#this is something i've been meaning to put into words for a while

[buttercandy16]

Mistress

PAIRING(s): Vampire!Agatha Harkness x Maid!Reader

SUMMARY: Your mistress becomes obsessed with you, leading to a dark, twisted relationship where love, power, and obsession collide.

WARNING(s): Obsession, Manipulation, Possessive, Blood, and SMUT.

A/N: Been a while since I've written some smut. Enjoy!

The halls of the Harkness estate were vast and cold, like a labyrinth of secrets etched into its ancient stone walls. Candlelight flickered across shadowy corridors as you carried a silver tray of wine toward the parlor, your heels clicking softly against the marble floors. You tried to focus on balancing the tray, but you couldn't ignore the eerie stillness of the estate or the way the other servants whispered nervously about their mistress.

Agatha Harkness.

Even among her wealthy contemporaries, her name was uttered with equal parts reverence and dread. She was a woman of unparalleled elegance and power, known for her biting wit and an aura of danger that clung to her like a second skin. Rumors swirled about her cruelty, her temper, and her insatiable appetites—not just for luxury but for something darker.

You’d taken the job as her maid out of desperation, knowing little of her reputation. Now, after only a few weeks, you wondered if the warnings had been an understatement.

And yet, you found yourself drawn to her in a way you couldn’t quite explain.

The moment you entered the parlor, you felt her eyes on you.

Agatha lounged in a grand velvet armchair, her long fingers elegantly wrapped around the stem of a wine glass. Her gaze slid over you like a caress, sharp and assessing, making your skin prickle under the weight of her attention.

“Finally,” she purred, her voice smooth as silk. “I was beginning to think you’d gotten lost.”

“My apologies, mistress,” you said quickly, setting the tray down on the table before her.

“Hmm.” She didn’t look away, her lips curving into the faintest smile. “You’re new, aren’t you?”

“Yes, mistress,” you said, fighting to keep your hands steady under her piercing stare.

She stood slowly, her towering frame somehow both graceful and intimidating as she circled you. The scent of her perfume—a dark, heady mix of amber and spice—wrapped around you, making it hard to think clearly.

“I noticed you the moment you arrived,” she murmured, her voice dangerously low. “There’s something… unique about you. Something I can’t quite put my finger on.”

Her fingers brushed your shoulder lightly as she moved behind you, and your breath caught.

“Tell me,” she said, her breath warm against your ear, “do you enjoy working for me?”

The air felt heavy, and the words got caught in your throat. “Y-yes, mistress,” you managed, though your pulse quickened for reasons you couldn’t fully name.

Her low chuckle sent a shiver down your spine. “Good. I have high expectations, and I’d hate to be disappointed.”

Over the following days, her interest in you only grew more intense.

She began finding reasons to summon you alone—fetching her wine, helping her dress, accompanying her on her nightly walks through the moonlit gardens. Always, she kept close, her sharp eyes taking in every detail of you.

At first, you thought it was simply her eccentric nature, but soon it became clear there was more to her obsession.

“I can hear your heart racing,” she said one evening as you stood in her chambers, tidying the delicate lace cuffs of one of her gowns. Her tone was amused, but her eyes burned with something primal.

“I don’t know what you mean,” you replied, though the heat in your cheeks betrayed you.

“Oh, but I think you do,” she said, taking your wrist in her hand. Her grip was gentle but unyielding as she pulled you closer. “You’re quite… intoxicating.”

One night, you found yourself summoned to her private chambers. The room was dimly lit, the scent of wax and roses thick in the air. She stood by the fireplace, her long dark gown catching the light like a pool of ink.

“Come here,” she said, her voice low and commanding.

You hesitated but obeyed, stepping closer until you were standing just inches from her.

Her hand reached out, her fingers trailing over your cheek. “You’re shaking,” she whispered. “Are you afraid of me?”

“N-no, mistress,” you lied, your voice barely audible.

She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “You should be.”

Before you could respond, her grip tightened on your arm, and she pulled you against her. Her other hand tilted your chin up, forcing you to meet her gaze. Her eyes glowed faintly in the firelight, hungry and unrelenting.

“You don’t understand yet, do you?” she murmured, her voice dripping with dark amusement. “The hold you have over me. Your scent, your warmth, the taste of your fear…”

Her lips brushed against your neck, soft and deliberate, and your breath hitched. You wanted to pull away, but her presence was overwhelming, suffocating, and somehow… thrilling.

“I could devour you,” she whispered, her voice tinged with both lust and menace. “Body and soul. And I don’t know if I could stop myself.”

You felt her teeth graze your skin, a soft scrape that sent electricity coursing through you. But instead of biting, she pulled back, her expression carefully controlled.

“Not yet,” she said, more to herself than to you. “Not yet.”

Her fingers lingered on your wrist as she let you go, her touch burning long after she released you.

“Leave me,” she said abruptly, turning away.

You didn’t wait for her to change her mind.

The next day, she was colder, more distant, as though trying to suppress whatever had taken hold of her. But the heat in her gaze never dimmed when she looked at you, and you knew the storm wasn’t over—it was only just beginning.

Every interaction with her left you more confused, more tangled in her web of obsession. The line between fear and something far more dangerous blurred, and you found yourself standing at the edge of a precipice, unsure whether to flee or to fall.

And as her lips curled into a knowing smirk, you realized that decision might not be yours to make.

The air in the Harkness estate grew heavier each day, as though the house itself was responding to the tension between you and its mistress. Agatha’s presence loomed everywhere—her perfume lingering in the hallways, her voice echoing in the back of your mind, her piercing eyes locked on you at every stolen glance.

You told yourself it was just her nature, an eccentricity fueled by wealth and boredom. Yet deep down, you knew it was more. Agatha wasn’t merely interested; she was consumed. And despite the gnawing fear in your chest, part of you couldn’t help but lean into it, daring the flame to burn brighter.

One evening, you were summoned to her private chambers yet again. The summons itself wasn’t unusual by now, but the tone of her note was: “Tonight, you’re mine.”

You smoothed your trembling hands down the front of your uniform as you knocked on the grand wooden door. Her voice drifted through, low and sensual.

“Come in.”

Pushing the door open, you stepped inside, only to be greeted by a sight that made your breath hitch.

Agatha stood in front of a gilded mirror, her silhouette framed by the glow of the roaring fireplace. She was in a deep plum silk robe, tied loosely at her waist. The fabric clung to her curves, revealing far more than it hid. Her hair tumbled down in dark waves, and her gaze met yours through the reflection.

“You kept me waiting,” she said, her tone soft but full of unspoken weight.

“My apologies, Mistress Harkness,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Agatha,” she corrected, turning to face you fully. “When we’re alone, you’ll call me Agatha.”

Her smile was slow and predatory as she crossed the room, her bare feet silent on the thick rug. She stopped just in front of you, her presence commanding every ounce of your attention.

“You’ve been working so hard lately,” she said, reaching out to brush a stray hair from your face. “Have the other servants been treating you well?”

“Yes,” you replied, though the closeness of her fingers to your skin made the word come out shakier than intended.

“And yet,” she continued, tilting her head, “I can see the exhaustion in your eyes. Do they know how much you give?” Her fingers lingered on your cheek, her touch as delicate as a whisper.

“I—”

“Shh,” she interrupted, pressing a single finger to your lips. “No need to speak. You’ve already given me enough with just your presence.”

The air between you crackled with an intensity that was impossible to ignore. Her eyes roamed over you, her gaze so unashamed and hungry that you felt exposed even in your modest uniform.

“Have you thought about me?” she asked, her voice a low, dangerous hum.

Your throat tightened. “I… I don’t know what you mean.”

Her smile deepened, a sly curve of her lips that seemed to peel away every pretense. “Don’t lie to me. I see it every time your hands tremble when I’m near. The way you avoid my gaze, yet I catch you staring when you think I’m not looking.”

You felt the heat rise in your cheeks, your heart thundering in your chest. “Mistress, I—”

“Agatha,” she corrected again, more firmly this time. Her voice softened as she leaned closer, the scent of her perfume intoxicating. “Do you feel it too? This… pull between us? Don’t deny it.”

Her hand trailed down your arm, her fingers grazing the sensitive skin of your wrist. The touch was light, yet it left a trail of fire in its wake.

