#this is so sick and fucking twisted!!! sick and twisted!!!

[butternutt613]

I'm sobbing

Do you think we’re soulmates in another universe?

[wqnsho]

revolver | the salesman x fem! reader

*.✧ synopsis: what's supposed to be an early day off with your coworker, gong ji-cheol, turns into a dangerous game of cat and mouse, and russian roulette. as danger escalates, so does the magnetic pull between you, blurring the line between survival and sexual desire. *.✧ word count: 7.1k *.✧ warnings: squidgame season 2 spoilers, violence, death, reader smokes descriptive fight scenes, guns, sucking on guns, gi-hun dies instead of the salesman, the salesman is a warning on its own, reader is also craycray like the salesman, use of gong yoo's real name (do let me know if i should not), co-workers eye fucking, sexual innuendoes, tbf its hinted they fuck after the end. 18+ SCENES (no actual smut, just your typical moaning and sucking of the gun). *.✧ note: not my proudest work but i hope u like it! chances of part 2 is close to none btw, I, for the love of god, was stuck for an hour on that goddamn gun sucking scene, but who knows. masterlist | request here

You let out a heavy sigh as you sank onto one of the worn benches in Tapgol Park. The air was crisp, and the faint hum of city life surrounded you. You were currently waiting for Gong Ji-cheol, your one and only co-worker. He had asked you to meet him here, promising to wrap up his final task for the day before heading to his humble home together.

Your cheek throbbed as you pressed a small bag of ice against it, wincing at the sting. The last girl you played against had been a real piece of work. Not only did you lose much faster than usual, but her slap had left an unforgettable impression—literally. It was as if she had mistaken you for her runaway fiancé who had left her high and dry.

“Damn, she packed a punch,” you muttered under your breath, the memory making you scowl.

With another sigh, you brought a cigarette to your lips, holding it between your fingers as you lit it with practiced ease. The familiar burn in your lungs was oddly comforting. Crossing your legs, you leaned back against the bench’s headrest, letting the smoke escape in a slow exhale that curled into the night sky.

‘Where the hell is he?’ you thought irritably, your foot tapping an impatient rhythm against the pavement. Your eyes scanned the park, catching glimpses of couples strolling by and the occasional jogger.

Just as you were about to pull out your phone to check the time, you spotted a familiar figure entering the park. Speak of the devil, and he shall appear. Gong Ji-cheol strode in with an air of nonchalance, his hands laden with paper bags that seemed ready to burst at the seams.

You didn’t call out to him, opting instead to watch as he navigated the park with his usual flair. His expression was focused as he finished whatever errand had delayed him. You leaned back further, cigarette perched lazily between your fingers, content to let him finish his business before approaching him.

The two of you had met as guards in a sick, twisted game designed to bleed people dry for the amusement of the elite. Starting out as a lowly Worker, you two slowly climbed the ranks—first a Soldier, then finally a Manager. It wasn’t common for guards to bond, no. Trust was scarce in a world built on deception and survival, yet somehow, Ji-cheol had cracked through your armor. Maybe it was his sharp wit, or the way he could read you like an open book, but whatever it was, you found yourself gravitating toward him.

Just as you were about to take another drag of your cigarette, you noticed something unusual: two men standing awkwardly at the park’s edge, their attention locked onto Ji-cheol like predators stalking prey. They weren’t subtle, either, holding up newspapers as flimsy disguises that barely hid their faces.

You cocked a brow, biting back a chuckle at their obvious act. Amateurs. Still, their presence made your senses sharpen.

Your attention shifted back to Ji-cheol just in time to see him come to a halt in the park’s center. He looked at the bags in his hands, before dropping its contents to the ground with deliberate carelessness. One by one, he stomped on the bread he’d been carrying, flattening each loaf under polished shoes.

You’d seen him do it before—hell, you’d done it yourself—but something about the way he carried out the task tonight was different. There was a certain sharpness in his movements, an edge that hinted at more than just routine. Was he putting on a show for the two men who were watching him, or was this his way of venting the frustrations of the day? 

Either way, you couldn’t deny that he looked downright intoxicating as he stood there—his jaw clenched tight, shoulders tense with barely contained aggression, and his eyes gleaming with something dark and dangerous. The raw power in his posture was magnetic, and you felt a jolt of lust rush through you at the sight.

You smirked, taking in the scene. Slowly, you stood, your movements deliberate as you reached for your suitcase. You tossed the cigarette to the ground, watching it fall with the finality of a decision made, before crushing it under your heel with a swift, confident stomp.

With a casual flick of your wrist, you brushed yourself off, smoothing your clothes. Then, you gave a small wave, your fingers barely lifting, but the motion was enough to catch Ji-cheol’s attention. His gaze snapped to yours instantly, the fire of the moment in his eyes briefly shifting to something more focused, more intent. He stomped on the pile of wasted bread one last time, before fixing himself and walking in your direction.

“Good day, [Name]. How are you? Have you finished your rounds?” he asked with a smile, his tone formal, almost mechanical.

You rolled your eyes and stepped closer, brushing back a stray lock of his hair and fixing it with a familiarity that always seemed to catch him off guard. “Drop the formalities, Ji-cheol. It’s me,” you said, your voice soft but firm.

His posture eased, the stiffness leaving his shoulders as he allowed himself to relax in your presence. “To answer your question, yeah, I’ve finished my rounds. It was a fast day for me.”

“Is that so?” he replied, his tone warmer now. But as his eyes landed on the swelling on your cheek, his smile faltered. Concern flickered across his face. “That mark wasn’t on your pretty little face before. Trouble today?”

You let out a soft laugh, dropping your hand from his hair. “This? It’s nothing. Just a parting gift from my last client—a pregnant girl scammed by her ex’s fake cryptocurrency. She was better than I expected, though. Won more rounds than me.”

He tilted his head, his lips curling into a teasing smile. “Did she really win more, or did you let her? I know you, [Name]. You find pleasure in pain—don’t even try denying it.”

You stepped closer, lowering your voice to an alluring murmur, your lips barely brushing the shell of his ear. “Oh, Ji-cheol, pain is only a pleasure when it’s coming from you. You should know that by now.”

His eyes darkened at your words, and a slow, rich chuckle escaped his lips. “Careful, [Name],” he murmured, his voice a low rumble, his hand brushing against your lower back. “You keep teasing me like that, and I might just test your theory.”

You raised an eyebrow, your smile turning into a sly smirk. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” you whispered, tilting your head slightly, challenging him.

His lips quirked upward, his gaze holding yours with an intensity that sent a shiver down your spine. “You’d be surprised at what I can deliver,” he said, his voice dropping a notch.

Before the tension could spiral further, you stepped back abruptly, breaking the moment with a grin. Turning on your heel, you called over your shoulder with playful finality, “Come on. I’m done for the day, and I need a drink—or at least a cigarette that doesn’t taste like stress.”

Ji-cheol let out a chuckle before falling into step beside you, his presence a constant heat at your side. As you walked, a flicker of curiosity tugged at you, and you subtly turned your head to check for any sign of the two men from earlier. But before you could get a proper look, Ji-cheol’s hand reached out, firm but controlled, gently turning your face forward again.

“Don’t,” he said, his voice low and calm, though there was an edge of authority beneath it. “I know what you saw—I saw them too. Just keep walking like a good girl. Let them think we’re clueless about their little act.”

His fingers lingered for a moment before he let go, stepping ahead of you to hail a cab. The gesture was quick, efficient, and almost as if he’d done this a hundred times before.

When the taxi rolled to a stop, Ji-cheol turned back to you with a grin that was equal parts mischief and charm. “After you,” he said, his tone teasing as he bowed dramatically. He even went so far as to open the door for you, gesturing with exaggerated politeness like a chauffeur entertaining a particularly important client.

You played along, rolling your eyes but stepping into character anyway. “Why thank you, good sir,” you said with a mock curtsey, gathering the hem of your imaginary skirt as you slipped into the cab.

Ji-cheol followed closely behind, settling in beside you as the driver glanced over his shoulder. “Where to?” he asked, his tone flat, his gaze flicking between the two of you in the rearview mirror.

Saying a quick thank-you to the cab driver, you followed Ji-cheol into a narrow alleyway. The quiet buzz of the city surrounded you, but your attention was on your co-worker’s back as he strode ahead.

“Hey,” you said, breaking the silence, a smirk tugging at your lips. “Wanna play a quick game? Whoever guesses why those clowns are following us treats the other to dinner.”

Ji-cheol cast a glance over his shoulder, one brow arched in confusion.

“What? It’s a good pastime, no?” you added, shrugging. “Humor me a bit!”

He shook his head, muttering something under his breath as he turned a corner. You followed close behind, your grin fading as the sound of hurried footsteps behind you grew louder.

“Hey, you two! Stop!”

“Stop right there!”

Ji-cheol didn’t respond, instead quickening his pace. But you could hear it in his voice when he muttered, “Idiots.”

The chase ended when Ji-cheol led you into a dead-end alley. He stopped abruptly, spinning around with a calmness that felt almost unsettling, while you turned to face your pursuers. They were close now—two men, one in a dark blue shirt and the other in red, both with the kind of looks that screamed trouble.

“Well, well,” you said, tossing your briefcase from one hand to the other. “Looks like we’ve got ourselves some company. Lucky us.”

Ji-cheol didn’t say a word. He simply adjusted his grip on his own briefcase, his eyes narrowing in calculation.

The men didn’t waste time, rushing toward you with the reckless aggression of people who thought they had the upper hand. Big mistake.

You locked your focus on the man in the dark blue shirt, narrowing your eyes as you sidestepped his first swing with practiced precision. The moment his fist whizzed past you, you didn’t waste a second. Your briefcase swung through the air, connecting with his ribs with a satisfying thud. He grunted in pain, stumbling back, and you let out a small, mocking laugh.

"Hey, handsome," you teased, your voice dripping with playful mockery. "You should really think twice before picking a fight with us. I’m a sucker for a challenge. But..." You grinned wickedly, dodging another wild punch as you leaned back. "...I’ve got a thing for aggressive men, you know? My type."

The man’s face twisted in frustration and fury. His lips curled, and he spat, “Shut up, you bitch!”

You grinned even wider. "Ooh, getting personal, huh?" you teased, barely dodging another wide swing. “You should take me to bed and that’s where I’ll show you how much of a bitch I can be…”

Your dirty quip was abruptly interrupted when the man unexpectedly grabbed your arm, twisting it painfully. You winced as a sharp jolt of pain shot through your body, forcing you to drop your grip on the briefcase. The metallic clatter of it hitting the ground echoed in your ears.

"Hey! That’s expensive, dumbass!" you snapped, frustration flaring. You wrenched your arm free, trying to shake him off, but his grip was firm.

Before you could fully react, the man kicked your briefcase, sending it sliding towards Ji-cheol, who was tangled in his own fight with the man in red. The sound of metal scraping across the concrete grated on your nerves, a surge of irritation washing over you. That briefcase was yours—nothing was going to ruin it, not even this asshole.

You didn't hesitate. In a flash, your foot shot out, landing a perfect kick right into his shin. He yelped in pain, releasing your arm as he staggered backward. You wasted no time. With a burst of energy, you shoved him hard into the wall behind him. His back collided with a pile of scrap materials with a satisfying thud, the sound reverberating through your body.

You stood tall, brushing off your clothes with an air of nonchalance. As you bent down to retrieve your briefcase, your attention shifted for a moment. Out of the corner of your eye, you caught a flash of metal—a glint of something sharp catching the light. Your heart lurched in your chest as you realized what it was.

The man in the red shirt had drawn a knife. Worse, he was heading straight for Ji-cheol, the blade aimed directly at his back.

“Ji—” you started, your voice cutting through the tension, but your warning was abruptly cut off as something hard slammed into the side of your head.

The world tilted violently. A burst of blinding pain exploded through your skull, and you staggered, your vision blurring. You brought a hand to your temple, trying to steady yourself, but your legs felt weak. Through your dazed vision, you saw him—a cruel grin on his face, the bloodied stone still gripped in his hand.

Before you could do anything, he struck again, the stone connecting with your skull with a sickening crunch. Pain blossomed across your face, and your legs buckled beneath you, sending you crumpling to the ground. Darkness rapidly encroached upon your vision, and the last thing you registered was the faint, mocking sound of his laughter as everything went black.

Ji-cheol’s eyes snapped to you the moment your body hit the pavement, the sickening thud reverberating in the air. His heart hammered in his chest as his gaze locked onto the sight of you: crumpled on the ground, limp, with blood trickling from a wound on your head. His breath caught in his throat. The man in blue, still standing over you, clutching the stone with a sick grin on his face, and the man in red, knife gleaming, were the last things he needed to process before his instincts took over.

Without thinking, his body moved with a kind of ferocity that stunned even him. His muscles tensed, adrenaline coursing through his veins, making him feel like a machine, unstoppable and unrelenting.

In an instant, he spun around, his hand flying out to disarm the red-shirted man. The knife wrenched from the man’s hand with brutal efficiency, and he followed up with a lightning-fast blow to his temple. The man collapsed instantly, crumpling like a ragdoll, out cold before he even hit the ground.

After dealing with him, Ji-cheol's gaze shifted to the man in dark blue standing with the bloody stone in his hand, looking as if he were ready to take another swing at you.

And that was the last thing he would allow.

He closed the distance in two strides, his fist launching toward the man’s jaw, a punch so hard that the stone slipped from his hand, clattering to the ground uselessly. Without hesitation, His fists continued their brutal onslaught. He delivered blow after calculated blow, his knuckles connecting with the man’s ribs, and face, each hit precise and unforgiving. The man in dark blue crumpled, gasping for breath, barely able to comprehend what had happened to him before another punch landed, and he slumped unconscious to the ground.

Once he was sure that the two were passed out, Ji-cheol immediately dropped to his knees beside you, the panic rising in his chest. Seeing you like this, the blood marring your face—it felt like a punch to his gut. His stomach churned, nausea rising with each passing second as guilt seethed through him like poison.

He reached out with trembling hands, carefully wiping the blood from your face, his fingers lingering on your features, brushing along your jaw and hairline. The blood made it worse—it made everything worse.

His thoughts crashed into him like waves. He should’ve seen it coming. He should’ve known this was a bad idea, that taking you into this mess had been a mistake. He should’ve canceled the hangout, he should’ve protected you better. But here you were—hurt, unconscious, vulnerable—and it was his fault. Every pained breath you took, every soft exhale he could hear, was a reminder of how badly he had failed you.

“Damn it, [Name],” he muttered under his breath, his voice rough with guilt and frustration. His hands moved to gently tilt your head, checking for signs of serious injury. You were breathing, thank God. But the blood on your face made him feel like he was drowning.

His fingers hovered near your lips, then slid down your neck, checking for a pulse. Steady. A little too fast, but steady. He exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

As he sat there beside you, his body still trembling with adrenaline, something cold and hard settled in the pit of his stomach. The scene around him—the violence, the bloodshed—it was all becoming a blur. There was only one thing that mattered now, and that was you.

He wasn’t sure how long he stayed there, just kneeling beside you, watching for any signs of life, his mind racing. All he could think about was how much he had to make this right. He couldn’t lose you—not like this. Not because of his own damn mistakes.

“It’s been a long time, Mr. Seong Gi-hun.”

Ji-cheol’s voice carried a calmness that felt unnervingly detached, but his words were deliberate, each syllable measured. He stood with an air of nonchalance, a drink dangling loosely in his hand, as if the weight of the situation didn’t faze him in the slightest.

Gi-hun’s sharp gaze fixed on him, his face a mixture of anger and suspicion. Ji-cheol stepped aside slightly, revealing the passed-out figure slumped in one of the chairs behind him. Gi-hun’s eyes immediately darted to them, worry flashing across his features as he took in the bandaged state of their face.

