lone act of violence that leaves the injustice structure intact and at most disrupts the means to provide healthcare coverage within that system

on multiple levels, the situations are different. this isn’t saying there isn’t severe injustice in how healthcare coverage is provided, or that Brian Thompson was in no way responsible for his part in it, but there are shades of bad, and in every aspect, they’re multiple steps removed in ways that severely change the dynamics.

yeah, if you squint your eyes until all details blur away and boil everything down to “bad person gets bad thing” they start to look the same, but that is a fundamentally unhelpful & childish way to look at the world.

should powerful people who make unjust decisions & have a larger share in the diffuse responsibility for terrible injustices receive no consequences just because they’re not directly masterminding it, or it’s an indirect consequence of other goals, or “it’s not personal; it’s just good business”? no, of course not. but there is good reason that we as a society have a concept of criminal negligence, and we recognize the difference between manslaughter versus murder. they’re just fundamentally different things.

no, intention isn’t everything, but it isn’t nothing. passively allowing violence isn’t not violent, but it is still categorically different from actively engaging in violence or directly commanding it. indirect responsibility isn’t no responsibility, but it isn’t the same as direct responsibility.

it can absolutely be helpful to build a fence around certain offenses—“don’t do x because it’s adjacent/can lead to y”—to make it less likely that the worse offense will occur or to keep people from abusing gray areas and claiming plausible deniability. but there is a limit to how far you can take that before it starts to do the opposite.

when we keep expanding the criteria of guilt to include more and more steps away from direct, intentional harm as equal to the direct/intentional version of that offense, and we lower the criteria for who metes out justice to just any guy with a gun, and we put the power of judge jury & executioner all in a single person’s hands and we allow the maximum sentence (execution) for even indirect/unintentional systemic harm… we’re creating a powder keg just waiting to explode into mass, unchecked, open violence and throwing matches at it. and that’s not even getting into all the people chomping at the bit just waiting to use this permission structure to attack Jews and queer people

I don’t know when we, the three opinions people, started embracing this dualistic extreme black-and-white thinking where things had to all always be x or y way, but we need to do better. cheering on the expansion of vigilantism into extrajudicial execution for untried alleged criminal negligence & corporate manslaughter is a significantly different beast to crab raving or dancing in the streets when a guy who directly masterminded massacres, ruled a totalitarian regime, or dedicated his life to final solution 2: electric boogaloo gets hit as part of a war.