You stepped back instinctively, trying to create distance, but she followed. Her movements were slow and deliberate, like a predator savoring its prey.

“You’re nervous,” she said, her voice almost teasing. “Good. I like the way your pulse quickens when I’m near. Like it’s calling to me.”

Her fingers brushed the delicate skin of your neck, lingering for a moment as her gaze followed the motion.

“Do you know how hard it’s been to restrain myself?” she whispered, her voice dripping with hunger. “You’ve awakened something in me—something dark, something primal. I can hardly stand it when you’re near.”

Her lips ghosted over your ear, her warm breath sending shivers down your spine. “Every time I see you, every time I smell you, I wonder… how would you taste?”

Your knees threatened to buckle beneath you, but her hand moved to your waist, steadying you. It wasn’t just her words—it was her voice, her touch, her presence. It was overwhelming.

“You should go,” you whispered, your voice trembling.

Her laughter was soft and rich, like the purr of a satisfied predator. “Go? You’re the one in my chambers, darling.”

Agatha’s other hand slid around your back, pulling you impossibly close. The silk of her robe brushed against you, her warmth seeping into your skin.

“Tell me to stop,” she said, her lips hovering dangerously close to yours. “One word, and I’ll let you walk out of here. But if you stay… you’ll belong to me.”

Your breath caught as her fingers tilted your chin upward, her dark eyes blazing with intent. It felt like the world had stopped, like the only thing that mattered was her—her lips, her touch, her dominance.

This was no longer just your job, your duty. This was something much deeper, darker, and inescapable. And as her lips brushed against yours, soft and commanding all at once, you knew there was no going back.

The kiss started soft—tentative even—but there was no denying the fire that ignited the moment her lips claimed yours. Agatha wasn’t the kind of woman to ask twice, and now, her dominance poured over you like molten honey. Her hand tangled in your hair, holding you in place as her lips parted yours, the taste of her intoxicating.

“Do you feel it now?” she murmured against your lips, her voice like a low growl. “How you’ve bewitched me?”

Your body trembled under her touch, your breath hitching as her sharp nails dragged lightly down the curve of your neck. The trail they left tingled, a shiver that rippled through you like electricity. She stepped back, just slightly, her hungry eyes roaming over you as though she was calculating her next move.

Then her expression shifted—intense and dark, her pupils dilating as she fixated on your neck.

Before you could speak, she moved, gripping your waist and pressing you against the cold stone wall of her chambers. Her lips brushed your collarbone, soft and deliberate, as she inhaled deeply.

“Your scent…” Her voice broke, heavy with need. “It’s… maddening.”

Her mouth trailed along the line of your throat, kisses becoming hungrier, rougher. Then you felt it—the sharp press of her teeth.

"Agatha—" you gasped, half-panicked and half-lost in the thrill coursing through you.

“Shh,” she cooed, pinning your wrists above your head with surprising strength. “You’ve already given me your lips… your trust… What’s one more thing?”

Her teeth broke the delicate skin of your neck with a swift bite, pain mingling with the heat of her lips. Your cry was stifled as she pressed her mouth fully against you, drinking deeply. It was unlike anything you’d ever felt—the sharp sting giving way to a strange, dangerous pleasure as her body molded against yours.

The world blurred at the edges, your heart hammering as she drank, the wet, visceral sound filling the chamber. Your pulse slowed, your knees weak, but Agatha didn’t falter. When she finally pulled back, her lips and chin were smeared with your blood, crimson standing out stark against her pale skin.

“Look at you,” she whispered, her voice husky, her eyes glowing faintly with an otherworldly hunger. “So fragile, so perfect. Do you understand now what you do to me?”

Her hands slipped to your waist, her grip firm yet somehow tender, steadying you as you sagged against her. “You taste like heaven,” she murmured, licking the remnants of your blood from her lips as though savoring a fine wine.

“You—” You tried to speak, but the words didn’t come, your breath hitching as her thumb traced over the fresh wound on your neck.

“Shh, don’t speak,” she said, her voice softening, almost tender now. “You’ve given me so much already. Let me take care of you, darling.”

She lifted you effortlessly, carrying you to the massive bed draped in deep violet and gold linens. You felt the world sway as she set you down, her robe falling open just enough to reveal the smooth curve of her shoulder. Her predatory grin had returned, but now it was laced with something gentler—a strange, possessive affection that made your stomach twist.

“I told you, didn’t I?” she murmured, brushing your hair away from your face. “You belong to me now. Completely.”

She leaned over you, her bloodstained lips brushing yours in a kiss that was gentler this time. It was possessive yet worshipful, as though she was memorizing every inch of you.

The blood loss left you lightheaded, the line between fear and desire blurring until it vanished entirely. Agatha’s hands roamed over your body with reverence, her touch burning like fire.

“Such strength,” she purred, her lips hovering over yours. “Yet so vulnerable.”

She pressed another kiss to your neck, careful to avoid the wound this time. Her tongue flicked over the edges of the bite, soothing the sting, even as her hands trailed down your sides, setting every nerve ablaze.

The fire in the hearth crackled, casting flickering shadows across the room as Agatha’s lips left your neck, her tongue lapping at the wound she’d made. Her hands were everywhere—tracing your collarbone, gripping your hips, sliding up your thighs with a possessiveness that left you breathless. She pulled back slightly, her eyes dark and glinting with something primal, something that made your stomach twist in a way that was equal parts fear and desire.

“You’re trembling,” she murmured, her voice low and rough, like the growl of a predator savoring its prey. “Do you want me to stop?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your body was betraying you, your pulse racing as her fingers slipped under the hem of your uniform, brushing against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. Her touch was electric, sending shivers up your spine, and you bit your lip to stifle the moan that threatened to escape.

“No?” she teased, her lips curling into a wicked smile. “Good. Because I don’t think I could stop even if you begged me to.”

Her hands moved with purpose, yanking the fabric of your uniform up and over your head in one swift motion. The cool air hit your skin, but it was nothing compared to the heat of her gaze as she took you in—every curve, every inch of exposed flesh. Her eyes burned with hunger, and you felt utterly exposed, utterly at her mercy.

“Beautiful,” she whispered, her voice dripping with reverence. “Every part of you.”

Her hands were on you again, rough and demanding, as she pushed you back onto the bed. The satin sheets were cool against your back, but her body was a furnace as she climbed over you, her robe falling open to reveal the smooth, pale skin beneath. Her breasts brushed against yours, and you gasped at the contact, your nipples hardening instantly under her touch.

“You’re mine,” she growled, her lips trailing down your neck, your collarbone, your chest. “Every inch of you belongs to me.”

Her mouth closed over your nipple, her tongue flicking against the sensitive bud, and you arched into her, a moan escaping your lips before you could stop it. She chuckled darkly, the sound vibrating against your skin, and her teeth grazed you lightly, sending a jolt of pleasure-pain through your body.

“That’s it,” she murmured, her voice thick with satisfaction. “Let me hear you.”

Her hand slid down your stomach, her fingers dipping between your thighs, and you gasped as she found your wetness. She groaned, low and guttural, as she felt how ready you were for her.

“So eager,” she purred, her fingers teasing your entrance. “You’ve been waiting for this, haven’t you?”

You couldn’t answer, couldn’t think, as her fingers pushed inside you, curling just right to hit that spot that made your vision blur. She moved with a practiced precision, her thumb circling your clit as her fingers worked you, and you writhed beneath her, your hands gripping the sheets for dear life.

“Look at you,” she said, her voice dripping with dark amusement. “So desperate for me. So perfect.”

Her pace quickened, her fingers thrusting deeper, harder, and you felt the coil in your stomach tighten, your breath coming in short, ragged gasps. She leaned down, her lips brushing against your ear as she whispered, “Come for me, darling. Let me feel you fall apart.”

As the firelight flickered in the darkened chamber, her mouth found yours again, her kiss consuming you entirely. She poured everything into it—her obsession, her hunger, and her unspoken claim over you.

When you woke, you were wrapped in satin sheets the color of freshly spilled wine. The dull ache in your neck reminded you that last night hadn’t been a fever dream. You touched the spot cautiously, your fingers finding tender flesh but no wound. Agatha had tended to it somehow; you could still feel the faint sting of her tongue against your skin.

As you turned, you realized you weren’t alone. Agatha sat on the edge of the bed, her robe draped loosely over her, revealing more than it hid. She held a glass of dark red wine in one hand, her other hand lazily tracing patterns on your thigh.