The sight unsettled him. Like a caring father, he instinctively wanted to rush forward, to check if they were alright, to ensure they were still breathing. But he stopped himself, forcing his feet to remain planted as he redirected his focus to the man standing in front of him.

“I hope you don’t mind another visitor,” Ji-cheol added with a faint smirk, watching Gi-hun’s reaction with mild amusement. “Anyways, you should’ve gotten on that plane.” 

Gi-hun’s hands curled into fists as he turned back toward the towel he’d been using to dry his hair, his movements slow and deliberate. “I changed my mind when I saw you,” he said, voice low and simmering with anger.

With an approving nod, Ji-cheol tossed his now-empty can into the trash with a casual flick of his wrist. It clanged loudly, the sound echoing in the tense silence. He gestured toward a map pinned to the wall, annotated with markings and notes, pointing at it with his revolver as if he were holding a pointer in a lecture.

“It looks like you’ve been trying hard to find me,” He remarked, his tone laced with mock praise, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied the map.

“I wanted to thank you.”

The words made Ji-cheol stop mid-motion, his head snapping toward Gi-hun. He blinked, genuinely taken aback, before narrowing his eyes. “Thank me?” he repeated, the disbelief dripping from his voice.

Gi-hun stepped forward, slowly, deliberately. His movements were calm, but there was an undercurrent of malice in every step. Ji-cheol noticed it immediately—the tension in the way Gi-hun carried himself, the suppressed fury barely held in check.

“For inviting me to the game,” Gi-hun said, his voice tight and edged with bitterness. He settled into one of the empty chairs, sitting across from Ji-cheol. The anger burning in his eyes completely contradicted the words spilling from his mouth. “I won. I made it out with a fortune. The decent thing to do would be to thank you for it.” He dragged out the words, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

Ji-cheol chuckled softly, a hollow, humorless sound. He leaned back against the table, swirling the liquid in his glass before looking at Gi-hun with feigned delight. “I, no— we—are just messengers who deliver invitations,” he replied smoothly, as if dismissing the very weight of the accusation.

Gi-hun’s jaw clenched as he turned his gaze back to the unconscious figure. The sight of them, bandaged and vulnerable, only seemed to stoke the fire in his chest. He whipped his head back to Ji-cheol, his voice firm and unwavering. “Who had you deliver those invitations? Let me meet him. I have something to say.”

Ji-cheol’s face didn’t change, his expression neutral. “Give me the message,” he said casually, his tone as smooth as silk, “and I’ll pass it along.”

Gi-hun didn’t flinch. Instead, he leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowing as his voice grew sharper. “It’s not something I can discuss with an underling like you.”

For the first time, Ji-cheol’s expression shifted—just slightly. An eyebrow arched, and a flicker of amusement danced across his face as he tilted his head.

Gi-hun pressed on, his voice growing colder. “You prey on people who are hanging by a thread, conning them at subway stations with your pathetic games. Someone like you wouldn’t understand what I’m trying to say.”

The words struck a nerve. Ji-cheol’s smile turned razor-sharp, a glint of something darker flashing in his eyes. He straightened up, stepping closer to Gi-hun with calculated precision. “Mr. Seong,” he began, his voice low, the edges laced with venom. “How do you think I got to where I am now?”

“I don’t care how you became their dog,” Gi-hun spat back, his voice cutting through the air like a blade. His fists clenched at his sides, every muscle in his body taut with anger. “Bring me your master. Now.”

For a moment, the room seemed to hold its breath. Ji-cheol’s grip tightened slightly, his knuckles whitening as he stared down at the man in front of him. The tension crackled between them like a live wire, each word loaded with unspoken challenges.

But he didn’t break. Instead, he calmed himself down, his lips curled into a faint, mocking smile. “I’m afraid it doesn’t work that way, Mr. Seong,” he said coolly, his tone almost taunting. “You’re barking up the wrong tree.”

Gi-hun’s glare didn’t waver. The air between them was thick with unspoken threats, the weight of their animosity pressing down like a storm waiting to break.

You didn’t know what had happened. One moment, you were grappling with the two men who had been tailing you and Ji-cheol, your pulse pounding in your ears as you threw every ounce of strength into your movements. The world had been chaotic, filled with sharp grunts, the scrape of shoes on concrete, and Ji-cheol’s distant voice cutting through the noise. Then, just as suddenly as the fight had started, everything had gone dark.

Now, consciousness crept back slowly, each sensation arriving in fragments. Your head throbbed, a deep ache that pulsed in time with your uneven breathing. Your body felt heavy, as though weighed down by something unseen, and your surroundings were a muddle of indistinct sounds and shadows. Somewhere nearby, a voice pierced through the haze—clear, calm, and chillingly familiar.

“Let’s play a game,” You hear Ji-cheol say, his voice unnervingly casual. The words broke through the thick, suffocating silence, pulling you from the disorientation. Your senses sharpened, snapping into focus as you locked onto the sound of his voice. Slowly, other details began to bleed into your awareness, each one clearer than the last. A faint melody lingered in the air, haunting, delicate, a melody that sent a shiver down your spine. The tune grew clearer with every passing second, and then it hit you—Time to Say Goodbye by Andrea Bocelli and Sarah Brightman. One of your favorites. 

“I’m sure you’ve seen this in the movies,” He continued, his voice floating through the tension of the room. There was no urgency in his words, no thrill of danger—only a casual amusement. It was as if he were describing a mere game, a joke, instead of a life-or-death scenario. “It’s called Russian Roulette.”

The unmistakable click of the revolver’s cylinder spinning sliced through the thick air, sharp and metallic. It was the kind of sound that clawed at your insides. The revolver clicked again, a sound that seemed louder, more pronounced in the silence of the room. Ji-cheol’s voice returned, light and nonchalant. “Usually, you load one bullet, spin the cylinder, and…”

You dared to open your eyes just a crack, curious on what was happening. What you didn’t expect was your gaze being met with the barrel of the revolver, inches away from your face. A rush of anger surged through you, sharp and electric. The nerve of this bastard. 

Across the room, Gi-hun stirred. You could hear him, his breath ragged and loud. He moved forward, instinctively, as though to intervene, to stop Ji-cheol, but his feet faltered. He paused, his whole body tight with tension. His eyes locked onto the weapon, his posture rigid. 

“Hey—” Gi-hun’s voice cracked, faltering under the pressure. “Don’t do this—”

Ji-cheol silenced him with a smoothness that only made the threat more chilling. His voice slipped through the air like silk, but it carried an edge that cut deep. “...And pull the trigger.”

The sound of the revolver’s cylinder clicking into place reverberated around the room. Ji-cheol’s finger tightened on the trigger, and for a split second, the world seemed to freeze. 

Your eyes remained steady, focused, determined. Your pulse quickened, but you forced it into submission, grounding yourself in the stillness of the moment.

Click.

The sound was deafening in its emptiness, an echo that reverberated in your skull, louder than any bullet could ever be. The revolver hadn’t discharged. Ji-cheol lowered the revolver with a smirk, his gaze flicking between you and Gi-hun. His movements were unhurried, his demeanor calm, as though this had been nothing more than an amusing game. 

“And before the next round,” Ji-cheol said smoothly, the revolver spinning in his hand with a sharp flick of his wrist, “you spin it to reset the odds back to one in six.”

The metallic click of the cylinder spinning reverberated through the air, the sound sharp against the eerie backdrop of soft music. It was a calculated move, each spin designed to remind everyone in the room of what was at stake. Ji-cheol’s grin stretched wider as he leaned back, as if savoring the power he held.

Gi-hun’s face was carefully neutral, but his body betrayed him. His jaw was clenched so tightly that you thought his teeth might crack, and his fingers drummed a nervous rhythm against the edge of the table. He exuded frustration and unease, barely restrained beneath his calm facade.

“But,” Ji-cheol continued, leaning forward slightly, his eyes glinting with malice, “I like to make the game a little more interesting.” His tone was playful, almost conversational, but the words carried a sinister edge. “Because you’re special, Mr. Seong.”

“Cut to the chase,” Gi-hun snapped, his voice hard and brimming with irritation. He was done playing along, his patience stretched to its limit.

The salesman chuckled, low and mocking, clearly reveling in the tension that crackled in the room. He thrived on it, his grin widening as though Gi-hun’s defiance only added to his amusement. “Fine,” he said, the word drawn out, almost lazy. “We’ll take turns pulling the trigger without spinning the cylinder again. The bullet will be fired within six attempts, and the game will be over. What do you say?”

For a moment, silence stretched taut, the weight of Ji-cheol’s words pressing down like a physical force. Gi-hun hesitated, you could see the gears turning in his head, his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. The hesitation was brief, but it felt eternal. After a while gave a sharp nod. “Let’s get this over with,” he said, his voice tight, his resolve brittle but intact.

“Wonderful.” Ji-cheol’s tone was dripping with delight as he placed the revolver in the center of the table. The polished metal gleamed under the dim light, catching your eye like a predator’s snarl. With another flick of his wrist, he sent the revolver spinning.

It slowed, the barrel’s alignment seemingly random until it stopped. The revolver’s menacing end pointed directly at Gi-hun.

Gi-hun’s hand moved toward the gun with a reluctant slowness, as if even touching it might curse him. His fingers trembled when they wrapped around the handle, and he lifted it with a carefulness usually reserved for handling fragile, dangerous things.

The room felt smaller as he raised the revolver to his temple, the weight of the weapon mirrored by the crushing silence that followed. His breaths came quick and shallow, each inhale louder than the last as he steadied his hand. The barrel pressed into his skin, a cold kiss of steel. He hesitated, his knuckles white as his grip tightened.

Just pull it, get it over with. You could almost hear the mantra running through his mind, though the beads of sweat rolling down his temple betrayed the fear he tried to mask.

Finally, with a sharp intake of breath, He squeezed the trigger.

Click.

The sound was deafening in the stillness, a hollow, empty note that echoed in your chest. Gi-hun released a shaky exhale, his body sagging slightly as relief flooded through him. For a brief moment, the gun felt lighter as he carefully set it back on the table, as though handling a venomous snake.

Ji-cheol didn’t wait. The second Gi-hun’s hand left the revolver, he snatched it up, his grin unwavering. He pressed the barrel to his temple with none of the reluctance Gi-hun had shown, but there was something in his movements—subtle, fleeting—that contradicts with his confidence. His hand trembled just slightly as he adjusted the weapon, his knuckles tightening.

He took a long, measured breath, his cocky grin faltering for a brief moment as a flicker of uncertainty passed over his features. Then, with an almost feral determination, he pulled the trigger.

Click.

The sound hung in the air like a thunderclap, Ji-cheol’s shoulders visibly relaxing as his grin returned, sharp and triumphant. He laughed softly, the sound devoid of any real humor, before setting the revolver back in the center of the table. His gaze flicked to Gi-hun, and his eyes were practically alight with sadistic glee.

Gi-hun’s expression tightened, it was his turn again. As his hand started inching toward the revolver, Ji-cheol raised a hand suddenly, halting him mid-motion.

“Wait,” He said, his voice lilting with a mockery that sent a chill down your spine. His gaze shifted—predatory and deliberate—landing squarely on you.

“[Name], would you like to join us?”

Ah. Ever the gentleman.

A low groan escaped your lips as you finally stopped your act, breaking the stillness with a deliberate slowness. Your head throbbed as you shifted upright, every movement calculated, every second drawn out. Gi-hun’s gaze landed on you with a mixture of disbelief and shock, his mouth parting as though to ask how long you’d been awake.

You met his eyes with a faint, sardonic smile, dipping your head in acknowledgment. “How thoughtful of you, Ji-cheol…” you murmured, your voice light but edged with mockery.

You didn’t wait for anyone to respond. Your hand reached for the revolver on the table with a startling calmness, fingers curling around its weighty grip. The tension in the room thickened, every breath measured and shallow as you lifted the weapon.

The barrel’s cold steel kissed your temple, and for a moment, the world seemed to pause. Your heart raced, the adrenaline flooding your veins almost intoxicating. Was it courage or recklessness driving you? You couldn’t tell, and you didn’t care. All that mattered was the here and now—the sharp, electric rush that drowned out everything else.

Your finger tightened on the trigger.

Click.

The empty sound was deafening, a hollow echo that filled the room. Your breath slipped out, slow and steady, though you weren’t sure if it was relief or something far darker that made your chest feel so tight.

Lowering the gun slightly, you glanced at Ji-cheol. The edges of your lips quirked upward, your expression sharp, your voice cutting through the silence with quiet venom. “... Allow me to return the favor,” you said.

Before anyone could stop you, your finger pulled the trigger once more.

Click.

The second dry sound rang louder than the first, and you felt the weight of every pair of eyes in the room. Gi-hun’s voice erupted in the stillness, a harsh, disbelieving shout. “Are you insane?!”

His words crashed into you, but they were distant, unimportant. Your focus stayed locked on Ji-cheol, and the smirk plastered across his face. It had widened—twisted with something primal, something that mirrored his love for chaos.

But as you shifted the gun in your hand, as the barrel turned from yourself to your lovely coworker, the room seemed to shift. Ji-cheol’s composure faltered, his smirk flickering like a flame about to die. The odds had changed, and now they were against him.

For the first time, his confidence wavered.

“Come on, Ji-cheol,” you teased, your voice dripping with mock affection. The words rolled off your tongue with an ease that felt unnatural, but the thrill of the moment made it all too satisfying. “Don’t tell me you’re scared now?”

For the first time, the salesman hesitated. His usual cocky demeanor faltered, the confident smirk slipping away as doubt crept into his eyes. Was this how it ended for him? Was he about to face the cold reality that he had pushed things too far?

His gaze fixed on you, wide and searching. You could practically see the wheels turning in his mind, but there was no escape. Your words had hit him where it hurt. The balance of power had shifted, and he could feel it. It was a strange feeling, one he hadn’t experienced with you before.

“What’s the matter?” You pressed, your voice now almost playful, but laced with venom. You could see the shock in his eyes, the disbelief that you—someone he thought he knew—had turned the tables in such an intimate, dangerous way.

He stared at you, mouth agape, unable to form words. His breath quickened, chest rising and falling, as if trying to figure out how to respond. Slowly, you stood up, each motion deliberate, your legs aching from the stillness. But the tension, the palpable charge between you two, made your body feel alive.

In all honesty, you were annoyed. Your day has already been a mess, from the last heated match to the delay in the promised hangout to the injury that will definitely cause weeks to heal from. You just wanted peace—just a moment to collect yourself. But instead, here you were, playing this twisted game because of your annoying coworker. 

You moved closer to him, your presence towering over him in a way that felt almost suffocating. With a push of your hand, his back hit the cold wall with a thud. The barrel of the gun remained unwavering, still aimed to his face, as you maneuvered yourself closer, your body brushing against his with precision.

One leg was planted firmly on the ground while the other was pressed between his legs, the proximity undeniable, intense, and erotic. You could feel the heat of his body beneath your fingertips, the tension radiating from both of you. Your breath was shallow now, your senses heightened in ways that made you almost dizzy. You leaned closer to him, your mouth dangerously near his, your lips only inches apart. Your breath mingled, and for a moment, the world outside seemed to disappear.

Then, using the barrel of the gun, you tilted his head back slightly, forcing his mouth open just enough for you to slip the cold steel inside. Below you, Ji-cheol's body started to shake, and you felt it. The tremor in his form wasn’t just from fear. There was something else there—something deeper, primal, as if the situation was pushing both of you to the edge of something neither of you could fully comprehend.

The power was in your hands now.

A part of you reveled in it—how easy it was to rattle him, to strip away the confident exterior. But that other part of you, the part that longed for release from the mess of emotions you were drowning in, just wanted it to be over.

You pulled the trigger, the sharp sound of the click ringing in your ears, and for a moment, everything went still.

Click.

It was a dud.

The tension broke, but only for a moment. Your gaze immediately snapped towards Gi-hun. The final bullet was in play, and you could feel the man's eyes burning into the back of your neck. His hands trembled violently, his whole body shaking with anticipation, fear, and death.

Without removing yourself from Ji-cheol, you extended your arm out, offering the revolver to Gi-hun, expecting him to take it and end it all. To live up to the end of his deal. However, any possibility of that happening changed when his wide-eyed stare locked with yours, and you saw the raw terror in them—something you hadn’t expected from him. He wasn’t just afraid of the situation, but of you.

“What's wrong, Mr. Seong?” you asked, keeping your voice calm, though there was a sharpened edge to it now. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Gi-hun opened his mouth to speak but faltered. His lips parted, then pressed together tightly, as if wrestling with the storm of emotions raging inside him. You could feel his hesitation thickening the air between you both, a heavy tension that pushed you closer to the brink. Finally, he stood, his anger spilling over, his voice rising. 

“You’re insane!” he snapped. “If you hadn’t pulled the trigger twice— if we followed the damn order, you would be the last one to shoot. You’re the one who’s supposed to die!”

The words hit you like a slap. It was true after all. But his fury, his concern—it didn’t matter. You were the one who risked it, and you were the one who will be rewarded. The game had already ended, and there was no turning back now. His words, even if they were meant to stop you, only served to push you further, deepening the anger seeping in your chest.

“And you think that’s my fault?” you said, voice cold as ice, your gaze never wavering from his. The words stung, but you didn't flinch. “You think I give a damn about that?”

Without warning, you aimed the revolver at him and fired. The final click rang out, breaking the heavy silence with cold, brutal finality.

The room held its breath. Gi-hun’s body jerked once, his wide eyes still locked onto yours in disbelief as the realization hit him. His legs gave way, and he collapsed, blood beginning to pool beneath him. There was no more struggle, no more fight. Just the soft, final exhale of his breath, leaving the world in silence.

Below you, the voice of your coworker pierced the thick air, a low murmur in your ear. “Well done, [Name].”

You turned to him. His usual smirk was gone, replaced by something darker, more dangerous—something like admiration, but tinged with something possessive.

You could feel the weight of his gaze on you, like a tangible pressure. The heat between your bodies simmered, an undeniable force that threatened to pull you closer. You didn’t need to say anything, because at that moment, everything was clear between you two.

“Really?” you said, your voice lowered in a husky sultry tone, as if you were challenging him. Your fingers tightened around the revolver, the weight of it no longer heavy, but oddly comforting.

Without a word, Ji-cheol moved with swift precision. One moment, you were standing tall, the next, his hands were beside your head, pinning you against the wall with a force that made your breath catch in your throat. 

“Don’t think for a second I’m done with you, [Name],” he growled, his voice low and dangerous, but there was something else in it now—a layer of hunger, an edge that felt almost possessive.

Slowly—as if to test him—you raised the revolver to your lips, your eyes never leaving his. Ji-cheol watched with intensity as you seductively sucked on the gun's barrel. His eyes trailed down, watching as saliva began dripping on your hand as you swirl your tongue around the barrel with such intensity that he wished you were doing it to him instead.

Watching his throat constrict as he swallowed deeply and feeling his bulge harden on your thigh. You pulled the gun out your mouth with a satisfying pop before throwing it to the ground. Without wasting any time, Ji-cheol immediately grabbed your chin forcing you to look at him. And instead of hurt, his touch sent a jolt of pleasure through your body. 

He placed his knee up against your crotch—the action earning a low, hungry moan from you—before using his free hand to pull your body closer to him, his hard bulge colliding with your thigh. Ji-cheol released a low, and drawn-out moan before leaning in closer, his breath, which was just a hair away from your lips, was weak and warm—full of yearning and lust.

“You’re playing with fire, and I can’t promise you won’t get burned,” he murmured, the words dripping with an unsettling mix of desire and threat.

The heat in his voice made your pulse quicken in excitement. Your body responded to the proximity, to the rawness of the moment. Every inch of you was alive, and Ji-cheol, for all his calm control, couldn’t hide the dark hunger in his gaze. You could see it, feel it, as though it were an invisible thread pulling you together.

For a fleeting moment, it was almost as if the rest of the world had disappeared. It was just you, Ji-cheol, and the dangerous, magnetic pull between you both. With his lips hovered just inches from yours, you knew this was the moment that would change everything between you two.

[oneforthemunny]

my funny valentine |rockstar!eddie munson x nepo baby!reader|

prompt: your first official valentine's day together as a couple, and eddie wants it to be perfect. he's planned for everything- well, except one thing.

contains: fluff lol. lovey dovey mushy shit. they're so in love here (it's the engagement era). a little bit of light fighting? language. alludes to some smut but nothing graphic. valentine's day fic for the masses <3

“Alright, I’m just going to ask,” Farrah wrinkled her nose, heels clicking across the marble floors of her Hills home, swinging the dress shirt bag around. “Why would you need a red suit?” 

Gareth looked up, snickering around the cigarette in greeting while Eddie set down the guitar he’d been strumming. “For Valentine’s Day, Farrah.” Eddie hummed like it was obvious, standing and taking the fresh suit out of the Versace bag. 

“Look at that. Fuckin’ cool, isn’t it?” A ringed hand hit against the plastic of the bag, Eddie’s chest swelling with excitement. 

“Yeah, Ed, looks sick. Leather too?” Gareth grinned, leaning over to Farrah, kissing her in greeting. 

“Yeah, leather and red. Practically made for me, I fuckin’ swear.” Eddie grinned ear to ear, positively beaming with joy. “And just in time for Valentine’s Day. I mean, it doesn’t get more perfect than that, huh? She’s gonna love it. Don’t you think, Far?” 

Farrah’s usually chipper, giggly nod of reassurance didn’t come. Instead, her lips pulled, in a downward grimace that she tried to hide. A terrible poker face, you always told her with an eye roll. 

“Um, yeah,” Her words were forced, filled with uncertainty, eyes rolling down the fabric, fingers fiddling and twisting her rings.  

“What?” Eddie frowned, looking at the suit. Fresh off the runway, he saw it in one of your Vogue’s and called his agent immediately. It would be perfect for Valentine’s Day, perfect to surprise you in. You would love him in it, swoon and coo and kiss all over him so sweetly,  he was so sure of it- Well, he was until now. 

“What you don’t- You don’t think she’ll like it?” Eddie looked from the suit, back to Farrah, eyes wide with wild uncertainty. Maybe it was too much, too flashy. 

“No, no, no. The suit? She’ll love it.” Farrah said sincerely, head shaking. Still, her face held some hesitancy that made Eddie’s stomach drop. 

“Then what? What’s the- Why’re you lookin’ at me like that, Farrah, you’re freakin’ me the fuck out.” Eddie growled.

“Ed, man, chill-” 

“-I’m not looking like anything. The suit is fine.” Farrah rolled her eyes, gaze meeting Gareth’s carefully. “It’s just… Uh, I didn’t know it was for Valentine’s Day, that’s all. I thought- I dunno, I thought it was for a red carpet or something, not… Not Valentine’s Day.” 

Eddie blinked, confused. “What? Why- What are you talking about? So what it’s for Valentine’s Day? Should I not wear red on the one fuckin’ day of the year everyone wears red?” 

“No,” Farrah snapped defensively, Gareth’s arm tightening around her waist, glaring at Eddie over the top of her curls. “It’s nothing. It’s fine. Just wear the suit.” 

“No, clearly it’s something.” Eddie frowned, good mood turned sour at the lack of excitement he felt from your best friend. “What’s the matter? It’s not the suit, so what?” 

An uncomfortable silence fell between the three, Farrah fidgeting, looking at Gareth helplessly. “What is it? Valentine’s Day?” 

Farrah hesitated, lip rolling between her teeth, eyes flashing to Eddie in a way that gave him his answer. 

“Farrah, seriously, what’s the big deal with Valentine’s Day? I mean, I’m takin’ her out and doin’ nice shit, so what’s the problem?”

“Nothing, nothing it’s nothing,” Farrah waved him off, pausing for a moment, nose scrunching in a soft cringe. 

“… but, like, where are you going?” Farrah’s head quipped to the side, lip still rolling between her teeth, brows knitted in nearly a sympathetic way. “Is that appropriate?” 

“Is it- Yeah, I think so.” Eddie scoffed, eyes rolling with arrogant confidence that made Farrah pity him even more. He really had no idea.  

“‘M takin’ her to Spagos in the Hills. They’re doin’ this Valentine’s Day special with the white table cloths and candles. I called Marty and he got us a reservation.” Eddie’s chest boasted with pride, lips curling in a smug grin. Gareth and Eddie shared a confident smile, nodding at each other, oblivious to Farrah’s nervous expression.

Your first official Valentine’s Day together as a real couple, really together, really engaged. Eddie was determined to do it right, to make it count. You were his wife, afterall- well, soon to be wife. There’s nothing he wanted more than to spoil you the way you deserved. Flowers ordered, reservations made, the driver scheduled, and a gorgeous ruby necklace sitting in the jeweler’s vault, waiting to be picked up. It was all so mushy, so lovey and sweet. You really had changed him, and he knew you’d love to see that. Gush and squeal and be so sweet to him. 

It was all so perfect. Every detail was so thought out and so romantic. 

Except one. 

“What’s this Farrah’s telling me about a Valentine’s Day dinner at Spagos?” You hummed, lotioned hands sliding down your arms, smoothing over your skin. Your eyes watching Eddie’s carefully through the vanity mirror. 

He stilled, head snapping up and eyes rounded and wide- always looking like a little boy with his hand caught in the cookie jar. Void of any playfulness, dripping in genuine, true shock. It made your lips curl.

“W-What? What?” Eddie stammered, his heart skipping, sure he’d heard you wrong. “What are you talkin’ about-” 

“-Spagos?” You lifted a brow, turning in your chair to look at him, hands rubbing the excess lotion in. “For dinner tomorrow night? For Valentine’s Day?” 

Eddie blinked, mouth falling and closing around words he couldn’t seem to find. He’d been so, so careful. Planned it all perfectly, every single detail. He’d put more care into this than practically anything before, and now it was ruined.  

“I-I- fuck- I thought you liked Spagos!” Eddie threw a hand up, letting it fall against the throw pillow with a loud, dramatic thud. “You-You said you liked it, and-” 

“-I do like it.” You hummed sweetly, standing from your stool, leaning to flick the lights of the mirror off. “I love Spagos in the Hills.” 

“Then, ok,” Eddie huffed, irritation and disappointment building in his chest. Why the fuck had Farrah told you? Ruined his surprise. “What’s the problem then?” 

Your lips pursed, hesitating, just for a moment. Eddie huffed in annoyance. It was the same look Farrah had given him and now you? He was beyond annoyed. 

“Seriously? What’s the problem? I mean, I planned this perfect fuckin’ dinner, did all of it right, and what? It’s not good enough? It’s never fuckin’ good enoug-” 

“-Ed,” You huffed, an eye roll of annoyance at his erraticness cutting him off. “It’s very sweet. It’s perfect.” 

Eddie’s frown softened, posture lifting at the praise. “It’s absolutely exactly what I would want if I liked Valentine’s Day.” You said, face neutral, watching him carefully. 

Eddie’s own face fell, brows knitting back into confusion. If you liked? If? “Wait, wait… What are you talkin’ about, baby? You don’t-” Eddie’s head tilted to the side, eyes squinted in question. “You don’t like Valentine’s Day?” 

You kept wringing your hands, pretending to rub in lotion that was already absorbed, giving Eddie a small shrug. “No, not really at all, actually.” You admitted. “I actually think it might be the stupidest holiday ever created, and yes, that includes tax day.” 

Eddie blinked in disbelief, an airy scoff leaving his mouth, still hung in shock. “Are you serious?” Eddie’s brows lifted high, hiding under curl bangs. “You don’t like Valentine’s Day?” 

“Yes, Ed,” You huffed, annoyed with his wide eyed, shocked exaggerated expressions. 

“It’s- It’s a dumb holiday that’s only made by the candy companies to sell shit in the middle of winter when no one wants to buy anything. It’s all a marketing scheme. I mean, come on. You really need a whole holiday to remind you to tell your partner you love them? That holiday already exists, and it’s called your anniversary, and it’s just so fucking dumb, and- stop looking at me like that.” Your eyes narrowed in a glare, lips pressing in a thin, hard line, that only had Eddie howling with laughter. 

“What’s funny?” Your mouth twisted, tone snipping in annoyance. 

“I just- I can’t believe you out of all people don’t like Valentine’s Day.” Eddie snickered. 

“What does that mean?” 

“No- hey, c’mon, don’t be mad at me.” Eddie cooed at your angry expression, a pout beginning to spread across your lips, arms crossed tight over your chest. Legs thrown over the side, you could see Eddie coming towards you in the mirror, though you stubbornly didn’t turn around. Instead, you glared at him through the mirror, unwavering even when his arms wrapped around your frame, squeezing you against his chest. 

“I was just meaning I can’t believe you don’t like Valentine’s Day because you’re so… girly and shit.” 

Your scoff shook against his skin. “What?” 

“You know what I mean, baby.” Eddie cocked his head to the side, hands smoothing down your arms, squeezing them lightly with affection. “You’re so… pink, y’know? You like pink and girly shit and I just thought you’d love Valentine’s Day too. Seemed right up your alley.” 

He could feel you relax under his touch, leaning back into his midsection, head pressed between his pecs. “No,” You muttered, still with a pout that had Eddie’s heart swooning. “Just not for me, I guess.” 

“That’s alright.” Eddie nodded reassuringly, because he knew you needed it, even if you wouldn’t admit it. “Honestly? Kinda a relief.” 

“Yeah?” Your head tipped back, eyes rounded so sweetly up at him. He wondered if you could feel his heart jump. 

“Yeah.” Eddie nodded, moving his hands to hold either side of your face gently. “I was so fuckin’ worried I was gonna fuck somethin’ up. Not do it right. It’s a relief.” 

Your lips spread in an endearing soft smile, head turning to the side, kissing the pad of his thumb. “No, it’s perfect.” You shook your head gently, taking a deep breath. “It’ll be fun.” The words were as forced as the ‘reassuring’ grin you gave Eddie, that resembled more of a grimace. 

“Nah, we’re not doin’ that.” Eddie shook his head. “I’m not subjecting you to that.” 

“No, it’ll be fun, Ed-” 

“-Sweetheart,” Eddie purred gently. “If I wanted to torture you, I’d take you to the basement. Have my fun with you in there.” His eyes darkened with a hint of mischief that made you shudder. The newest addition to your forever home, the infamous ‘love dungeon’- because sex sounded too malicious, according to Eddie. It wasn’t done quite yet, a few finishing touches still needed, but filled with some of your and Eddie’s favorite toys. 

“Mm, that sounds like a better idea.” You hummed, head tilting back, nose nearly touching his sternum. 

“I think so, too.” Eddie grinned. God, how he loved you. His perfect match, who would’ve thought? Practically made just for him, sharing the same mind, beating heart. 

“Maybe order in? Order a pizza? Then I get you all to myself.” Eddie’s grip tightened across your torso, head dipping down, nose dragging over your own. “I’ve got a few new toys down there. Maybe we try them out? How’s that sound, hm, baby?” 