“You’re awake,” she said without looking at you. Her voice was calm, almost casual, but there was a sharp edge to it—possessive, in control.

You tried to sit up, but the room spun, and Agatha’s hand was on your shoulder in an instant, pressing you gently back down.

“Easy, darling,” she murmured, her fingers cool against your flushed skin. “You’ve given me so much already. You need to recover.”

Her words were kind, but her tone betrayed her satisfaction—like a predator who’d gorged herself on her prey and was now savoring the aftermath.

“Why?” you managed to whisper, your voice hoarse.

Agatha smiled, setting her glass aside. She leaned down until her face was inches from yours, her dark eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that stole your breath.

“Because I couldn’t resist,” she said simply. “You’re… exquisite. Every look, every breath, every drop of blood.” She cupped your face in her hand, her thumb grazing your cheekbone. “You have no idea the effect you’ve had on me.”

You flinched as her lips brushed over your forehead, but you didn’t pull away. There was a strange tenderness to her touch that made it impossible to move, even as your heart thundered in your chest.

“I should have left you alone,” she murmured, almost to herself. “But I’m not that strong. Not when it comes to you.”

The days that followed blurred together.

Agatha no longer kept her distance. She was everywhere—in the gardens during your morning chores, in the kitchen as you prepared meals, in your dreams every time you closed your eyes.

And always, her hands were on you—brushing against your arm as she passed, grazing your neck when she adjusted your collar, lingering on your waist as though she couldn’t stand to let you go.

“I’ve been patient,” she said one evening, pinning you against the cool stone of the hallway. Her voice was low, dangerous. “Do you think I’m a patient woman, darling?”

You shook your head, your words stolen by the heat of her body pressing into yours.

“No,” she said, her lips curling into a wicked smile. “I’m not.”

Her hand slid up your thigh, her touch searing through the thin fabric of your uniform. “Do you understand what you’ve done to me? How you’ve consumed my thoughts, my dreams, my every waking moment?”

Her mouth found yours before you could reply, the kiss rough and commanding. You couldn’t think—only feel. The way her hands gripped your hips, the way her teeth scraped your bottom lip, the way her breath mingled with yours as though she intended to drown you in her need.

The next morning, you woke again in her bed. She was watching you, propped up on one elbow, her fingers idly playing with your hair.

“Good morning,” she purred, her voice soft and lazy, though her eyes held that same dangerous glint.

“Why… why me?” you asked, your voice trembling.

Her smile widened, and she leaned down until her lips hovered just above yours.

“Because you’re mine,” she whispered, as though it was the simplest thing in the world.

Her teeth grazed your ear, and you shivered. “And I don’t share.”

The days turned to weeks, and the line between fear and desire blurred beyond recognition. You found yourself waiting for her touch, aching for her attention, even as a small part of you screamed to run.

But there was no escaping her.

Agatha Harkness had claimed you in every way that mattered—body, blood, and soul.

And as her lips trailed down your neck, her sharp nails leaving burning paths along your skin, you knew you didn’t want her to let you go.

Because no one could consume you like she did.

No one could burn you so beautifully.

You belonged to her, entirely and inescapably.

And somehow, you didn’t care.

_-_-_

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[acowardinmordor]

I think when Steve gets Vecna'd, Eddie adds together what he knows about the situation and comes to a logical conclusion. To him at least. He knows that Steve came here asking for heavy drugs and high quantities. He knows that Steve was sounding a hell of a lot like 'sleep' meant something worse.

He knows that Steve is X, and that means all of the horrible things that Eddie knows X thinks about himself, the guy in front of him thinks that too. He knows that Steve, ever since the letters stopped, has been upsetting the freshmen by being distant and cold.

The only assumption he can come up with is that Steve already took something, and it's hit. Or it's causing a reaction. Or its a bad trip.

He has no hesitation about touching him, immediately checks his breathing and his heart rate. It sorta, kinda seems like an overdose, a little bit could be an allergic reaction, but Steve is trembling like he's scared, and his body is stiff. Those explanations don't make perfect sense, so he watches for something that would mean it IS medical, and heads towards his better guess.

Bad Trip.

Steve is high, and is in a bad brain place, and that means he needs to be grounded. Music helps, right? When he was on that bad trip with Rick after his first senior year, Rick put on one of Eddie's tapes, and talked to him. Calm shit. Encouraging shit.

Eddie fully ignores the flickering lights - electrical gets weird in the trailer sometimes - and grabs the mixtape he made for X, and shoves it into his sorta fucky boombox. It's a mix of X's favorite songs, and the ones he mentioned in his own letters. He doesn't know if Steve ever listened to them, but that tape is the only thought he has.

Gets it playing, and grabs hold of Steve's arms. He knows that Steve stopped talking to him. Since Steve knew who he was, and Eddie didn't know who X was, it means Steve probably doesn't care if Eddie wants him to be okay.

Eddie talks about how everyone else feels.

He tells him about how protective Dustin is. How angry Lucas gets anytime anyone says a bad word about Steve. How Eddie has never seen Robin smile so much. How no one judges him for needing to repeat a year. Everyone knows about how hurt he got, and everyone gets it. No one thinks worse of him for it.

He knows his voice isn't exactly calm and soothing, but the longer this insane eye-flutter, non responsive thing goes, the more terrified Eddie is.

"Steve, please, please, it's okay. Just find your way back. try to breathe, try to feel your body, and you'll be okay. I know - I know I've been an asshole to you. I know, okay. But the boys, Robin, shit, fuck, Steve, I need to apologize for shit, so you gotta slow down your breathing. Whatever you're seeing, it isn't real. I promise it's not real, okay? Come back to the real world and I can get you feeling better, I promise. Steve? Steve?"

He doesn't notice at first that Steve is starting to float. He's too focused on his face, the way his eyes are still rolled back. He lets go before he can notice his own hands rising with him. Shits too real, this isn't just a bad trip, he needs help, he needs an ambulance, a cop, anyone that can actually help Steve.

He has the phone in hand, and is about to dial when he turns back, needing to keep looking at him while he begs someone to come fast. He sees Steve in the air.

One step closer, then another. He keeps trying, another whispered sentence or three. But the lights are going crazy, and the music is staticky, the dialtone is screaming, and suddenly Steve is flattened to the ceiling, arms pulling slowly to the sides.

Eddie runs.

Leaves the door swung open as he throws himself into his van. His hands are shaking and he's hyperventilating too hard to notice Max Mayfield sprinting across the road, up the stairs and into the trailer. He's pulling away, when Max screams as Steve falls.

He hears the scream, he hears and feels the heavy thump of a weight hitting the ground. He knows what that sound must mean.

Eddie runs.

Behind him with the tape still playing, Max holds onto a terrified Steve, who has trickles of blood on his cheeks, and bruises blooming on his arms.

Steve, alive, cursed, who immediately asks if Eddie is safe.

[alessiathepirate]

Resident Evil 4: Seperate Ways

THE WITNESS: Albert Wesker x fem!reader

Summary: Ada saw something she shouldn't have seen. And she immediately knew that he didn't deserve her at all.

Note: English isn't my first language. I apologize for any mistakes I may have made while I wrote this short story.

Oh, and Merry Christmas everyone :)

Warnings: swearing

●●●

Ada was sure she never should've seen it. No one should've.

Yet she did, and she knew she'd have to take it with herself to the grave if she wants to keep her head -- and if she wants her to be healthy and safe.

Albert Wesker wasn't emotional. He was head strong, dedicated and evil, the kind of man who'd sell the world to keep his own power. He had no place in his body for love or hate, yet what Ada saw, was another side of him, a side she never imagined could exist.

He was vulnerable. He had a weak spot, a spot she could use if she would've had the soul to do so.

He had an admiration.

Her.

Ada's partner in this stupid Spanish job she hated so much...

They were in Mendez's home, they were sitting on Mendez's bed as Wesker gave her an injection against the virus she had gotten infected with. Meanwhile Ada was in the window, holding onto the rope for dear life as she almost fell from surprise -- he was so gentle; with her. He was touching her as if she was made from the thinnest glass, as if he didn't want to taint her with the sickness he was carrying.

"Thank you." she said quietly with a small smile.

And Cupid be damned, Ada knew he didn't deserve her.