“Sounds perfect.” You grinned, lashes fluttering against his cheek when you nuzzled into him. “Sounds like the best Valentine’s Day I’ve ever heard. Maybe you’ll turn me. Change my mind. Turn me into a candy heart, mushy bullshit believer.” 

Eddie snorted in laughter, moving to pull you from your chair, his hands on your waist, lips moving against yours, hungrily. Bunching the silk material of your robe, hand slipping under your bare skin, squeezing at the fat of your ass so you squealed into his mouth, giving him just enough leverage to slip his tongue past your teeth. 

The night was spent not in the basement, but in your bed, still, it was filled with cries of pleasure and gaspy whines between silk sheets. The next day, Eddie still set up the dozens of roses in the living room, vases and vases everywhere, because he knew you’d enjoy it- you always enjoyed flowers. 

He still went to the jeweler, even wore his new suit, walking proudly into the pizza shop to get your heart shaped pizza, posing for a picture with the staff- a photo that would live on their wall for years. You’d go, years after, to that same pizzeria just to giggle at Eddie framed in his flashy red suit. A picture perfect memory of your first Valentine’s Day together, one of many. 

[yesitsyolocalstargirl]

UGHH I JS CANT GET ENOUGH OF THIS

Nobody gets me like you (pt 15)

Rafe Cameron x Reader

Summary: y/n and Rafe have been best friends for years. They are completely inseparable. Everyone around them insists that there’s something more, but Rafe and y/n have an unspoken agreement that they won’t cross that line and ruin the friendship. When other people get involved that agreement gets harder to keep… will they be able to?

Taglist: @faephoria @aaronhotchswife @mattyskies @kaisgirlie @drewstarkeyzwhore @sereneera @sunmigs @mrsdrewstarkeyy @hypnotizedstarkey @madkohi @louxmcl @rafecameronsfucktoy @rafeswfnd @cyberkitty1 @mbella607 @flvredcas @rrosiitas @swagmoneydrew @itscaminow @raeven-marie43 @jelybely @inthelibrarybtw @frankoceanluvr11 @beavee11 @f4irywor1d @ethanthequeefqueen @givemylovetoall @livie4lifestarkeyblyth @pr3tty-pink @sleepiibunniii @lvrsvfx @mofusandme0w @jamimers @drewstarkeyslover @aegonsslxt @my-name-is-baby @slut-4-gojo @rafeslittleangel @rafegetinmybed @drewrry @wtfdudesblog @matildalittlefreak @yesshewrites1 @rafeycameronsgf @fangirl-magic @maybankslover @eddxemxnson @cooper8224 @angzls @luvvv-0

[vershautece]

Imagine Luigi finding out he got you pregnant or guessing so by your body changing slightly in the first weeks

*this might be my fav thing I’ve written omfg

he’d notice ur tits getting bigger and they feel firmer in his hands, also that you’re even hornier than usual but you’re not ovulating so it can only be one thing

he realises u must be pregnant while ur riding him😖 he’s kneading ur boobs in his hands as u bounce on him: ‘baby, have i got you pregnant?’

you nearly cum hearing him say that: ‘huh? why do you think that? i haven’t took a test’ and you’re breathless still riding him

‘i can tell, bellissima, i know my baby’s body’ he twists one of ur nipples between his fingers and u let out a high pitched moan at the feeling

‘you really think i’m pregnant?’

‘baby, i cum in you several times a week, it was bound to happen at some point’ he laughs, dimples prominent

‘oh my god, i’ve not had any morning sickness so i didn’t think to take a test’ you slow down on his cock a little, shocked because the news is still sinking in, but lu’s buried so deep inside u and you’re giddy at the thought of carrying his baby

he’s gazing up at you, lovestruck, brushing your hair out of ur face: ‘can’t believe you’re gonna have our baby. I love you’ and he’s tracing ur abdomen with his hand, where the imprint of his cock is visible, starting a steady pace thrusting up into you

‘amore mio, fuck, you’re gonna be such a beautiful mama for me’

‘I love you, Luigi’ u moan, gripping onto his curls and rocking yourself harder while his thrusts get more erratic

he’s sucking on your swollen boobs now, biting and kissing, murmuring sweet nothings against your chest whenever he comes up to breathe: ‘you’re gonna be so sexy when you get bigger, gonna worship every part of you, mhm’

‘play with your clit f’me, get yourself over the edge dolcezza, mm, c’mon’

u do as he says, and you’re getting closer

‘yes, cum for me baby girl, i’m so close, i obviously can’t breed you now so i can cum inside as much as i want’ he chuckles against your boobs

‘you always cum inside me anyway, lu’ you manage to let out a giggle between ur loud moans and gasps as u get closer and closer to ur release

‘can you blame me? always wanna breed my girl’s pussy’

‘mmm, god, luigi, i’m gonna cum’ u almost scream, luigi’s fingers replacing your own to rub your clit, and his mouth leaves ur boobs to make out with you

the pleasure is so insane ur gripping his curls tighter than ever, both of u swallowing each others moans

‘fuck, bellissima, cum with me, you’re gonna be the most perfect mama’

with those words u get your release, and a few seconds later you feel lu spill into you

u fall forward onto his chest, arms instinctively going around his neck, both of u gasping and panting - he’s stroking your hair and kissing ur forehead, arms wrapped protectively around your waist

‘mmm lui, I love you so much’

‘I know, I love you too, beautiful’

‘stay inside me for a bit?’ u ask, never wanting to be in any other moment than this

‘i’ll stay like this however long you want’

and then ur just lying together like that for a few mins, he’s asking u how u feel about your pregnancy and if ur nervous etc :’) when he pulls out he smirks at how much cum spills out of u, and doesn’t let u get up yourself - he carries you to the bathroom to clean you up, and then he’s running a bath for the two of u

oh my GOD

[unhealthyvendetta]

☆ YOU'RE A NEEDY GUY, BUT I GUESS I KIND OF LIKE THAT ☆

♡ overview. you broke up with your boyfriend who always treated you like dirt. now that you're gone he can't seem to live without you

♡ caution. satoru x reader, toxic relationship, cheating, angst, new and improved reader, not proof-read, no use of Y/N, sadist reader

➩➩➩➩➩➩➩➩➩➩➩➩➩➩➩➩➩➩➩➩➩➩➩➩➩➩➩➩➩➩➩

You held a huge gift in your hand. It wasn't expensive, no, but it had sentimental value.

Satoru always talked about how much he loved gifts like that, ones that came from the heart; at least that's what he said. It was your wedding anniversary and you wanted to do something for him.

You crept towards his office when you heard Satoru and his friends having a chat. "When are you going to divorce her? She's so cheesy and corny. It makes me sick!" One of his friends scoffed. Your heart dropped to your feet.

"Exactly. Why would you marry her?" His other friend snickered.

"I love her but this mundane life is boring." Satoru sighed, "I know a divorce would break her heart, so I'll just have to be secretive."

You stood frozen, looking through the cracks of the door. You probably would've confronted him, but to be honest your marriage was filled with holes that you desperately attempted to fill.

Satoru had been acting odd for the past year now, but you loved this man to death. So you ignored the countless girl "best friends" he had and the amount of times he came home with the scent of womens perfume on his shirt.

What could you do? Nothing.

But to come face to face with the thought of divorcing him was something that could make you deathly ill.

You quickly tried to think of something to do, anything ti get your mind off of this. Without thinking, you grabbed your car keys headed toward your car and started driving.

You kept driving, your hands shaking with anger and pure sadness.

You stopped at your parents house and knocked on the door. Your mother opened the door and looked surprised and excited to see you, although it was cut short due to the expression that you wore.

Before she could ask if you were okay, you burst into tears and gave her a huge hug.

After explaining the situation with your mother, she let you stay for as long as you needed. You thanked her and walked into your old bedroom.

It was a hit of nostalgia and sadness. You wished you never met Satoru. If you didn't you'd still be here, in this very bedroom.

Just then, your phone rang. Satoru was calling.

You reluctantly answered the call. "Honey, where are you? Your location is off." He asked, feigning anxiousness.

"I'm at my parents," You answered dryly. "Is everything okay?" Satoru asked, picking up on your dry response. "I don't want to call right now." You said bluntly. Satoru didn't speak for a few seconds, probably due to shock.

"That's okay, bye babe." Satoru assured, making your stomach twist with anger. He was playing in your face like a jackass.

You hung up, feeling nothing but rage. You decided to ignore your feelings and just go to bed, it was late after all.

Your eyes fluttered open but were quickly shut from the sudden sunlight. Once your eyes got used to the brightness you sat up and stretched. "How'd you sleep?" A familiar voice asked.

You turnt your head and saw your (soon to be ex) husband Satoru.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" You yelled, which made him laugh. "I was worried about you, you can't just leave like that." He smiled.

Satoru went to kiss your hand but you pulled away before thinking, making his smile drop.

"Hey.. is something wrong?" Satoru asked, looking almost hurt at the fact you pulled away. The sight made you feel.. almost satisfied? You decided to ignore him and he looked disappointed.

'"Hey, come on.. don't do that.. what'd I do?" Satoru asked with a frown. "Nothing, I'm just tired, okay?" You replied coldly. "No, no, come on.. don't be this way.. are you mad at me?" Satoru whined. "Leave me alone," You said as you got up from the bed.

Satoru looked so confused. Why do you keep pulling away from him like that?

You went downstairs to question why your mom would let Satoru in after you told her what happened but you saw your dad instead. "Awh," Your father sighed contently as he saw you. "It's been so long, I wish you told me you were visiting!" He smiled greatly.

You smiled back but your happiness was cut short by Satoru coming downstairs as well.

Your father went to greet him so you took this time to quickly slip out the door. You got in your car and tried to calm yourself. Why would Satoru follow you? What a jackass. You checked your phone and saw several missed calls from Satoru at the ass crack of dawn.

You decided to get out the car for a moment and saw Satoru. "We should head home," He said.

"I don't want to," You replied sharply. "Why are you so angry at me? I can feel tension between us. Please don't ignore me like this." Satoru confronted anxiously. You scoffed at him and ignored him, making him place his hands on your shoulders.

"Please talk to me, w-we can work some-" Satoru stuttered before you cut him off. "There's nothing wrong." You scoffed, making Satoru frown. "Let's just go home at least." Satoru suggested.

You would say no, but you miss your cat, so you reluctantly agreed.

You walked into your house and went to cuddle your cat and Satoru tried to talk to you, but as usual you made it difficult.

Eventually when nighttime came by, you reluctantly slept next to Satoru, or so you thought. He was gone. Where? You checked the closet and saw his suit missing. You checked his location and saw that he was at a restaurant. Just then, a notification popped up. Satoru uploaded a new story, which wasn't shocking.

You accidentally clicked the notification which pissed you off but we move.

But your anger subsided once you saw him taking a selfie with a girl which obviously wasn't you. You didn't really care, but quickly the post was taken down; accompanied with a facetime call you let ring.

You didn't even wanna think about his bullshit, so you went to sleep. But unfortunately you woke up to a suprise breakfast in bed from Satoru. You gave a slight frown, "I'm not hungry." You rejected, making him frown too.

"You're mad at me," Satoru said. "I'm just tired," You replied. Satoru eventually gave up and left you alone.

He invited his friends over and you knew they were probably going to talk about you again so you quietly peeked through the door and tried hearing their conversation.

"She's been acting weird, huh? Maybe she's playing hard to get?" His friend suggested. "But why would she? Do you think she heard or went through my phone?" Satoru asked. "Did we leave the door open?" His friend asked. He turned towards the door and before you could run away, he opened it and saw you.

Satoru looked really shocked to see you and you both stared at each other for a few moments.

"What.. what were you doing here?" Satoru asked as if he didn't already have an answer.

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

hi guys.. i know it's been like 2 months and i apologize! i've been so busy :(( i know this sucks and! frankly i feel like i lost by ability to write but this kind of took forever so pretend its good for my ego pls :') anyways, hi guys!!

[pinievsev]

Stray bullet to the head (or heart)

Pairing: Hyun-ju x reader (written with FTM!reader but can be read as anything really)

Request: yes - no (here)

Genre: hurt comfort, fluff

Warning(s): blood, mentions of death, guns, e.t.c (squid game stuff really)

What's this?: fic

Squid game taglist (send an ask to join): @hornrrydanger

As always, reqs are open, guidelines and masterlist in bio!

©pinievsev on (almost) all platforms

This is what hell is like, isn’t it? No, it’s worse—definitely worse. You’d much rather be in hell right now. At least there, the torment would be predictable.

First, some guy approached you at the station, a stranger with a very unsettling smile, offering to play a harmless kid’s game. You were skeptical, of course, but curiosity got the better of you. A slap across the face each time you lost, a few won in hand afterwords, accompanied by a peculiar card, a single phone call; and then everything spiraled. Now, you’re here—trapped in what can only be described as a sick, twisted, underground nightmare. Playing children’s games for your life.

You can’t wrap your head around it. How could so many people vote to stay? Do they really value money over the lives of others—or even their own lives, for that matter? It’s madness.

And as if the games themselves weren’t bad enough, there’s a rebellion now. Player 456, if you remember correctly, decided to lead an uprising. In the chaos, the guards’ veneer of control slipped from their hands like water, and now it’s an all-out free-for-all. Gunshots echo in the distance, and yet you can't focus, the fear ringing in your ears is louder. You’ve been holding your breath, waiting for the inevitable. Any second now, you’ll be caught in the crossfire, a stray bullet ending it all.

“Hey…”

A voice snaps you out of your grim, spiraling thoughts. Your eyes, which had been glued to the stained floor beneath you, dart up. The source of the voice is a woman crouched by your bunk.

Hyun-ju. That’s her name, you think. She helped you during the mingle game, pulled you in a room just as the timer ended.

She’s crouched low, her dark eyes scanning your trembling form, a stolen gun resting in her hand. Like most of the others, she’d taken one during the chaos. But hadn’t she gone off with the rebels? What’s she doing back here?

“You’re shaking… Calm down.”

Her voice is softer than the situation warrants. Gentle. A hand finds your shoulder as she moves to sit beside you instead of crouching.

You let out a bitter laugh, one that shakes as much as your hands do, and rightfully so. The back of your sleeve wipes at your face, smearing more blood into your skin. It doesn’t matter anymore; you’ve stopped caring about the stains.

“How am I supposed to calm down?” you mutter, voice wavering. “We’re all going to fucking die here—”

“Don’t say that.”

Hyun-ju cuts you off, her head tilting as she looks at you with a softness that doesn’t belong in this hellhole. Her eyes are kind, achingly so, and for a fleeting moment, you think… they’re beautiful.

“We’ll be fine. We’ll get out of here, I promise.”

There’s a quiet conviction in her voice, something solid enough to cling to, though you’re hesitant. Somewhere in the back of your mind, that nagging voice insists it’s a lie—that you’re doomed. Still, her words feel like a small light in the suffocating dark.

You let out another sad, strained laugh, one that catches in your throat, and offer her a half but genuine smile. “You’d better keep that promise.”

Her hand tightens just slightly on your shoulder, her gaze steady.

“I will.”

[manmuncher777]

Toji loves fingering

he fucking lives for it, lives for the noises you make, the way you face twists in pleasure. It was one of his favourite ways to get you off. His fingers were so much bigger than yours, they stretched you so nicely, prepping you for his thick cock. They were long enough to reach that spot that has your head spinning and you legs shaking.

He loves the fact he could watch your body writhe as it tried to grind against his palm.

his favourite was sitting you in his lap, keeping your legs speak over his while he fucked you on his fingers- bonus points if you’re at his place so he can make you watch in the mirror at the end of his bed.

It got him hard as a rock too , he could feel how tight you were imaging to himself how you would feel over his cock while he worked you open with his fingers

He fucking lived to pull his hand from you and find it dripping in your cum

He loved licking the taste of you off his fingers, he adored making you clean up your mess and you suck on his fingers. He loved the fact he could coo teasingly in your ear as you whined for him

He fucking loved being able to get you so worked up on his fingers that you were begging for his cock

He loved that he could use his free hand to pin your bucking hips, making you take whatever he gave

It was a perfect way to help you wind down on a restless night, give him five minutes and he’s making you cum He could never get sick on sinking his greedy digits into you Godbhe fucking lived fingering you

[aemsgirl]

In Spite of Us.

Modern Aemond x Reader.

Summary: Raised in an orphanage before being adopted by the same family, you and Aemond have always been bound by something deeper than childhood friendship. Darkness. Obsession. The kind of things that burrow into your minds and refuse to leave. In a world that couldn’t care less about either of you, the harsh truth remains: you’re all each other has—whether you like it or not.

Warnings: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT. Incest, drug and substance abuse, mention of graphic violence, mention of murder, mention of parental abuse, smut, degradation, possessive behavior, dub-consent.

In a world this fucked, it's no wonder it spits out people just as broken. Twisted up, chipped, and ready to snap. Minds that don't play by the so-called normal rules. You’re a glitch in the system, the full stop shoved into the middle of the sentence. A ticking bomb of chemical chaos, or maybe just the gnawing hunger that’s been chewing you from the inside out since day one. You knew it. Aemond knew it. Always did. You didn't fit, never would. For a while, that shit felt like a curse—like a weight tied around your neck. But then it became second nature, like breathing in poison and calling it air. You stopped fighting it, stopped letting it tear you apart. You didn't just wear it; you owned it. Hell, maybe you even died for it.

Aemond sometimes wondered where it all started. Maybe it was that hellhole of an orphanage, where they threw you both like trash. Not a home—just another cruel joke. A meat grinder, with its hunger pangs, freezing walls, and the constant line-up for scraps that were never enough. You were quiet, too fucking quiet, and that made people look at you sideways. But then there was him. The shadow that stood between you and the bigger boys who thought pain was a game. You didn't know why he gave a damn. Maybe it was that time you woke up in the dead of night and saw him sitting on the floor, staring at you like some ghost that couldn't rest. The dark didn't bother him, and his silver hair sure as hell didn't make him harder to spot.

He was there. Always was. And you? You were his shadow, just as much as he was yours. Years didn't change a damn thing. Then that joke of a family came along, slapped the word adoption on you both like it meant something. A better life? Bullshit. Things didn’t get better—they just shifted into another shade of misery.

Mum? She spent her days with a bottle of cheap wine in one hand and a cigarette in the other, blowing out clouds that reeked of fake watermelon. She used to say the sweet ones were best, even if they tasted like shit. And Dad? Oh, he loved Aemond’s silver hair. Loved it so much that when he was about to lose his temper, he'd hold onto him like some sick lifeline. But that didn't stop the scars. Those stayed, etched into his skin, courtesy of the belts and threads Dad liked to use.

Crying? Aemond didn't cry. He didn't have to. The silence screamed loud enough.

Years dragged on, and one day you weren't some helpless kid anymore. But the bullshit didn't stop—if anything, it cranked up a notch. You remember the screaming. How could you not? Dad’s twisted little excuses, his shitty jokes that got uglier every time, all just another way to go at you or Aemond. And Mum? She was barely even there—when she was, all she did was scream too. The sound of her begging still rattles in your head. “Stop. It hurts.” Over and over, bouncing off the walls like it could break something in him. It never did.

So, you did what you always did. Slid under the covers next to Aemond, the only refuge you had. Not that he reacted much. He’d just lie there, staring blankly at the ceiling, cold as death. It was like lying next to a corpse. But it was better than being alone. At least, that's the lie you kept feeding yourself.

It was during one of these times that you felt him react for the first time. His fingers slid down your thighs under the covers, gripping them firmly. They traveled up to your waist and disappeared under your shirt. His cold fingertips mapped your spine as if they were counting the bones there, his breath blowing at the back of your neck, and he leaned closer to bite your neck, hard enough to leave a mark on your jaw. You felt every sensation, as if the devil himself was licking your skin raw and bathing it in his saliva. When his hand found your breast and rolled your nipple between his fingers, you arched your hips back, and as you wiggled them, you found his member already hard under his loose shorts.

After that, it was like two beasts were being released from their cages at the exact same time.

Aemond turned his body and spread your legs, not even bothering to take off your shorts or yours panties, just pushing them aside. Pulling down his shorts revealed his cock, almost throbbing your name. At least that's what it seemed like, since he was calling for you. Grabbing your thighs, he parted them even more and thrust into you in one swift motion, until your groins slammed together. Over and over, growing in your ear, while using one hand to cover your lips, muffling the desperate cries of pain and ecstasy that escaped. His cock became a mess with your scent and the blood from your first experience, going deeper and deeper.

It was too much, for both your body and your mind. Your nails scratched into him as if you were ready to disintegrate him, the screams that had tormented your nights before vanished. Sweat clung to your bodies and the clothes you still wore, your walls squeezing him, pulling him even deeper. You felt whole, so fucking whole that your eyes rolled back. That was when you reached the first true orgasm of your life, before feeling Aemond pull out and spill over your belly, staining you in more ways than one. It was almost peaceful.

The peace shattered when the bastard stormed into the room. It didn’t feel real—more like some fucked-up fever dream. He yanked Aemond off you and threw him to the floor like trash. You tried to get up, but he was on you in an instant, his fist smashing into your face so hard it sent you sprawling back onto the bed. Your nose was leaking blood, your vision blurry as hell, but through half-closed eyes, you saw it all.

He mounted Aemond, his fists raining down in a storm of violence. But this time? This time wasn’t like the others. Something snapped. Aemond's thighs locked around the old bastard’s torso, flipping him over with a strength you didn’t even know he had.

That was it. That fucking line—the one that should never have been crossed—was gone.

Aemond let loose. His fists came down again and again, each punch sinking into the man’s face, his nose collapsing under the blows. Blood sprayed everywhere, pooling on the ground like a sick offering. Aemond’s knuckles turned black and blue, the flesh split and soaked in crimson, but he didn’t give a shit. He grabbed the bastard by the hair, slamming his head into the floor over and over, screaming like a man possessed.

The crack of his skull splitting open echoed through the room. Blood spread out like a dark halo around his head, but Aemond didn’t stop. No, stopping wasn’t in the plan. He wanted to tear the son of a bitch apart, piece by piece, rip him open from crown to toe, exposing every festering, rotting bit of ugliness for the world to see.

You saw it—the exact moment that piece of shit raised his hand and jammed his thumb into Aemond’s eye. That was it. No more waiting, no more thinking. You shot up from the bed, your hands grabbing the first thing in reach—a pen from your desk.

Your heart was hammering like a war drum as you moved in, the sharp tip aimed and ready. One step, and the pen sank deep into his left eye. You didn’t stop. Not until his face was a grotesque, unrecognisable mess, blood and pulp dripping down like something out of a nightmare.

When he finally stopped moving, you looked over at Aemond. His face was the same cold, detached mask he always wore, but his raw, trembling hands betrayed him. His silence was deafening.

You thought about saying something—hell, anything—but the scream cut through the room like a blade. Your head whipped to the side, and there she was. Your mother. Sliding to the floor, hands clamped over her mouth, her eyes wide with horror. She was still naked, her body a wreck from whatever that bastard had been doing to her before he’d turned his attention to you both.

There wasn’t time to think—fuck, thinking wasn’t even an option. You were on autopilot. Aemond was the first to move, landing a punch on Mum that sent her sprawling to the floor, her scream cutting off like a bad record. You didn’t even flinch. You were already moving, grabbing a backpack and shoving in whatever the hell you could find, yanking on the closest clothes without a second thought.

When you were done, you looked back at the scene—Mum on the ground, Aemond standing over her, the room still reeking of blood and chaos. You knew it then, as clear as the blood on your hands: you were fucked. This wasn’t something you could crawl back from. So Aemond found their stash of cash, shoved it into your bag, and bolted. No goodbyes, no second guesses. Just running.

Every moment after that was soaked in fear. The shitty motels you both crashed in, the greasy diners where you shoved down food that tasted like cardboard, the endless paranoia that came with every passing police car. Red and blue lights haunted the back of your eyelids, flashing like some kind of sick countdown. Every night, you stared at your fingers, half-expecting handcuffs to snap around them. But they never came.

The anxiety started to dull, forced out by exhaustion and the silence that hung between you two like a heavy fog. You never figured out why no one came looking. Maybe no one gave a damn about that bastard. Maybe the world had just decided to let you off the hook for once. Whatever the reason, the answers didn't come, and you weren't about to go digging for them.

Aemond was the practical one, the one with the plan—or at least the one who acted like he had one. He decided your next moves, no questions asked. He wasn’t afraid to dive headfirst into the filth, mixing with the worst kinds of people. And why the hell not? Everyone was scared of him. They didn’t see a guy—they saw a rabid animal, barely tethered. That suited him just fine. It suited you just fine. Fear opened doors, and Aemond kicked them wide open.

By working the right angles and talking to the right scumbags, you both found some good shit to sell, and before long, a shitty little hole to call home followed. He was always making extra stops, running his own little side deals with people who made your skin crawl. You didn’t ask questions, though. You knew better. Some of it was personal—his own brand of chaos that you didn’t dare get involved in.

And when things went sideways? When his preferences left a trail of wreckage behind? It always came down to you to clean up the mess. Blood, lies, broken promises—you were knee-deep in it, scrubbing his mistakes off the floor and praying no one noticed. That’s just how it worked.

So when you came home that morning, boots in hand, tiptoeing in like you were trying not to wake a sleeping beast, what you walked into didn’t shock you. Not really. You were past being surprised by shit like this. The living room floor was painted in scarlet, the blood so fresh it looked like it might still be warm.

And her? She was sprawled there in the middle of it all, like some fucked-up display. You couldn’t even tell what colour her hair was, not with how soaked it was in blood. Her throat—well, there wasn’t much of it left. Torn open, barely held together. Her face still stuck in this frozen mask of terror. Clothes? Forget it. She didn’t have a shred on her, just skin bruised all over like someone had been working her over for hours.

You took another step, then another, and there he was—Aemond. Lounging on the couch like it was just another Tuesday. Legs spread wide, head tipped back, a cigarette hanging lazily from his mouth, smoke curling up toward the ceiling. Blood covered him—his chest, arms, hands. It was everywhere, dripping down him like some grotesque masterpiece. The only thing untouched? His sweatpants, the one clean piece of fabric on him.

He didn’t even look at you. Just sat there, exhaling a long drag of smoke, like he’d just come back from a jog instead of whatever the hell this was.

"Where the fuck have you been?" His voice cut through the suffocating silence, sharp and loaded with accusation. You could have laughed—really could’ve—at the irony of him asking the questions when the room looked like this.

But you didn’t laugh. Not because it wasn’t funny, but because when you looked at him properly, you saw that he wasn’t in the mood for your shit. His eyes were hard, jaw clenched tight, teeth grinding into that cigarette like it had personally offended him. The black hair he’d been dyeing since everything went to hell was sticking to his pale, blood-slick skin, smoke curling around him like he was burning alive from the inside out.

He was pissed. You didn’t need to ask why.

“I went out for drinks,” you said flatly, like it wasn’t even worth a conversation, leaning down to drop your heavy boots onto the floor with a thud. That’s when it hit you—the ache in your thighs, sharp and unforgiving after hours spent dancing, grinding all that tension out of your body. You straightened up slowly, your muscles protesting, your gaze flicking back to him like you were daring him to say something about it.

"All night?" His voice was low, almost too soft. It was ridiculous, really—how the hell could he sound like a goddamn feather when everything about him screamed destruction? It was like he was about to rip you to shreds, but still, the tone came out smooth and menacing. "Are you sure?" The second question came, quieter, sharper.

You squinted at him, head tilting slightly, trying to piece together what game he was playing this time. Every time you left, it was the same damn thing. Coming back to that look in his eyes—something primal, dangerous, like he could rip through you without a second thought. Like he wanted to hunt you down, drag you back into the house, and break you apart, just like he did with the girl on the floor.

And goddamn it, you knew. You knew the thought had crossed his mind more than once. Every time you pulled some shit like this, he probably imagined slicing you open, testing how much you'd bleed. You didn’t even have to ask. You could see it in his eyes.

"Yes, all night," you answered, your voice sharp with irritation. He wasn’t the one who should be asking questions—not after the bloodbath he’d left on your favorite rug.

Aemond exhaled a thick cloud of smoke, stubbing out his cigarette in the ashtray beside him. Slowly, deliberately, he stood up. His bare feet made no noise as he walked toward you, stepping over the body like it was just another object in his way. You met his movement with your usual defiance, head held high and chin up, not showing an ounce of weakness. But that only seemed to make things worse.

He closed the distance, stopping just inches away, his hot breath hitting your face. He tilted his head down, leaning in closer, nose brushing against your skin as he took a deep sniff, his eyes narrowing as he examined you for something he didn’t want to see. The smell of blood, alcohol, and sweat mixed in the air, the tension thick enough to cut.

"You let someone fuck you?" he murmured, his voice dark and low. He exhaled slowly, searching your scent for any trace of another man’s presence.

Your fists tighten, nails digging into your palms as the sharp, metallic smell of blood mixes with something unmistakably Aemond—anger, frustration, and that volatile edge of his temper that never seems to stay contained. You should be used to it by now, the question always hanging in the air, the same shit over and over. The way he digs into it like a damn animal, hoping to find something he can’t.

"No." The word slips out, tight and clipped, your jaw clenching as you force the response. You see it in his eyes—the search, that desperate need to find an excuse, something to justify whatever the hell this is.

A heavy sigh escapes his lips, shoulders dropping momentarily before he tilts his head back, the movement slow and deliberate. You watch the way his throat works with the motion, the sight making your own lips dry. Then, without warning, his hand is in your hair, fingers curling tightly around the strands and yanking back hard. The pain is sharp, like a dagger to your scalp, and you’re quick to grab his forearm, trying to pull him away, but it’s useless. His grip is ironclad.

"Fuck off!" you gasp, the sting radiating through your scalp, but instead of backing off, he tightens his hold, the pull sending a hot rush of tears to your eyes as your skin stretches, every nerve alight.

Without any kindness, he begins to drag you across the room until he reaches where the girl's corpse now lay cold. Kicking the back of your knees, he brings you down to the floor on them, holding tightly to your hair. He positions himself behind you, pressing your cheek against his, using his grip to angle your face better towards the scene.

"Are you lying to me now, you fucking bitch?" his words are poured directly into your ear, the tone so deep it seemed to vibrate from his chest.

"I already said no!” you answer through gritted teeth, the unbearable pain in your head made worse by the amount you drank the night before.

With a grunt, he forces your face to the ground, pressing your cheek into the blood that was there, his open palm on your other cheek. He takes a moment to observe you in that position, so fucking at his mercy. He could break your jaw right now if he wanted to. He could mix your blood with that of the filthy whore on the ground. He could; it would be so damn easy, and you knew it.

"Yeah? You know what's gonna happen if you keep this up, don't you, little dove?" He smirks, grinding your face into the blood, the scent overwhelming your senses as he presses his body against your hunched, aching back. "Come on, scream it out, you fucking know." His voice, though low, slices through the air like a command.

"Fuck you!" you spit back, defiance burning in your eyes, refusing to yield even as the pressure on your jaw intensifies, like he's contemplating grinding you into the damn floor.