He didn't deserve the way she was looking at him or speaking to him. He didn't deserve her at all.

"I'm sorry I've caused so much trouble. I didn't mean to be a liability."

Liability. Wesker's favourite word. Everyone around him was one: Luis, Leon -- hell, even Ada herself.

"You've never been a liability." Wesker argued. "Your presence doesn't effect the mission in the wrong way in the slightest." he put the needle away and then gently put his palm on her forehead, to see if she had a fever or not. "However, if you are looking for one - or more - then consider Serra as one, or Ada."

"Hey!" she said as she pulled his hand away. "Ada's doing her very best."

"Ada is causing us trouble. If she weren't an important asset, then I would've gotten rid of her a long time ago." Wesker put his hand back on her forehead, not taking no for an answer. "And I'd be happy if you left this job for her. Her... failure wouldn't matter to me at all."

"Don't say that! I like her. And I'm fine now. I can continue."

Wesker let go of her forehead, and instead, put his hands on her cheeks, his pinky fingers touching her neck, holding her hostage for his will.

"You don't understand, do you?" he asked, then continued: "I want you to quit this job and leave. I want you to come back with me to my lab and assist me there, and only there."

She looked him in the eyes with a pained expression, and Ada hated him for causing her sadness.

"Why? Because you consider me weak?"

"No."

"Then why?"

"Because I consider you important."

Ada wasn't her, yet her own heart was beating fast at the words as she read between the lines.

Did he just... tell her that he loved her?

She seemed to understand the meaning too, because she just smiled and leaned closer to him with a grin.

"Come on, I'll be fine. You know I'll be."

"I always make sure you are..." Wesker said, then leaned in to press a kiss tk her forehead. "...dear."

Ada thought it was time to go, as she was too close to looking out the window and noticing her. And that... could be dangerous. Something Ada should avoid.

Ada grabbed onto the rope of her grappling hook, and climbed up to the roof, as quietly as possible.

Then she started to think...

Poor girl. She didn't know what kind of bear she was poking...

[sungbeam]

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: thank you to @petrichor-han for tagging me in her lovely wrapped post!! i had so much fun putting this together, and my spreadsheet tracker can finally be used for something bahaha 💀 i'll be talking more about my experiences this year later in the post!

some no pressure tags: @gluion @winterchimez @winwintea @polarisjisung @thepixelelf @sorryimananti-romantic @diamonddaze01 @jinkoh @blizzardfluffykpop @sohnric @from-izzy

first fic of 2024: daybreak ☆ ju haknyeon

posted january 5th

i remember writing this in bed while being in an awful spot, mentally. in an effort to save myself from disaster, i wrote this very short fic to focus on describing something comforting.

last fic of 2024: what we make of it ☆ wen junhui

posted december 1st

i also wrote this one in bed (i've written a lot of these in bed...)!! and it was after much mental simpery over wen junhui and the pics from his new drama that i gave into the idea of general!jun (i've also been dying to write something historically adjacent).

longest fic: incantations ☆ ji changmin

i remember conjuring about four ideas for the dbn halloween event before ultimately settling on yet another demon au TT like there was a cultish monster hunter au, a fallen angel reincarnation au, and a zombie apocalypse au... i honestly didn't know if i would make it or not lol and i had @justalildumpling proofing while i wrote the ending haha i can't say if i'm completely satisfied with it, but i can say that i think my world building and plot building skills have def improved, and you can see it in that fic

most popular fic: leave the window open ☆ choi san

tbh i thought this fic was gonna be a flop at first bc it wasn't until maybe a day after i posted it that it started to get traction? i also had the idea for it haunting my brain for MONTHS and i was so glad to finally get it out into words haha suffice to say, i am still so surprised by how well it did, but pleasantly so!

personal pick: creature ☆ ji changmin

i could talk about this fic, this series, this CHARACTER for DAYS. at this point, nt!changmin is a completely different entity to the changmin you think you know LOL creature is my self-indulgent character study of a demonic being who loves a person so much that he doesn't know what to do with himself

pretty self-explanatory — i honestly have no idea how i wrote over 300k last year, but i'm still pretty happy with how much i was able to write this year! i took a lot more breaks, and more time to write, and this def doesn't encompass just how many words i've written that are still in drafting stages and not published :')

i bet at least one of these surprises you >< (it's changmin right? jkjk)

ji changmin: ~51,900

— find him in: casino royale, subtle poetry, creature, and incantations

txt choi line: ~21,600

— find them in: bird hunt

jeong yunho: ~12,600

— find him in: bedfellows and something to give each other

to my friends, mutuals, and readers, thank you so much for being by my side this year! it's been brutal out here, not gonna lie, and i wish i had been able to post and write more this year. alas, life happens. i also find that writing longer fics that are more fleshed out just satisfy my creative needs a lot better—meaning that i will likely not produce as many fics, quantity-wise, as i used to.

on that note, i hope to at least give you some idea of what you can look forward to in the new year! i have several ideas for my superhero collab, including (but not limited to): mutant angel!jeonghan, scarlet witch!minghao, and venom!changmin. i'm also actively plotting out ventures with our sebongs, particularly a dokyeom knight fic and a fake dating dino fic! as for my current ongoing wips, i am hoping to get more finished for terra nova (high sci-fi/fantasy ateez fic), birds of prey (mafia hongjoong), and other secret projects 😌

that's all from me, friends. happy holidays and see you in the new year 💖🥂✨

[k9emote]

And just to add on! I never said my "art" was 100% by me I simply just didn't tell people, hate to say it but ive actually given up on being an artist because of people like you. I've commissioned and gave you money, and your friends money for art yet you still want to complain about me using somthing almost 4 months ago now to help me put food on the table. What you don't seem to understand is ain't nobody gonna tell you their entire life on the internet. You have no idea what a person could be going through yet you still sent your server of over 3000 people after a 15 year old girl who was just trying to enjoy creating something.

To say that I was "suicide baiting" is crazy because when did I EVER mention killing myself.

And one last thing, your sever is a cult. It's also fucking disgusting. A cesspool of brainless children looking for online relationships. You, yourself being included. It's a breeding ground for grooming and such things. You disgust me. The fact I have multiple screenshots of you saying you were "gods favorite lamb" please get a damn life dude. Your mental unwellness actually is a joke. The way you are open about your disgust for fat people is repulsive. You can't blame trauma on everything hope this helps xx

Your words speak for themselves on your character.

I am not disgusted by fat people. My current partner is plus sized. I asked for advice once on our perspective of incredibly unhealthy overweight people, and if feeling sick when seeing them made us a bad person. Our ex was morbidly obese due to her feederism and v0re kink. she bragged about being overweight to us and sexualized it. She wrote fanfics about force feeding us. She fetishized our ED. She roleplayed vore and feederism nightly behind our back with strangers while we were sleeping in vc together. We are working on untainting the mark she left on us, and that process is not for you to discredit or spread rumors about.

I'm not giving you consequences. I am protecting people and safespaces by alerting them of your repeated abusive behavior to keep people safe. The world does not revolve around you. You are receiving NATURAL CONSEQUENCES for being an ABUSIVE LIAR. No matter your age.

Drop the guilt tripping. Tracing over AI you were generating for art trades was not putting money on the table. You "never said the art was 100% yours", are you fucking serious? Your story of being the victim grows every time you speak. You being 15 does not mean you get to do whatever you want and expect nothing but pity. We tried to help. Us and our mods were there for you to vent to even after you admitted to shit talking us in the past. You did this to yourself.

Blacking out your entire profile and sending cryptid goodbyes to my entire staff team, even people you had never spoken to, is suicide baiting. When we blocked you on our main you found our ALT and sent the same short goodbye message. That comes off strongly as implying suicide.

For the love of god I'm not harassing you I'm just not letting you spit on my name using baseless rumors because you're upset you got caught. What the fuck did you think would happen?

I sent NO ONE after you and I am near COMPLETELY confident you have not been harassed. I have said over and over again to not harass you when I put out info on you to ban for members safety. That is NOT harassment. Your victim complex is insane.

Also. My server is not a "cult" and saying that to a survivors face is repulsive. It isn't a word to throw around and you make me sick. Please leave me alone. Stop messaging me. Stop threatening me. Stop lying about me. It will not make people feel bad for you. It will not make you feel better.

[soup-du-silence]

I've been meaning to do a rec list for a while as part of an initiative to be more proactive about the kind of slow depreciation of fic culture in fandom, as well as being better about leaving comments and second kudos, so here are a few of the TWST fics I've enjoyed this past year

Overthrown | T | JamiKali | 1.5k words (complete)

By @thatgirlonstage

Silk City has become discontent with the Asims. Despite everything, Jamil has never wanted Kalim dead.

This is my favorite JmKl fic. Yeah its 1.5k words. Yeah it’s barely shippy. But it’s such a perfect, condensed encapsulation of who they are, the elevator pitch for the ship, imo. It boils it all down to its essence: Kalim’s unwavering optimism, Jamil’s betrayal, their enduring loyalty.

Jamil’s Expressions, As he Dances | T | JamiKali | 1k words (complete)

By thatsrightdollface

“Kalim watches recordings of the gift performance.”

Short, soft and very sweet. Kalim watches recordings of the GloMas performance to see Jamil, has Kalim-typical thoughts about him.

Borrowed Time | E | JamiKali | 44k words (complete)

By Lalaen

Crowley announces a fun new event he’s already put into motion - Parents’ Tour! Jamil needs to host the Al-Asim at Scarabia dorm, and hide what happened during his overblot, and pretend he isn’t sleeping with Kalim. Not to mention keeping Kalim - no, their entire dorm from letting anything slip.

While I don’t agree with his characterisation of the Asim family, I’m in this one for how horrible and ugly Jamil is. He’s just simmering with disgust and loathing and its very delicious imo. This one played a big part in my own “Oh Kalim likes the brainwashing, obviously” headcanons. Also Rook and Vil are there helping Jamil find his footing! We love the Scarabia/Pomefiore friendship in this house.

I Need You To Be Okay | M | JamiKali | 6k words (complete)

By Lalaen

It’s just Jamil’s luck that the one time someone tries to poison Kalim at school, he ends up getting hit with the full dose. Stabilizing Kalim is something Jamil is used to. Unfortunately, Kalim isn’t good enough at alchemy - or controlling his own trauma response - to return the favour.

Sickfic basically, featuring Jamil being stubborn, Kalim regretting, and RookVil assisting.

Honestly I think all of Lalaen’s stuff is worth checking out so be sure to click through to his profile.

Scales of Contrition | T | JamiKali, LeoKali | 52K words (ongoing)

By Pareidolia

“Jamil returns to the Scalding Sands after a decade. Time doesn't stand still.”

This fic has everything I would normally filter out of my searches: Jamil or Kalim shipped with literally anyone else, those ships with biological babies…but it works and it’s good. Lots of really good world building, political stuff, angst and pining and drama. Missed opportunities and the consequences thereof. The Asim legacy and what it means for Kalim now that he’s a father. Jamil trying to figure out where he belongs. Leona being Leona. (there’s also a second ongoing fic that documents Leona’s POV, be sure to check it out)

The Hungry Heart, The Roving Eye | T | LeoRuggie | 5k words (complete)

By @thatgirlonstage

Five things Ruggie stole from Leona and one thing he gave back.

What it says on the tin! I feel like there’s not a ton of LeoRuggie fic that’s like……sweet? Because Leona is the way he is. I imagine he makes it difficult. But this one is really cute and I like it a lot.

How to Ruin Yourself | T | LeoRuggie | 190K words (ongoing–abandoned?)

By apple_fairy

Your name is Ruggie Bucchi. You are a no-good, lowdown hyena from the slums of the Sunset Savannah. You are quick-witted, prideful, a terror, and a young boy just trying to survive the world. You bend your morals where you see fit, break the world to ensure your survival. You do not suffer from guilt, but only the idea that the world owes you overdue payment, and that you had a right to live just as anyone else does. You laugh where you can. You don't show anyone your tears. His name is Leona Kingscholar. In the beginning all he had been was a prince from the royal family, a name whispered in the markets, a faceless thing for you to hate during your hungry nights. It all begins when you finally meet him at Night Raven College. This is how you ruin yourself.

I grabbed this one off of Hilling’s rec-list and jumped into it without looking at the stats and the first chapter knocked me on my ass and then I quickly realized it was 190K words multichap and hadn’t been updated in 2.5 years, so. Oops. I looooove the prose, great world building and Ruggie characterization, and its second-person(!!!!) and I think it's got a lot of really really great stuff in it! (also it 100% needs an M rating) But I ran out of steam on it somewhere around chapter 16 and I think there are few ways to tackle this fic:

Read chapter one for how they meet, how they connect, as a sort of character study, and stop

2. Read a few more chapters to see how they become a couple, and stop.

3. Read up through Leona’s overblot, see how that affects their relationship, and stop.

Or

4. Continue reading as it was meant to be read, up through the current updates. (I haven’t done this. I lost interest. I very much like the concept that they have a brief, intense fling, become obsessed with power, and it all collapses. It could have ended there and been great, imo, but it’s clear the author wanted to follow them through the rest of the game)

Night Sculptor | E | LeoRuggie | 7k words (complete)

By shoeburn

This room, door locked, lights dim, belongs to the two of them alone. This is where Ruggie belongs. He wants Leona to belong here too.

Doomed LeoRuggie smut. Just fucking SAD, man. But good.

Unexpected Proximity! | T | FloRid | 15K words (complete)

By elo_quentalias

On an otherwise routine trip through the Hall of Mirrors, an unseen student pushes Riddle into a coffin — along with Floyd Leech. Riddle is about to discover just how far his work-in-progress patience can possibly take him.

“Two characters trapped in a tight space.” This is one of those ships that when they interact in canon Im like “hell yeah i get it” but they dont take up too much space in my mind otherwise and I havent found much good fic that helps solidify it as something possible, they always kind of show up in the background of other fics as a love/hate jokey thing. This is a good one though, Riddle has to test his patience and so does Floyd, and it forces them to meet in the middle.

Such A Funny Way to Fall | E | TreyCater | 6k words (complete)

By undeuxtreycater

Trey walks in on Cater having sex. Cater makes sure he does it again.

I do not give two farts about this ship but this is good smut to me. And everything else they’ve written is also good smut about ships I don’t care about. And it’s all they have. And I’m like 95% sure this is a side account just for someone’s TWST porn and Im really fucking mad about that because they have NO bookmarks and an empty bio and how am I supposed to see what else they’ve written?? Why would you do this to your readers? It’s just mean. Anyway Cater’s a whore check it out.

Lavendar haze | T | LilIdia | 3k words (complete)

By la_nuit_porte_couseil

“How is it possible that you have been alive for untold decades yet you’ve never been high?” aka Idia encourages Lilia to try smoking weed. It gets gay.

I don't think the characterization on this one really hits (in op’s defense it's two years old and we had significantly less Lilia then) BUT it's like a really elaborate shit-post with some turns of phrase that live rent free in my brain, worth reading for that alone. I might take “I finished all my panic attacks” with me to my grave.

[impala124]

Bad Buddy Ep 7

My thoughts on Ep 1 | Ep 2 | Ep 3 | Ep 4 | Ep 5 | Ep 6

Me, at the end of this episode:

Happy to see that Pran had toned down his flirting, still thinking about him licking Pat's finger and probably would never stop thinking about it, and is back to his usual bantering with Pat.

Pat has a new car and a new boyfriend. You know what that means!! CAR MAKEOUT SESSIONS WITH BOYFRIEND!!!🤞

Pa is coming to university. Hopefully, we'll get to see more of her.

Me, when Pran's mom said that he can bring anyone home, boy or girl, as long as it isn't the boy next door:

Pran apparently has only two modes when it comes to flirting with Pat: snarky and horny. I'm sure Pat appreciates them equally.

Now, I've been a freshman and met many helpful seniors in college, but no one was holding my hand to escort me to a gathering on my first day. Anyway, Pa and Ink are interacting, guys!

Ok, Pa is sharing a dorm with Pat. I like the idea of it, but given that the (flirting) games are on, I don't want Pa to see anything she doesn't need to.

Pat's dad is again doing the most with his "Don't ruin my reputation." Sir, please. Just stop.

Pat looking at Pa's note from her peer mentor and saying that it's from a guy is funny because my boy is talking out of his ass here. Remember the time he looked at Pran's note and thought that a girl wrote it? Yeah, your track record isn't great when it comes to this sort of deduction, bestie.