His hand snakes up under your dress, yanking it up until it's bunched around your waist like a cheap trophy. You squirm, but he just smashes your face harder against the floor, a silent fucking threat. His fingers creep between your thighs, hunting for any trace of dried cum, like he's some kind of detective in this sick game. His thumb brushes over your panties, feeling the dampness—not the old kind, no. You're getting wet for him right now, aren't you? Pathetic as fuck. He shoves the thin fabric aside, prying your flesh open with his fingers, delving deep, his lips curling in a sneer even as he bites down on them, craving to dive in, to sink his teeth into you, to chew up that whole defiant attitude of yours.

"Look at the fucking mess you've caused," he spits out, his voice as thick and hoarse as yours. He yanks your face up, his hand clamping around your jaw like a vice, forcing you to see the body sprawled out in front of you like some fucked-up centerpiece. "This is your goddamn fault, it was supposed to be you." His whisper slices through your ear, loaded with venom.

And he fucking means every word. It was supposed to be you bearing the brunt of his rage, dealing with his insanity when you pull your disappearing acts, when you don't give a shit about how worried he gets, how out of his mind he goes imagining what you're up to out there. How many more times does he have to spill blood, just to stop himself from snapping that pretty neck of yours, to punish you instead of some random street whore who looks like you just to vent his frustration?

"Yeah?" you manage to retort, attempting a smirk but his grip on your face makes it a twisted effort. You push through, showing him how much you mean it. "Then do it now." You're practically daring him, knowing damn well you'd go through with it.

Silence hangs thick and suffocating. You watch his fingers stretch out, then curl back into fists, like he's psyching himself up to finally break you. You almost embrace it, judging by the calm breath that escapes. You're ready for it, but then he lets you go, suddenly, and if it weren't for your hands catching you, your face would've kissed the floor. Your eyes track him as he strides over, hoists the girl's body onto his shoulders like she's nothing but a useless sack of bones.

"Clean this shit up," he orders, his voice cutting through the air, and your glare deepens.

You watch him walk off, heading to the garage with the girl's body swaying like some macabre metronome. The moment he's out of sight, you're left alone with the blood pool, aching knees, a pounding headache, your dress still rucked up, and your panties askew. And the worst part? You're dripping wet, throbbing, feeling hollow inside. Maybe that's his real punishment. Fuck him.

The hours blended together in a haze of endless scrubbing. The floor was an unforgiving mess, and no matter how hard you worked, it seemed like it would never be clean again. He hadn’t come back. You could only imagine where he was, dealing with the aftermath of everything he’d left behind. The carpet was ruined beyond repair, and everything you'd used—the cloths, the sponges—was burned, destroyed to erase any trace.

It was second nature by now. The motions, the repetition, the burning sense of inevitability. You'd done this so many times, it was like your fingers had become one with the sponge, hardened by the constant, futile effort to make it all disappear.

When it was all over, you were drenched in sweat, and the shower stretched on longer than you'd meant it to. You scrubbed your hair, your skin, trying to wash away all the filth from the night's ordeal. Your muscles screamed from lack of sleep and a day spent scrubbing, the water initially running dark with the grime. But damn, it felt good, so fucking good. Stepping out, you towel-dried yourself, slipping into a pair of panties and a blouse that might've been black once; you couldn't tell anymore. It wasn't yours—it was his.

As you headed out, you knew you'd run into him, and right on cue, there he was. He'd just arrived, helmet still in hand. His clothes were different, suggesting he'd cleaned up somewhere—likely at one of the crew's places, probably asked for help to deal with the "problem," and as always, he managed it. He carried a bag, full from what you could see at this distance.

He takes a moment, his gaze lingering on you drying your hair in the hallway before he advances, his steps deliberate and unhurried. When he reaches you, his face is that unreadable mask, giving nothing away. You couldn't tell if he was still pissed, if he felt any satisfaction or relief, or if he was just numb. With him, you never could.

His fingers dive into the bag, emerging with a Twix bar, the golden wrapper catching the light in his eyes. A small smile plays on your lips, and he returns it with his own subtle smirk, just a slight curve, no teeth. He unwraps the chocolate slowly, and once it's free, he brings it to your lips, tapping gently against your bottom lip. You open up, taking a small bite, and from the look in his eyes, he's completely captivated by the sight. It's like he's back at the orphanage, remembering how you'd pester him incessantly for these, how your eyes would light up brighter than anyone else's. No wonder there are several of these stashed in the fridge now. Idiot.

You take the candy from his grasp, holding it yourself, but his fingers don't retreat; instead, they rise to your cheek, where there's a hint of red that might bruise. His doing, no doubt. His thumb gently strokes the tender spot as you take another bite, the slight pain from the bruise barely registering. Your eyes lock with his as he steps closer, his head dipping to plant a kiss on your jaw. His lips feel like ice against your skin.

You feel him take a deep breath, as if to confirm your presence. His mood seems to have lifted, even if slightly. His lips trace a path down your jaw, along your face, while his hand moves to the side of your neck. Another small smile graces his lips, sending shivers down your spine.

"You stink," you mutter, though there's no real venom in your words. True as they are, the potent scent of sweat and dirt from him is overwhelming.

He inhales deeply, grunts, and uses the hand that was on your neck to push your face aside, not gently but not with the force he could muster if he really wanted to hurt you. That wasn't his intent right then. Without another word, he snatches the towel you were using and vanishes into the bathroom, the door shutting you out, leaving you to chuckle quietly. The dessert? You polish it off in one more bite, savoring the taste.

Back in the room you share, the window is always open, blue lights casting a glow on your skin, mingling with the smoke you exhale. On the table in front of you lies a near-perfect line of white powder, like winter snow but with the harsh burn of the summer sun. You lean over, one nostril pinched by your index finger, and take a sharp inhale, making the yayo vanish. The bitter taste hits your tongue, stars pulsing behind your closed eyes. Your heart races, a bead of sweat trickling down your temple.

At the door, Aemond stands, observing silently. But soon enough, you catch his presence, tilting your head to see him. He's clad only in loose black shorts and white high-top socks, his black hair wet and dripping, his shoulders still marked with black, suggesting he's just finished dying it. The drops of water on him tell a story of their own. His pupils, dilated, nearly obscure the icy blue of his eyes, and his shoulders are relaxed, hinting the bath had been beneficial. Whether that's a good sign or not remains to be seen.

"Didn't you wait for me to start?" His voice carries that familiar low tone as he nods his chin toward the remaining coke on the table.

A mischievous smile curls your lips, and with a nonchalant shrug, you acknowledge his comment. It's not like the supply is dwindling; you have more than enough, stockpiling for both use and sale, probably more than you should use. Either way, he won't go without.

"Not very nice of you, sis." His tone could almost be called playful if it weren't Aemond speaking, and humor was the last attribute you'd attribute to him.

With deliberate, slow steps, as if he intends for every part of the room to sense his presence, Aemond approaches, and there's this glint in his eyes that you've never been able to fully describe. From childhood to now, it's been there—those dilated pupils, intense, his gaze almost vacant, like he's not fully there. It can seem manic, sending a chill through you under certain lights. It's a trait of his that has barely changed.

He stops at the edge of your chair, pausing for a moment. His thumb delicately brushes your nostril, wiping away the residual powder with an unexpected tenderness that seems foreign to him. Then, with an even slower pace, he kneels before you, between your legs. His hands glide down your sides, gripping your hips firmly, pulling you forward with a force that brings you to the chair's edge, compelling you to grab the backrest to keep from falling off completely.

"If you step out of line," he murmured, his gaze lifting to meet yours. One of his hands maneuvered your thigh onto his shoulder, positioning himself closer to your core. "You know I'm going to kill you, right?" The words were sweet, calm, but their sincerity was unmistakable. He would do it, and he could do it so effortlessly.

You nod, swallowing hard, not out of fear—oh, you wished it was fear—but it was heat, excitement, adrenaline, like sugar melting directly into your veins, ready to roll your eyes back in ecstasy.

"Yeah, you know," he whispered again, his breath hot against your panty-covered intimacy. "That's a good girl." His hands then traced down your thighs, exploring every inch of skin and hair as if they were part of a map he was memorizing.

You watch him intently, the cocaine still racing through your veins, making your heart pound and every nerve tingle. He reaches for the table, picking up the small pin with the remaining coke, and brings it close. With precision, he drops some on your inner thigh, using his pinky to form a line that leads directly to your pussy. He's always so calculated, so infuriatingly in control, it makes you want to tear your hair out.

Leaning in, he covers one nostril, then inhales, sliding forward until he's taken the coke from one end to the other, his lips meeting your panty-covered intimacy at the end. His pulse quickens with the drug's effect. The bitterness of the cocaine mixes with the sweet seepage of your arousal through the fabric. His lips, eager to claim ownership, find your taste more intoxicating than any drug. He swears your pussy is the ultimate narcotic, the only one that can truly bring him down, flowing through his veins smoother than heroin. It's a fucking god.

His tongue slides over your intimacy, and your hands grip the chair and table tightly. You know not to touch his hair; if you did, all hell would break loose. So you cling to the furniture, seeking some semblance of control. His lips savor you like you're the ripest, sweetest fruit, his tongue swirling, gathering saliva which then drips down your panties, blending with your own arousal. He makes you clench and clench, craving more without pause.

"Fuck," you moan, head thrown back, the fabric around your waist now feeling like an intolerable barrier. "You are so good, so good." The words spill out, not so much thought as they are a direct translation of the sensations coursing through you. In that moment, he felt so good.

His teeth graze your skin lightly, perhaps in response. His grip on your thighs tightens, leaving marks that would soon purple, claiming you as his. Again, and again. His hands travel up, fingers hooking into your panties, dragging them down your thighs, discarding the now-soaked fabric. When his gaze returns, it's to the sight of your pulsing, glistening flesh, the taste of you already imprinted on his tongue. It's the part of you he adores most, the most exquisite fuck he could never tire of. He feels like if his lips were bound, he'd chew through the ropes just to taste and devour you completely.

"You're so fucking beautiful." His thumb traces through your folds, finding your clit, the soft sound you make in response making him bite his lip hard enough to nearly break skin.

Leaning in, he first presses his nose against your clit, inhaling your scent like it's something sacred. He slides down, breathing you in. His tongue, slick with saliva, extends, slowly tracing from your entrance up to your clit, his eyes lifting to lock with yours, watching your reaction unfold. Your lips part in ecstasy, your eyes locked on his, painting a scene of paradise right before him. The warmth spreading through his body feels like floating on clouds.

"Such a good pussy." His voice is muffled by your heat, the vibrations echoing inside you like he's already within.

His lips work with such intensity that it sends a sharp ache through your core. He explores every inch, tongue rolling over every detail, collecting your taste, swallowing eagerly. His nose glides along, then his chin rubs against you, moving his head side to side, letting your arousal paint even his cheeks. He devours your pussy, and with every gush of your wetness, a moan escapes him. Your hands clutch the chair, almost breaking the wood in your grip, the pleasure coursing through you, as slick as your insides now feel.

Pulling away from your heat, he rises to your lips, sharing your taste. His hands find the back of your knees, lifting you effortlessly from the chair, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. You feel his hardness through his shorts, throbbing against you. With quick steps, he moves to the bed, sitting and pulling you onto his lap. Your tongues dance in a deep, wet kiss, the sounds unrestrained.

As he lies back, you follow, his hands urgently gripping your hips, pulling your thighs, trying to coax you higher, towards his face. He needs this, craves it more than air itself.

"Ride my fucking face," he demands, his breath heavy against your lips, breaking the kiss only to speak.

Encouraged, you move up the bed until your knees straddle his face. His hands swiftly guide you down, his face fully enveloped by your heat. His tongue plunges deep, while your hips begin to rock in rhythm. The heat is overwhelming; you yank off your shirt, revealing your breasts, nipples hard and waiting. His eyes catch the sight, his brows knitting together, a needy sound muffled by your pussy.

His hands travel up your stomach, fingertips tracing your ribs, causing your body to shiver, before reaching your nipples. He pinches them between his fingers, making you grind down onto his face with more force. Your hands cover his, urging him to tighten his grip, and he complies. He momentarily pauses to bring his fingers to your lips, allowing you to lick them one by one, then returns them, now wet, to your nipples, teasing and pinching the hardened peaks.

"Oh fuck, I'm going to cum, Em," you gasp, arching back, your hips grinding with a desperate speed, your nails digging into his forearms as he flicks his thumb over your nipples, mirroring the delicious torment on your clit.

He nods, his chin tilting to drive his tongue deeper. Your walls clamp around him, your movements faltering as your thighs weaken. You look down just in time to see him suck on your clit with renewed vigor, his teeth grazing it, pushing you over the edge. A raw scream tears from your throat, and you clutch the headboard to keep from collapsing forward. And he licks you, thoroughly, consuming every drop of your release.

Your body, now pliable and exhausted, allowed him to easily slide out from under you, lifting you just enough for his head to escape. You collapse back into a sitting position, your back still trembling, mouth open in a silent moan. Then, your ankles are seized, pulling you across the sheets until you're lying flat on your stomach, your thighs shaking and weak.

"You're such a dirty slut, aren't you?" His voice comes from behind, his hand tracing down your soaked inner thighs. "Such a good little slut." The words are punctuated by a sharp slap on your ass, the impact nearly twisting your body.

He observes the quivering form you've become, the fingerprints on your skin already starting to mark you. You look so beautiful, post-orgasm, with your essence still dripping from you, ready for him to drive you into oblivion. His hand dips into his shorts, freeing his throbbing cock. Looking down, he spits on it, using his fingers to spread the saliva along its length.

"Are you going to scream for me, sis?" he murmurs with a hint of malevolence. He steps forward, spreading your legs and teasing your entrance with the tip of his cock, watching you writhe. "Scream on my dick, scream. Do it for me, hm?" He bites his lip, savoring how your entrance clenches around his tip.

He thrusts just the head in again, watching you squirm before pulling back, using one fist to brace himself on the bed and the other to hold his cock steady. He teases you, inserting only the tip, making you moan and arch back, trying to take more, but he keeps it shallow. His eyes are glazed with desire as he watches you clench around him, your body begging for more.

"Please what, little dove?" he nearly spits out, pushing in a bit more before withdrawing again, leaving you empty, tight, and craving more.

Your hips sway side to side, arching off the bed in pursuit of him. You feel him enter you once more, his soft moans barely audible, just for you, and damn, how that makes you even wetter, soaking the sheet that's all too familiar with your scent and taste.

"Please fuck me," you whisper, turning to look over your shoulder, your eyes meeting his in what feels like a challenge.

It was like you'd just slapped him across the face with your words. Without a moment's hesitation, Aemond thrust forward, burying himself to the hilt, the hair at his pelvis meeting your ass. His hands dig into your flesh, gripping tight as he begins to pound into you, each thrust deeper and harder, his balls smacking against your drenched clit with every impact. His gaze drops to watch his cock disappear into you over and over, your arousal glistening on him, spreading to his lower abdomen. Your screams fill the room as your body rocks with each movement. The sensation is so intense, so overwhelmingly good, he feels like he wants to drive his cock right through you, straight into your skull.

"Fuck, you're so tight," he groans, seizing your hair with one hand, pulling it back to whisper close to your ear as he leans over you. "You can barely take me, can you? I'm going to draw blood from that tight little cunt of yours, like always." With that, he thrusts even deeper, eliciting a choked scream from you.

Your body shakes under his relentless thrusts. Your eyes are half-closed, tears at the corners; your feet lift, toes curling, saliva escaping from the corners of your mouth onto the pillow. The deep penetration is overwhelming. His gaze confirms the mix of blood with your arousal around his cock, spurring him to thrust in completely, grinding deep inside you, feeling your walls contract around him with fierce intensity.