Product placement interwoven into the plot—bring this back.

Pran's "I want you to do it for me" while asking Pat to change your printhead is just ASDGHGKYH.

Pat, expectedly, folded like a wet napkin. Pat is God's strongest soldier for resisting Pran's brand of flirting, is all I'm saying.

Ink, the badass that you are!! We got a head pat. Holding hands and head pats, I smell something in the air.

Not them holding hands in secret at the bus stop, which exists as proof of their coordination. Snack deliveries, my beloved!!!

I'm just here losing my mind visualizing Pat going to Pran's room with Nong Nao in hand for a sleepover. I wonder who even initiated the conversation, though. Was it Pat casually showing up at Pran's doorstep with Nong Nao in hand, or was it Pran inviting Pat for a sleepover and Pat showing up with Nong Nao in hand? I NEED TO KNOW. How dare they deprive me of this conversation??!!

Shirtless Pat makes an appearance again. The tickling!!!

PA ALMOST WALKED IN ON THEM. Remember when I said Pat rooming with Pa wasn't a good idea in practice? Yeah, this is what I was talking about. Not Pat saying that he's doing a side pack workout 😭😭😭.

Okay, Wai having a crush on Pa will be interesting for sure.

Ink is just not having it with Pat's extra attention!!

One thing I know for sure is that no one who bet against Pran has lived to tell the tale.

Pat, my lost puppy, is here to cheer up his cranky boyfriend. Even Pran can't resist that beautiful face!! The chemistry is electrifying.

Wai is such a manipulative asshole for forcing this responsibility on Pran. He brought back the guitar because he knew that he could coerce Pran into agreeing to his plan.

All the playfulness has left Pat; my boy is feeling dejected now, and Pran is at a loss of words as to how to explain his side of the situation. I'm hurting for my boys.

The rooftop rendezvous!!! They know each other a bit too well. Pran, with his "We'll never reveal our feeling if nothing forces us to do so," is just exposing himself. Speak for yourself, bestie; Pat isn't like you.

Pat coming to Pran's rescue again, when Pran seems to have lost all hope.

Yes, cheer for your man, Pran. Pat's "If my victory puts my boyfriend in trouble, I'd rather lose" got me giggling and kicking my feet like a teenager.

Oh man, the romance is romancing for sure!! Pran fed Pat the curry, the one he wanted to feed to the person he likes!!! So, they both won❤️.

Sparing a thought for Pa's bladder, though. But in the grand scheme of things, what's a pesky little UTI in front of 'soulmates' declaring their love for each other? I think Pa would be happy with the trade-off.

As I said before, Pa is a child of (PatPran's) divorce—

She had to put up with Pat wreaking havoc with his drums in the house during their breakup era.

She moved in with Pat and almost walked in on them during their 'we're trying to get back together' era.

She (her bladder) is being neglected during their makeup era.

There is something to be said about Pat's very public declarations of love (the cute dimples slide in front of the whole class, using the audition for the play to flirt with his boyfriend and him agreeing to play the lead) for Pran done in a concealed manner.

Tagging the usual suspects: @shortpplfedup, @incandescentflower, @starryalpacasstuff, @7nessasaryevils, @greenteadumplings, @grapejuicegay, @madworld-bbs, @usodeshou, @tao-moonb, @fanatic-freakshow . If anyone wishes to be tagged in the future, let me know.

[lilacerull0]

i would call my dad to apologise, but knowing him it would just hurt him unnecessarily to be reminded of that because he's not really good with bluntness which is what caused this whole thing and the other issue is that i know i will impulsively act like this many times in the future, so i guess the best thing i can do is continue to be as kind to him as i can be

[vargaslovinghours]

Fandom: Johnny the Homicidal Maniac (But really Vargas lol) Rating: Teen and up Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

What, exactly, did Scriabin take from Edgar when they separated?

My first multichapter fic for Vargas! :D Yay!

(Pls read Ch. 1 first - Ch. 2 is also recommended, but as long as you're caught up on the first, you're good to go!)

-----

Side B

What the fuck.

"It's, it's possible that if, maybe whatever happened earlier, whatever caused all that blood and for us to be knocked unconscious-"

What the fuck.

"-and if I suffered a head injury, then maybe-"

No. That's enough.

Scriabin pushed away from the closet door he'd defensively pressed himself up against and put his hands on Edgar's shoulders, which quieted him. He looked at him expectantly, with eyes that Scriabin somehow only just now realized were casually guarded, curious, uncertain in a way that denoted inexperience. That was so messed up, that was completely wrong. Edgar should've been on guard, absolutely, but only because he knew exactly what Scriabin was capable of. He really didn't want to look at him right now if this was what he was going to be seeing instead.

He spun him quickly and pushed him out the door before he could protest. He got one last look at those wide, confused eyes before he slammed the door behind him, bracing it shut with both hands for good measure.

What. The fuck. His head came forward, making a dull thud as his forehead connected with the door. He doesn't remember me? His fingers curled on the door. What does he mean he doesn't remember me?! How could he not know me?! One hand pushed through his hair; his scalp tingled and that was so weird, he felt it and it was so weird- We literally just- He literally just-! As if pulling him screaming into life wasn't bad enough, now he had decided to play some sick prank!

This can't be true. It's just like him to try and make jokes at the worst possible time, he has no tact.

There was a timid knock on the other side of the door. Scriabin jumped as it resonated through his skull, his elbow, pressed to the door with his hand buried in his hair, set his jaw. Then silence.

If he was really trying to get back in, clear things up, say he was only kidding, he'd actually try.

Nothing.

Scriabin's blood was ice as he went over it again. The way he'd said his name. The vacant look in his eyes as he said it, like his mouth knew its shape but none of the meaning. No fear, no realization, nothing that really felt like Edgar, just sound, just noise.

Maybe he really had-

Oh god. His knees gave out, and his arms had no practice at holding him upright, not yet. His hand slid down the door, his other hand guarding his head as his hair fluffed against the grain.

How could he do this

This is all his fault

Stupid, idiotic

He can't do this to me

I can't believe him

I can't believe this

How dare he leave me alone like this

Thoughts spiralling, and all he could do was hold himself down, press his fingers into the back of his neck, force his chest to his knees and maybe he wouldn't immolate under it all. He was shaking, from tension or fear he couldn't tell, his mind too hazardous and loud to cut through it all. He was shaking, dizzy, and if he moved, letting go would surely kill him.

He can't do this to me.

He breathed. And breathed. And swallowed. Eyes closed, heart pounding, sure. Confusion and dismay, whatever. Pain. Fine. So be it.

This isn't like me. A hand untethered from his vice grip in his hair, and he stayed attached to the floor. It connected with the carpet below him and became a new lifeline. He pushed up and away into a limp sit, arms already burning slightly from holding himself up after all that. He shook his head mildly. This isn't who I'm going to be in life. His body, this fear response be damned, he was in control now.

Regroup. Let's- a mental pause, barely a quarter of a second long as he turned the word in his head. Let's pretend it's all true- what does that mean?

He flopped over, leaned upright with his back against the door, heels of his fists pushed down into the carpet to scootch closer. Moving was so awkward still, very unfitting.

He was acting normal. Well, Edgar's baseline for "normal" had changed considerably, so maybe put an asterisk on that. Not that he was ever normal to begin with, but normal-for-Edgar, -ish. That means he has to have some memory.

Scriabin held out a hand, arm slung over his knee, one finger held out. He had recognized his glasses. One. The apartment. Two. Which key to use. Three. He had said Todd's name. Four.

His stuff can be discounted, he's had all that for a while. Back down to one. The kid is a new fixture. Which means he remembers the last couple months at least. He shook his head and brought his hand up to comb through his hair. Well...it's fuzzy for me, so it probably is for him, too. Scriabin remembered everything in as much clarity as the last couple months allowed, there was no way Edgar would know more even if he had all his memories.

Speaking of which, Scriabin could remember everything. He flipped through; the last two months and bringing Todd in, Edgar's parting words to Johnny, his and Devi's conversation - he grit his teeth - and further back, everything along the way, all the way back. False dreams, shared childhoods, everything that was once Edgar's alone, he still remembered it. Nothing was out of place which made it all the more strange!