"You look so pathetic like this, just a hole to use." He releases your hair abruptly, his hands returning to your hips, nails digging in.

With his last ounce of strength, he pulls your hips back, lifting them, positioning you on your knees. You attempt to prop yourself up with your hands, but there's no strength left, so you remain with your cheek pressed to the mattress. From this new angle, he can penetrate even deeper, turning your screams into whimpers of excruciating pleasure mixed with pain, your arousal now dripping down both your thighs.

"No, no..." you whisper, barely audible amidst your whimpers. "Fuck..." Your voice fades as your mouth hangs open, drooling onto the pillow, your fingers clutching the sheets.

"Yeah, I know, I know," Aemond replies, a small, genuine smile curling the corners of his lips. "Cum for me, cum nice and sweet for me." His hand comes down, delivering a sharp slap directly onto your clit.

Your hips instinctively try to escape, but he secures you with an arm around your waist, keeping you still, taking all he gives like the good girl he knows you are. He spits into his free hand, then returns it to your heat, circling and stimulating your clit, squeezing and flicking it, feeling it pulse under his harsh touch. Your walls constrict around him, signaling how close you are.

"Aemond, Aemond..." you try to warn, but the sensation overwhelms you before you can finish.

Your walls clamp down, a loud moan breaking free from your lips as your body convulses, your thighs trembling uncontrollably. Aemond's eyes roll back, the sensation of you gripping him so tightly driving him over the edge. A growl escapes him, more beast than man, as he wraps both arms around your waist, pressing his cheek to your back. He thrusts deep one final time, holding you there, ensuring every last drop of his release is spent inside you until you're left utterly spent. His cock pulses within you, matching the rhythm of your own spasms.

Your body collapses forward, and he follows, bracing himself so as not to crush you. He observes your closed eyes, your body sliding into what looks like a deep, heavy sleep. He loves you like this—silent, immobile, utterly vulnerable. The thought of your helplessness reignites his arousal, despite himself.

With a sigh, he withdraws from you, flopping onto the bed beside you. The room reeks of sex, mingled with the remnants of cocaine still in his nostrils and your taste, seared into his memory. You don't move, just manage to close your mouth with effort, your jaw sore. You don't anticipate tenderness or kisses; you know better than that. Silence fills the space, punctuated only by the sound of your breathing.

"What did you did with the girl?" you hear yourself asking, despite knowing better. Maybe you want to know, or maybe it's just the impulse of the moment.

"It's none of your fucking business," comes the expected, sharp reply. "Shut up and go to sleep." His tone leaves no room for further discussion. After moments like these, he's never in the mood for conversation, unwilling to soften because you've drained him with that perfect pussy.

He turns his back to you, lying on his side, and silence envelops you both. He doesn't want to talk, doesn't want interaction. He doesn't even want to hear your voice right now. Because, fuck, how much he truly craves all of that.

[the-meme-monarch]

sorry if this is Damn Incoherent or missing anything Glaring as i haven't seen Everything there is to see from the christmas event. anyway. i know i'm just making shit up based on my own oc-verse when it comes to delilah and toon creation and the effect it's had on her but like. i don't think i want her to be Just Evil. they said dandy isn't Just Evil so it just feels a little wrong to me that 'but there Will be a Just Evil one'. like i certainly see how she's shaping up to be The Villain in the way she's talked abt Particularly the holiday toons in the christmas event and giving All of the toons like. Experiment Number Designations. and maybe being the reason dandy can Go Twisted. but arthur seems to have a lot of trust in her and I don't want to believe it's just Him Being Naive.

(the following is headcanons territory) I like to think arthur and delilah have been friends for a long time and he like. just Gets her way of speaking and acting. she comes off very cold and clinical, she's so Guarded and these walls Barely come down but he Understands her. and inversely she cares A Lot about what he's passionate about. she admires his kindness and trust and unapologetic love for everything around him. she made the toons Real for him bc his show is important to him and she wanted to help him. i think she also cares about the toons but she doesn't quite see them the same as arthur does. she cares about them bc arthur cares about them, not exactly bc She Cares About Them Independently Of Arthur. she thinks it's really cool she was able to do this but yeah. they're a Feat to her first and foremost

and with my headcanons about toon creation, making a toon real is Physically making your investment of something intangible into an independently living thinking fully formed Thing capable of motor function and speech right out the gate. it wears on your soul bc it Came from there, it is borrowing bits of your heart and brain. i think with making like 28 and counting there's not much of her soul Left at this point. i think that's made her 'worse'. i think that's made her think 'it's a waste of resources' about the holiday toons disappearing and to 'think of it as a good thing' about them finding corners to die in like a spider of malnutrition in your bedroom. i think it has all Worn Away her identity and sense of self or sense of Care. and this isn't even factoring in whatever the fuck THE ICHOR has to do with anything bc I don't even Know what it is. but i Don't think it really helped anything. i just think she's like. a sick sick husk of herself by the time gardenview shuts down.

[olorinscombatboots]

JUST ABSOLUTELY GUT ME ON A PERFECTLY PEACEFUL MORNING WHY DONT U???

celegorm has always pretty decidedly been my least favorite fëanorian (re: lúthien) so much so that i kind of define him by that. which i realize is a bit hypocritical because i will defend maedhros and maglor and fëanor with my life despite their many crimes, because of their grief and desperation and who they were outside of those crimes.

but now u got me thinking about celegorm... and how the same grief and desperation would apply to him too. if the kinslayings aren't the first thing i think of when it comes to the rest of the fëanorians, if i can see logically how they were broken down and driven to that point in spite of being, from my perspective, whole and genuine people before all that, how can i turn around and look at tyelko and say "ah yes, the bitch who kidnapped lúthien, what a complete snake he must have been" and give him Zero further thought??

cause yeah, kidnapping lúthien is a snake move, just like kinslaying is actually super fucked up. but if the fëanorians weren't always fucked up kinslayers, tyelko wasn't always a lúthien-kidnapping snake, he had to have somehow fallen to that point.

of Course tyelko was something before lúthien. of Course he was full of life and love like the rest of his family, and had it leeched out of him by the pain of the oath and the guilt of what it had Already made him do.

he was basically joined at the hip with curvo. he used to be an honored follower of oromë. he was originally on great terms with finrod, showing friendship to him in every need, a friendship that was only broken because of that motherfucking oath. the lúthien thing is Icky, but how much of it had genuinely icky motivations, and how much was motivated by the political advantage she could give him, an advantage that might help him finally, finally fulfill the oath. tyelko and curvo only get Really Ridiculous in their later encounter with beren and lúthien, after they had lost finrod and tyelpe refused to leave nargothrond with them. if i can say "yeah fëanors grief for finwë obviously put him in a volatile mental state and would somewhat explain the oath and the first kinslaying" then i should also acknowledge that tyelko and curvo were in an At Least Equally volatile mental state by this point, after losing finrod and tyelpe and any hope of help from nargothrond OR doriath. and the result of the lúthien situation being tyelko's loss of huan, his last connection to oromë, had to have fucked him up even more, made him double down, re: "im gonna kill thingol if its the last thing i do" and the second kinslaying.

but tyelko was more than that, in the beginning, just like the rest of his family. and, just like his family, he was motivated by a sick twisting of his love and loyalty. it actually hurts me now to think of him dying at dior's hand, and i wonder if as he died he felt the same horror and grief maedhros and maglor would feel when the silmarils burned their hands.

my deepest and sincerest apologies to turcafinwë tyelkormo fëanorion. you were never as damned as i thought you were.

Celegorm Headcanons because he interests me

He's never had a plan ever, he's pure impulse and instinct which leads to most of the problems he's had.

He and Aredhel were good friends in Valinor, he taught her how to shoot, she taught him about horses. they had a treehouse they built together that supposedly no one else knew about (both of their mothers visit it when they start to miss them too much)

He was a leash kid, Fëanor tried the whole we aren't putting my child on a leash speech, but it became pretty clear it was the only way to keep track of him in a crowd.

He raised tadpoles, bunnies, little birds, anything that he felt had been abandoned by it's caretaker, he raised them with a patience and a tenderness otherwise out of character.

He met Orome when he was ten, he'd wandered out into the forest and been lost there for three days, the Vala had handed him a bow and placed him on the back of a massive hound. when the search party had returned exhausted and defeated, they had found the little boy fast asleep curled around the bow the way another child might cuddle a toy, his head cushioned on an equally asleep absolutely giant dog.

He kept Maglor moving when he was regent, he had neither the patience or sympathy to let him drown, he needed to stay alive, their people needed to stay alive, they had no room for grief or failure.

After the oath the place in his heart that had once served Oromë became a hole, it grew and grew, until it completely consumed him, all of his brothers felt the loss of the connection to the Valar overtime but he felt it first, it drove him mad first.

Maedhros didn't let him out of his reach after Luthien, everything he did was monitored everything he said reported, this the confinement, being back on a leash pushed him over the edge.

He's actually awful at swordsmanship, every bit as bad with a sword as he is good with a bow and arrow, he can never figure out where to put his feet.

He was still alive when Maedhros found him after Doriath, he told him the about his people taking Elured and Elurin with his last breath. Maedhros held him a little longer than he should've given the situation (Maglor sat with him until long past him going fully cold)

[sitkowski]

neverbloom ( jolly karlsson x ofc reece )

pairing: jolly karlsson x reece (oc) cw: 18+ MDNI ⚠️ assholes in love, angst, some violence, vaginal fingering, protected vaginal sex, hair pulling, biting, choking, mentions of dacryphilia, miscommunication, love confessions word count: 4.1k author's note: more of my favorite meanies who are secretly in love, and the first full fic of 2025 this has taken me forever to get to and finish! this is a sequel to show me where the delicate stops. title comes from "neverbloom" by rain city drive, which inspired me so much for them this time around. dividers by @sweetmelodygraphics 🩷

⇉ masterpost || taglist signups || read on ao3 (coming soon)

It was just supposed to be a one time thing. And yet, four months after Nick’s birthday party, they’re still doing this. If anyone knows about it in their friends circle, no one says. Because they are not together. It’s merely physical, a way to blow off steam. They don’t act differently around one another, they’re not magically nice to each other just because they’re sleeping together. 

The thing is, they’re not doing this with anyone else. When Jolly gets home from a tour, Reece is the first person he calls. They’ll meet at the bar between her house and his apartment building, and go from there. They don’t pick up other people. But it’s just sex, no one spends the night, not normally. They will have their clothes on and be out the door before the sweat dries on their skin, and it works for them.

Until it doesn’t.

Jolly wakes up alone, but he knows that Reece is still there. He can still smell her perfume on his sheets, and the scent of brewing coffee drifts in from the kitchen. Her clothes are still strewn across his bedroom floor, tangled with his from the night before. Her cell phone is on the nightstand on the other side of his bed. Dragging himself up, Jolly puts on a pair of sweats and ventures out of the bedroom.

Reece is sitting on his kitchen counter, wearing one of his more worn Harley Davidson t-shirts and not much else, sipping a cup of coffee. He must have a surprised look on his face, because she scoffs at him.

“Don’t look at me like that, I was too drunk to drive last night.”

“You could have taken a cab.”

For some reason, the words make him sick to his stomach as they come out of his mouth, and he sees the way her eyes harden and she frowns before she sits the cup on the counter and gets down. He opens his mouth to take them back, but she’s already shoving past him towards the bedroom. Jolly doesn’t move to stop her, standing there trying to figure out why the hell he keeps doing this, in every sense of the word. It takes him a few minutes to follow her.

Leaning in the doorway, he lets her stomp around and pull on her clothes, balling up his t-shirt and throwing it at him when she sees him standing there. He catches it, torn between apologizing and being amused with her temper tantrum. Reece shoves her cell phone into the back pocket of her jeans and starts looking around for her shoes. Jolly knows they’re in the living room, but doesn’t offer any assistance.

“Why are you staring at me like that? You want me gone, I’m going.”

“Could you be less insufferable until I’ve had my coffee? You don’t have to leave, I was only making an observation—”

Rolling her eyes, she puts her hands on his chest to push him out of the doorway. He doesn’t move. Instead his hands shoot out to grab onto her wrists, twisting them down to her sides easily.

“I’m serious. Stay and have coffee with me. Maybe I’ll even fuck you after.”

“You’re a fucking pig, Joakim,” Reece sneers, struggling to free her wrists.

“I might be, but you’re the one who likes to get in the mud and roll around with me, precious.”

She just stares up at him before trying to get her hands free again. This time he lets her go. And he almost expects her to try to leave, but she doesn’t. She goes back to the kitchen and picks up her coffee mug, not meeting his eye as she takes a drink. So he ignores her, makes his own cup and takes it into the living room. He sees her boots by the edge of the sofa, where she’d kicked them off the night before.

“You don’t have to hide in the kitchen, Reece,” he says as he sits down. “I’m not going to maul you.”

“You were singing a different tune last night.”

“That’s ironic, given the fact you don’t have a mark on you.”

Reece comes into the living room and sits down in the oversized arm chair on the other side of the coffee table, a healthy amount of space between them. She doesn’t say anything at first, just stares at him over the rim of her coffee mug. He isn’t wrong, he’s the one with scratches on his chest and a bite mark on his shoulder. 

“Don’t complain when you like it,” she says, and she smirks when he narrows his eyes at her. “I can read you like a book, Jolly.”

Something about the way she says it doesn’t make it sound like a compliment. She says it the same way he tells her that she’s weak. It’s been months and they always manage to find the softest spot they have to drive the knife into, it doesn’t matter how good the sex is. And yet, it feels different. He’s not used to this new feeling that’s been coming on lately, something similar to regret when he sees how she cries afterward sometimes, or when he leaves when he wants to stay. 

“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asks, and he doesn’t even realize that he was staring at her.

“This is the longest you and I have spent alone together when we’re not in bed.”

“Aw c’mon, we’re not always in bed.”

Jolly scowls at her attempt at a joke. This is what they do too, they deflect and try to make it seem like this is still something casual. “I’m trying to be serious here.”

Reece sits up and puts her coffee cup on the table between them. When she stands, his eyes roam over her. He thinks that she’s going to leave, and honestly, it would probably be the smartest thing to do right now. But they’ve yet to be smart around one another. She steps closer, until she’s standing between his spread legs and he looks up at her. Whatever the expression on his face is, it makes her reach down and cup his face, stroke her fingers over the edge of his jaw. It’s an oddly tender gesture.

“Stop fucking looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

Reece smiles, and it’s tinged with bitterness. “Like you want to be nice to me.”

His first instinct is to apologize, his second is to say something biting that would probably make her leave. He chooses a third one instead. Sitting aside his coffee cup, Jolly wraps his hands around the back of her thighs, tugging until she loses her balance and falls into his lap. She catches herself with her hands braced on his chest. Before she can say anything, he wraps a hand around the back of her neck and pulls her mouth to his. She protests weakly, but after a few moments she’s fisting her hands in his hair and squirming in his lap.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to be nice to you?” he asks, reaching between them to unbutton her jeans. She opens her mouth to speak but her words die on a moan as he slides his hand down into her panties. “Because I can be really nice, precious.”

“This works so much better when you don’t talk.” she says but it doesn’t have its normal amount of heat.

He likes that he’s wearing her down.

He also doesn’t think he’s going to listen to her. Instead he presses two fingers into her, not able to get as deep as he’d like because of her jeans. It doesn’t matter thought, she still lets out a breathless noise, rocking against his hand.

“Fuck,” he mutters, pressing his forehead against hers. “You’re soaking wet.”

He expects her to tell him to shut up, say something back, but she doesn’t. In fact, she goes out of her way to stay quiet other than quiet whimpers passing through her lips as he works her over. She just clenches her eyes shut.  They’ve been doing this long enough that he can tell when she’s close, the way her fingers twist restlessly in the front of his shirt and his hair. But she still won’t look at him. Not even when she comes on his fingers.

He sees the hint of tears in her lashes and it's a new feeling to feel bad about it. He would always stop if he was hurting her, and he knows that sometimes Reece will cry but it's more of an overwhelming thing. He's told her how much he likes it when she cries. But this is something different.

Before he can say anything, she's shoving off of lap and buttoning her jeans back up. “I have to go. I'm supposed to be meeting Cam and Harper for breakfast.”

“Do you want a ride-”

“No, that's okay. I think I'll get that cab you mentioned.” She tugs on her boots, grabs her jacket from where she'd tossed it the night before. He thinks that she's going to leave without another word, but she leans over the arm of the sofa and presses a quick kiss to his lips. “Bye.”

He finds that he’s the one who can't say anything, sitting there silently until she leaves.

The thing is, Jolly likes pushing Reece’s buttons and she pushes his back just as much. He likes the way that he gets under her skin like no one else can. It’s easier than thinking about what an actual future between the two of them would be like. At this point, she’s the only person in his bed anyway. But they haven’t spoken since that morning in his apartment, and it’s been over a week. He thinks he can time how long it’ll take her to cave and seek him out, but he’s the one to do so first. 

Everyone was meeting up for drinks and a few rounds of pool at the bar where Cam worked, and he’s the last one to arrive. Jolly tries not to look around for her, since he doesn’t see her over by the pool table with everyone else. When he turns around and glances at the bar, he sees her there. He also sees that she’s not alone, some blonde guy sitting on the barstool beside her. It shouldn’t matter to him. They’re not together. It shouldn’t feel like this.

“You’re gonna be nice tonight, right?” Noah asks, and Jolly realizes he’s either being blissfully ignorant or he doesn’t know what he and Reece have been doing the past few months. “No bar fights.”

The guy sitting beside Reece leans in to say something to her. And instead of leaning back into him in return, she glances around his shoulder, eyes scanning the room. She looks in Jolly’s direction, and she smiles. The smile she gives him isn’t a nice one. Jolly feels his eye twitch.

Nicholas is only watching because Cam is behind the bar, and he sighs in resignation. “Don’t do it, Joll.”

“I need a drink.”

He leaves everyone by the pool table, ignoring their protests as he walks over to the bar. Cam is already waiting on him, and he leans on Reece’s other side, ignoring her entirely. “Hey Camille, can I get a beer?”

She nods and turns away, and he tells himself not to say anything to Reece, just to let it go. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see she doesn’t really seem to be paying much attention to the guy next to her now.

“So is this what we’re doing now?” she asks.

It takes Jolly a second to realize that Reece is talking to him. “What exactly? Using some random guy to make me jealous?”

He still won’t look at her fully, but he sees it when the corner of her mouth twists upward in a smirk. He should have just kept his mouth shut because now she knows she’s got him exactly where she wants him.

“Hey Reece,” the guy to her right says, louder than he needs to. “Is this guy bothering you?”

Cam comes back and passes Jolly his beer. “Todd, knock it off.”

The guy—Todd, apparently—has the decency to look a little embarrassed. But Jolly has decided that he’s got to make this into more than it is. He scoffs a laugh as he takes a drink of his beer, drawing both Todd and Reece’s attention.

“Do not.” she hisses, giving him a warning look.

“I just think it’s funny that we’ve been sleeping together for months now and you think this is the way to get my attention.”

He’s pretty sure he hears Cam muttering something along the lines of oh shit. Reece glares at him and turns to face him fully. “You don’t own me, Joakim. I never said we were—”

“What? We were what? You can’t even say it, can you?”

“Look, she obviously doesn’t want to see you right now so why don’t you just go back over to your friends?” Todd suggests.

“Fuck off, Todd.”

Cam lets out a disbelieving laugh and moves to the other end of the bar. Jolly is certain eventually Nicholas will be coming over to break this up. He’ll leave angry, Reece will leave angry, they’ll start this cycle all over again. They’ll give it a few days and then one of them will text the other to come over. It’s just how it is.

“Clearly Reece would rather have me here than you, it’s obvious she’s looking for something less…whatever the hell is going on here—”

Reece lets out an agitated sigh, “Fuck off, Todd.”

“Wow, if you wanna lower yourself to being some dude’s doormat because you have no self esteem then fine, I—”

Jolly can still hear Noah telling him no bar fights, even as he steps around Reece and shoves Todd off of his stool. He’s caught off guard and tumbles to the floor, but he also isn’t alone as a few guys from another table start to come over to Todd’s defense. His friends help him up and Jolly starts to step forward, fully intending to actually start a bar fight, but Reece plants both of her hands in the middle of his chest and shoves him back. 

“What the hell is wrong with you?” she asks.

“This is what’s wrong with me!” he gestures between the two of them. “It’s like this never ending game of russian roulette. You’re the gun, and I’m the idiot who keeps pulling the trigger even when I know what the outcome will be.”

Her face goes pale, and tears well up in her eyes. There had been a time where he wouldn’t have felt bad about the things he’s said, but he regrets the words almost immediately. It doesn’t make them any less true to him. Still, he just can’t stop himself and more words tumble out.

“I’m gonna go,” Jolly says. “You have a great night with Todd.”

It’s petty and childish, but he doesn’t plan on sticking around to see the outcome of that. Ignoring their friends, he intends on making a hasty exit. He’s barely out the back door and down the alley that leads to the parking lot before he hears Reece calling his name. A part of him doesn’t want to turn around. He thinks that it would be best for a clean break. But it’ll never be that easy.

“What the hell was that?” Reece’s voice echoes around him and he stops, turning around to look at her. “Have you lost your mind?”

“Was he wrong? Why are you even with me?”

“We’re not—”

“Exactly,” Jolly nods. “We’re not.”

She comes closer, and he wishes he didn’t feel like an asshole when he sees the tears streaked down her face. All those months ago and he would have just left her standing there, or told her they weren’t doing this anymore.

“We’ve treated each other like shit, Reece. And maybe I’m tired of it. You told me not to look at you as if I want to be nice to you? Well I do, okay?”

Once he’s said it, he knows that he can’t take it back. He doesn’t want to. His eyes never leave her face, and he watches the range of emotion she seems to be going through standing there with him. 

“You don’t…” she trails off and he can hear the sadness in her voice. “You don’t, Joakim. You’re the one who told me that I wasn’t your type. You’re the one who nailed his way through one of my friend groups—”

“God woman, do you ever just stop? I’m pretty sure I fell in love with you the second you pulled a knife on me.”

This draws a disbelieving laugh from Reece. “Oh, so we’ve moved on from like to love, huh?”

She’s fucking with him. He knows it. “I’m sorry, for everything.”

He’s not sorry for all of it, but he doesn’t think that he needs to tell her that. When she looks away from him, Jolly thinks that she’s going to leave him out there and go back inside. It’s a brief feeling of panic, but he tells himself if she does then he’ll let her go. They can’t chase each other around the way they have been anymore.

“Say it again.” Reece says.

“Which part?” he asks, stepping closer to her. She backs away, but there’s the first hint of a smile on her face. “That I’m sorry that we spent so much time being assholes to one another, or that I love you—”

Reece leans against the wall he’s backed her up against. Her fingers twist into the fabric of his shirt as she pulls him closer. “That, Jolly. I wanna hear how much you love me too.”

“Too?” Jolly tilts his head down, pressing her further against the wall. “Not sure I heard a return of feelings in that, precious.”

“You are an asshole. But so am I, and I do love you.”

That’s all he needs to finally give in and kiss her. It’s no different than any of the other times that he’s kissed her, there is no big revelation. Instead, it feels like something settling into place right where it should be. It’s always felt right, he’s just never wanted to admit it until now.

The sound of a door opening draws them apart, and Noah leans around the frame. “Oh good, you haven’t killed each other.”

“We’re good, Noah,” Reece promises. “We’re actually gonna take off.”

“Behave yourselves,” he says, pointing between the two of them. “No more daytime drama levels of whatever the hell that was in there.”

Jolly decides not to be an asshole and point out just how dysfunctional his relationship is in comparison to whatever he and Reece have, but he lets it go.

Apparently, Reece had come to the bar with Harper and Nick, so she just left with Jolly knowing that Noah would let them all know. They drive back to her house, because it’s the closest. When they get there, Reece leads him inside and right upstairs. He’s only been in her bedroom the one time, the night of Nick’s birthday. Now, he sits on the end of her bed and watches as she takes her hair down and runs her fingers through it, eyeing him with a smile.

“What?”

“Last time I was in here, you slapped me.”

Reece scoffs, toeing off her boots. “If I remember correctly, you told me I could.”

“I did,” he nods and she hums in agreement. “Why don’t you come over here?”

The second she’s close enough, he hooks his hands around the backs of her thighs and pulls her onto his lap. It feels like deja vu, a repeat of the other morning. But the tension between them this time doesn’t feel as thick, at least not in the way it had before. When he slides his hands beneath the bottom of her skirt, Reece sighs and presses her forehead into his.

“I want you to do something for me.” he says as his fingers tiptoe up to the edge of her underwear and up further until he can feel how wet she is for him through the thin fabric. She nods, and he brushes his lips over hers before speaking. “I want you to let me take care of you.”

He can hear it when she swallows almost nervously because they’ve done this dozens of different ways but it’s never been like this. And yeah, he’s used to getting his way, being the one to take her apart. When she shakes her head, he frowns.

“No, I don’t think so, Joakim. I think you’re gonna let me take care of you instead.”

Any other time he wouldn’t have agreed, he would have argued or convinced her that he was the one who needed to be in control. But he doesn’t, he just gives in. Nodding, he leans back on his hands. “Alright. Whatever you want.”

Satisfied, Reece moves off of the bed and takes off her dress and underwear before stepping over to her nightstand. It takes Jolly a minute to be able to move, and then he takes off his own clothes, leaning back against the pillows. When she climbs back over him, dropping a condom package on the mattress beside them, she lets out a contented hum as she lowers herself against him. Jolly can really feel how wet she is, his mouth falling open as she grinds down on him, the slick heat of her making it hard to breathe. Her hands thread into his hair and she tugs a little as she leans down to nip at his mouth.

He wraps his hands around her hips, pulling her down more firmly as he rocks his hips up into hers, but she tsks and pulls back. They stare at each other as she grabs for the condom, tearing open the package and reaching between them to roll it down his cock. He thinks that’s going to be it, but for a few more minutes she just keeps grinding down on him, nails digging into his scalp as he leaves a trail of biting kisses along the underside of his jaw. Always the one to leave marks, not that he’s got any kind of issue with that.

Finally, she leans back, wrapping her fingers around him and sinks down on him so slowly that Jolly thinks about calling the whole thing off because he knows she’s thinking of torturing him. She’s squeezing around his cock and gasping for air. Letting go of his hair, she braces her hands on his chest, holding him down. He pushes up against her, only because it’s second nature at this point. But Reece just laughs breathlessly and digs her nails into his chest.

At one point while she’s riding him, Jolly grabs onto one of her wrists, bringing her hand to his throat. Her eyes widen, but she lets him set her hand against him, and she squeezes a little, just as she clenches down on him. Jolly’s eyes flutter closed as he holds his breath. He grabs her hips and pulls her down harder onto him.

“I love you,” she says, voice coming out desperate. She lets go of his throat, just enough for him to pull in more air. “You drive me absolutely insane, but I love you.”

He yanks her down into a kiss, repeating everything back to her. There was a time when he told her he hated her, but he doesn’t think that was ever actually true. She smiles against his mouth, something she didn’t really do that often before. All he can think is that he’s never going to make her stop smiling now if he can help it.

They come together practically seconds apart, and she sags against him, forehead pressing into his shoulder as he drags his hands up and down her sweat slicked back. Neither of them speak at first, but eventually she lifts her head and kisses him, soft and full of promise.

“I still wanna fight sometimes though.” she says, and Jolly can’t help but laugh. “I hear angry sex is very fun, and leads to makeup sex.”

“Of course, whatever you want.”

Eventually they move enough to clean up and take a shower together, another first for them. Afterwards, Jolly stays. The two of them curl up on Reece’s couch to watch a movie and he doesn’t think he’d rather be anywhere else.

⇉ taglist

@ladyveronikawrites @circle-with-me @deathblacksmoke @dominuslunae

@rumoured-whispers @cookiesupplier @kinseysucks @collapsedglasshouses

@thatchickwiththecamera @th4t-em0-k1d @blackveilomens @illmakeyousaywow

@malice-ov-mercy @itsjustforce @darksigns-exe @baddestomens

@collidewiththesavannah @sorrowsofsilence @fadingangelwisp

@wonh0z @kait16xo

if you ’d like to be added to the taglist, you can find the form at the top of this fic! thanks for reading/reblogging 🩷

[tired-biscuit]

haha step brother kiba’s girlfriend goes through his phone and sees all the porn he watches (“step sister put in her place by HUNG step brother” all the girls all look like you: same hair, same eye color)

sees all his screenshots of your instagram thirst traps, pictures of you sleeping, videos of you drunk and laughing and him grumbling but still taking care of you (somehow, those hurt the most)

he’s so fucking mean to you in a way he never was with her. there’s so much effort that goes into annoying you. but yet, he’ll cancel on her to take you to dance classes, to college, to drive you home drunk from parties, all without you asking

poor thing. she could never be you in his eyes. always second place to the girl he’s not supposed to want

it’s definitely the little things, the whole porn thing just confirms the suspicions.

he’s always sneaking glances at you during dinner or playing footsie with you underneath the table. calling you to ask where the fuck you are, why you’re still out so late, who you’re with, and if he needs to come and pick you up even though he’d just barely pulled his cock out of his girlfriend and she hadn’t even been given the chance to clean herself up yet.

he’s constantly teasing you; borderline flirting in some sick, twisted way. checking you out under the pretense that he ‘doesn’t want his little sister walking around dressed like a whore’. and yes, he’s mean, he’s so mean, but then you stomp up to him and you repeatedly punch him in the chest, frowning and pouting and complaining, and he gets this big, beaming, shit-eating grin on his face as he lets you do it, like he’s truly happy for once.

the poor girl has to make a reddit post about you two towards the end of the relationship - he’s fucked her over that bad, lmao.

[hopegained]

i need to study so why am i here thinking about eron struggling to adjust to life post-war

[vaguely-concerned]

are. are you telling me that if the romanced mage warden dies and alistair is king, he deadass stares greagoir down over her dead body and grants the circle of ferelden its autonomy after ordering it rebuilt somewhere safer. first you have to deliberately leave him behind so he won't die for you and then he does that for you once you're gone, even when you're broken up??? absolute and literal king behaviour of the highest order????? the actions speak louder than words of it all??????? I think I hauve covid

[gay-fae]

it’s the fact that ed doesn’t know. he doesn’t know that badminton kidnapped stede with the intent to kill him. he doesn’t know that stede was so filled with self-hatred that he ran back home because he believed what badminton said: that he defiled beautiful things. and ed is the most beautiful thing he knows of. ed doesn’t know that stede is completely in love with him and knows it now. ed doesn’t know stede concocted the most elaborate and ridiculous fuckery (with the help of his awesome wife) to fake his death just so he could sail off and find ed and be with him forever. because faking your death means you have no intention of ever coming back; stede faking his death was a commitment to ed. and ed doesn’t know that stede is waxing poetic about him and staring at the moon thinking about him and being oh so in love with him.

instead, ed thinks stede lied to him about ed making him happy. he thinks stede lied to him about how much he cared for him. he thinks stede just up and left, because he’s ed and no one good stays for him.