This is so fucking weird, if I remember everything, then why would he-

He stopped short. His purported purpose had been to replace Edgar. Take him over completely. If he bought into the conceit for a moment, just to play in the space... He was alive now. That was not as intended; it shouldn't even have been possible.

Did he...give me his memories? Like, all the way? Not just to borrow, to shape him, give him legitimacy - he was alive now. His own person. Separate, embodied, and whole. Was this the price of life?

That's stupid. But possible, he couldn't discount. If this - he brought his hands up and looked down at them, watched himself touch his own chest and felt it beneath his coat, shirt, the nerves firing as his slid his fingers up himself - if this was possible, then...

He continued for a moment, curious and reverant, all of him new and privately exciting, to exist and to touch, to feel, smell, see, all of it clear and fresh and penetrated deeply into his mind, as if a layer of film had been lifted from his senses. The moment passed as the memories, unbidden but important, cluttered in around him again.

There were still a lot of questions, and most of them couldn't be answered without Edgar, ugh. If getting anything out of him before had been like pulling teeth, he was very sobered to think about how it might be now. Depending on how much Edgar remembered, maybe he could start piecing things together.

Did he do it on purpose? Did he know this would happen? There's no way he would have been willing to if he had- But he couldn't ask him things like that. Even if he did remember, admitting something like that...

He was just spinning his wheels at this point. Better to gather what he could from the man himself. He looked up, preparing to stand.

Ah-

The room was still in something of a state.

Edgar would be annoying, or at least distracted by trying to pick up the clothes and uncarefully unpacked items strewn about the floor from Scriabin's very successful excavation of his old glasses. The clutter would have to go if he wanted his full attention.

He grumbled as he pushed off the door to pick up the first few things. First day of life and I'm already his maid. Figures. He's always needed me to clean up after him.

Silence.

Somehow it only just hit him. Thinking alone in the late hours, planning things behind Edgar's back, it was nothing new. But a barb unsunk into his mental flesh was left out in the wide emptiness, poised to stab whoever happened upon it next, and he was the only one here.

He felt very small all of a sudden, and he didn't like it at all.

His eyes blankly scanned the room, looking for nothing, until they settled on the toy at Edgar's bedside. His toy.

He dropped the items he'd bundled into his arms and made his way over. He picked up the small simulacrum, turned it over in his hands once, and stared at it.

He wouldn't know this. Not really. He brushed a thumb up and over the little mouth, the contours of its small face. Retroactively, I've never been this at all.

I'm no one to him.

Does this mean we can start over? The thought struck him like lightning, freezing his heart in his chest. He was fixed solid, staring down at the small figure in his hands.

Before he could even think, he'd already thrown it through the open closet door, landing noisily in the box he'd dug through with a clatter. He grabbed up the fallen clothes and items and stuffed them back in the box, burying the toy in mundane detritus, then closed the cardboard flaps and slammed the door of the closet for good measure.

His breath was laboured and he glared, like wishing it gone would make the closet itself disappear.

Answers. He needed answers, more than anything.

He ripped the door open, and there was Edgar who looked up, staring dumbly back at him and carrying the clothes he'd shed earlier over his arm. Something in his mind clicked over, and he didn't think about it.

"Alright," he caught his breath for half a second, "what do you remember?"

Edgar just kept on staring, mouth open, eyes unconfident behind weak glasses. Scriabin huffed irritably, I don't have time for this, and moved towards him, arm outstretched.

"Come on." Edgar gave a small startled sound behind him as he grabbed his collar and dragged him through the doorway. He threw him across the room, not bothering to watch his arc as he closed the door behind him. The bed was that way, he'd be fine.

When he turned back, Edgar had managed to catch himself, though already halfway on the bed. Scriabin stood with his back to the door, feet planted and he crossed his arms. No more speculating around impossibilities, tangible and present as they might be, it was time for a proper interrogation. It was at least preferable to-

Edgar made a face at him and scooted back, offering a seat next to him on the bed. Equal footing briefly flashed through his mind and while he wouldn't consider it ideal, nothing today was really going his way. He sighed, then made his way over and sat across from Edgar, who was eyeing him with a certain degree of caution. At least the feeling was mutual.

"Spill." He re-crossed his arms and leaned towards Edgar. "What do you know?"

Edgar hesitated, apparently thinking, his hands laced and fingers agitatedly if quietly rubbing the backs of his hands.

"I want to verify some things first."

Scriabin snorted dismissively. Where had Edgar's overly-trusting nature gone? A serial killer, well he's an honoured guest, but Scriabin? He didn't even distrust him for the right reasons.

He gestured with an open hand, Go ahead, then tucked his arm back in.

"Todd's last name?"

Pfsh. At least it was proof enough that anything Edgar knew, Scriabin did as well. As expected.

"Casil. His stupid bear's called Shmee in case you forgot that too." Edgar shook his head. No he hadn't? If only he could just check!

"Do you know our phone number?" Obviously he did, so he rattled it off quickly, Edgar nodding in turn. He flipped his hair in time with the last digit, careful to keep his eyes covered. It was a bit of a timid attempt, being the first in this body, which was a minor blessing he supposed.

Edgar mulled over what he'd given him for a moment, then a moment longer, then a moment even longer. His eyes searched absently, gazing down into his own hand, his other on his chin, lightly thumbing his goatee. He was focused on names and numbers, but those were child's play compared to everything, everything Scriabin still wanted to know. It was frustrating on a visceral level, watching him struggle with such simple innocuous nothings while the most important person in his life was sitting right in front of him.

He was supposed to be the most important.

It was frustrating.

"You really don't remember anything, do you?" He didn't hide the sneer as it shaped his voice - odd the way his body just did that now, did things without him actively thinking them into being. Even things like the little waver that made its way in that he pushed back down and under. He was frustrated, angry, tired - any emotionality could be attributed to those, nothing else.

Edgar didn't answer, just kept his gaze locked to his face. That was almost worse. Watching him fumble through things, it wasn't fun, but at least he wasn't trying to pry. He could see him try to look past his bangs, and the fact that he didn't know better...

Scriabin looked away for a moment, then thought better of it. Best defense is a good offense.

He reached for Edgar's face, for those damn scars, ever-present reminders. Edgar shied away, not wanting to be touched suddenly by someone he didn't know. As if Scriabin had ever cared about that.

Well, things were different now. Maybe he didn't really want to touch him anyway. Not yet.

"Do you remember these...?" Instead he framed his face with his hands less than an inch from his skin, and even there he could feel the heat coming off him. Edgar reached for his face, looking away from Scriabin as he touched the angry red marks. He winced minutely, then glanced back at Scriabin, searching him, his expression guarded again. Scriabin could hear his own pulse in his ears.

"...Johnny?"

"Fuck." Fuck! "Of course you'd remember him but not me." God damn it! It wasn't right, it wasn't fair, just because Johnny came first by a hair's breadth, just because he wasn't in Edgar's head, with Edgar's fucked up little obsession with the murderous stick figure- It limited what he could get away with too, if he remembered that far back. Absolutely nothing was going in his favour.

"I'm sorry..." He sounded genuinely remorseful, and it stuck in his throat. Disgusting. "So you know Johnny, too."

"Unfortunately." Scriabin tucked his chin to his chest, arms crossed again in close proximity. This sucks. Edgar just kept rambling, unaware as ever. His excuses held this time at least, one point in his favour, no points for bringing his annoying habits with him despite everything.

"I don't think I've seen him for a couple months now? Everything's awfully..." He gave a vague gesture and Scriabin uncurled slightly. He was giving him room to contribute. He shook his head.

"You haven't."

"Have you?"

He returned to his tight coil of sulking. Not like he was keen to meet up and chat, but he couldn't explain why he hadn't had the opportunity to either.

"I remember he called, too."

"Ugh," barely above breath. Enough about Johnny! Again, Edgar continued obliviously.

"Although I don't really recall what we talked about, not for a while..."

Of course not. I took over for half of those.

He perked a bit, and Edgar focused more on him, patiently setting his hands in his lap.

"You know."

He could play this to his advantage. Give Johnny some well-deserved karmic justice for fucking him over so many times. It was almost better that Edgar didn't know - Scriabin had been trying to get him away from Johnny all this time, and if he really had forgotten everything, not just the moments when Scriabin took over but every moment they had shared, then that meant it coincided almost perfectly with his first meeting with Johnny. Blank spot after blank spot after blank spot, all lined up immediately after getting his face slashed.

He could work with that.

"It's probably trauma." Edgar startled and his hand shot to his temple, lightly touching his hair.

"Like, head trauma?" Scriabing almost laughed. Yeah, probably that too. But that wouldn't help his case.

"No." He leaned in, taking a more intimate, secretive tone. "Think about it. When did things start getting fuzzy?" If he was right on this - which of course he was, but not being able to verify, not being able to see that he was right, it was disconcerting - but if he was, Edgar's memories of Scriabin should start with that first fateful encounter, give or take. A bit of reframing here, a touch of implication there... It probably wasn't even an outright lie; if Edgar's memory were perfect after experiencing everything Johnny had put them through, that would be some kind of twisted miracle.

His only real concern was their "childhood" - how much had Scriabin pulled with him? Would that throw off his story? But that was so far back, there was no way Scriabin or Johnny could be implicated in that. As long as Edgar didn't bring it up before he thought his way around it...

Edgar stayed quiet for a long while. His eyes raced behind closed eyelids, searching, scanning, retracing - Scriabin could almost see the moments where he hesitated, stopped and went back, then starting recollecting again. He wished he could see it for real, watch him unfold himself, touch those memories again, hold up his own in contrast. Even just hear Edgar's thoughts as they went by, feel the emotions he felt. But he couldn't, so he just stared as unblinkingly as this new body would allow, just watched as Edgar went over everything on his own.

He finally opened his eyes, staring back into Scriabin's though he was sure they were still hidden. He felt naked and awkward and Edgar still hadn't said anything. If he could just see like he was supposed to, or if Edgar would just tell him, he wouldn't have to ask. I have to do everything around here.

"It was after you met him, wasn't it?"

"You think it's...mental trauma?" An unspoken 'yes.' Relief flooded him, and he pushed ahead.

"Edgar. He stabbed you." Edgar gripped his shoulder, his eyes closing again and he looked to be in pain. That was a very effective reminder at least. "Do you even know why?" He shook his head and spoke throught half-grit teeth.

"I must have made him mad, but I don't remember-" Of course not, I did that.

"Your mind is trying to protect you." Not. But one of us has to with your inexhaustable deathwish. Scriabin reached out to touch him properly, but Edgar pulled away. He didn't follow, still not yet. Play up the pity. "He messed you up so bad," with a curl in his tone, an I told you so that barely made it to words even privately; how long had he been holding that in? "Surely you must've felt like you wanted, you needed to get away from him, that he wasn't good for you, that you-" He'd told him so many times, some it must have stuck, some of it had to have-

"Then-!" Edgar's eyes shot open, wide and desperate with an edge of disbelief. A strangled gasp escaped him, half-choking him as he tried to speak. "Then why can't I remember you?!"

He almost began rolling off the cuff, but really, he still didn't know for sure. And it definitely wasn't like he could tell the truth even if he wanted to; who, who hadn't lived it, would believe him? Edgar certainly wouldn't, not with his lack of imagination. He had to dress this up, weave a narrative that was plausible, had the perfect mix of truth and falsehood to stand up to scrutiny.

Huh. Ironic.

"I..." No. Some of this was Edgar's fault too. "We...argued."

"Argued?"

"I... Mng." He wanted to aim for some kind of levity, but his throat had tightened on him. He just wanted to tell this stupid inside joke and not have it affect him, not have it mean anything, and here he was getting emotional? He'd say it and fucking mean it. "It's not like I'm in your head, so-" spat out in a rush, there, he'd said it. Haha, isn't that so funny. He swallowed harshly, pushing down everything he felt into his stomach acid. He was in control. He was fine. This didn't shake him. "I can't know for sure," another humourless laugh inside, "but I was against your relationship with Johnny. Maybe you shut me out so you could keep seeing him with no pushback."

It certainly wasn't outside the realm of possibilities of what Edgar would do to avoid taking Scriabin's extremely basic advice about fraternizing with serial killers. How many times had he been ignored up to this point, only to culminate in the ultimate 'I don't know what you're talking about.' Pfeh. I bet he wishes he'd thought of this sooner. It did nothing for his painfully stuttered pulse.

"You know, I've been trying to convince you to stop going back to him for a while, but, well..." He waved his hand at Edgar's hand still death gripped into his shoulder, and Edgar averted his eyes guiltily. At least he showed some remorse. Better than his nigh constant apologia.

He stayed quiet a moment longer, and just before Scriabin made to fill the silence again, Edgar struck him with an intense look.

"What are you to me?" Ugh. Of course. There was not a single good answer for that. Even if he told him everything- no, especially if he told him everything, there was no way Edgar would believe him. But coming up with a convincing lie on the spot, when they were so clearly something to each other - even he needed time to come up with something workable. How could he have ever prepared for a situation like this? It was never meant to happen, so many things were never meant to happen!

He continued at Scriabin's silence. "You know Nny," Ugh! Even his awful nickname. "And Todd. And...me." He couldn't refute it, so he nodded tightly. "Do you live here?"

Technically he had, and technically he hadn't. Still, going forward, it would be easier to let Edgar assume that he did. It wasn't like he had anywhere else to go at the moment anyway.

"Yes."

"Are we..." He searched him, looked him over as much as he could and he wasn't subtle about it. If only Scriabin had his proper glasses, he'd let him look as much he wanted, behold his spectacle! As it was, he just felt self-conscious and it was very unbefitting. "...family?"

The baggage on that. He did not feel like opening that particular can of worms in either of their current states. He turned his head and flipped through any number of halfway decent ways to phrase it until he hit on something Edgar would remember. Better not to contradict for now.

"You told Johnny you have no family when you met."

"That's true..." Edgar blinked, processing. "Wait, did I tell you that?" Scriabin startled. Even after he'd accounted for his memory! Of course he had to pick his story apart now, he never knew when to leave well enough alone.

"When you-" No, he had to be involved. "When we bandaged your face."

Edgar mulled on that for a few seconds, taking on a thoughtful pose. "I only remember being alone."

"You don't remember me at all. What do you want from me?" He huffed.

"No, sorry, you're right."

"Thank you." He was right!

Where had Edgar expected him to be? There was something weird about how he'd said it. He filed the thought away for later.

"So, if you've been living here, where..." Edgar looked around the room, then back to Scriabin. "Where have you been sleeping? Todd's already on the couch..."

Scriabin couldn't help as a smile sprung to his face. If he was going to present him with such a perfect opportunity, well, he'd better take it. He even had the decency to look nervous in response! This was too good.

"Would you believe me if I said right here, in bed?" He again tucked his chin, playfully this time, his hair falling further in his eyes. Even through the dark tangles he could make out Edgar's face immediately bristling with heat.

Ooh. That's such a fetching shade on you, my dear.

"But-! I, I haven't been sleeping on the floor!" He was visibly sweating!

"Correct." His smile grew. This was too easy, and he needed an easy win right about now.

"W-" He leaned forward on his legs, though refused to get any closer. When he spoke it was a harsh whisper. "Why...?"

Scriabin shrugged easily, not bothering to reign in his smile in the least. "I mean, where else, right?" He leaned in since Edgar refused to, and oh. He was blushing all the way up to his scalp. Hilarious. "You certainly didn't seem to mind." He couldn't hold back the slightly musical tone or his eyebrows inclination to move on their own. His body knew what he was getting at, and he could see it only increased Edgar's fluster. All the better.

"Well I do now!" Edgar darted up and away, stumbling in his hasty retreat. "If you'll excuse me!" though he was already practically in the hallway by the time he said it. What a display, and Scriabin's laugh was loud and natural.

Finally, something positive. He'd managed to fumble his way through, not his best work in lying or manipulation, but he'd set some important groundwork. He'd gotten some answers, and he could start to shape some more believable stories around them.

The biggest hurdles were Johnny and Devi. As long as Edgar didn't meet with them too soon - or well, at all would be preferable, but he doubted he could just keep him locked up, as much as the idea appealed to him. There were so many things that were possible now, things that he had the ability to do, given the right circumstances... All of that in due time. For now he had a yarn to spin.

He listened as Edgar fumbled in the hall, the sheer sound of cloth being pulled and folded over an arm barely perceptable. Was he really going to try to sleep on what little was left over? Maybe he'd give up once he realized the pickings were thin and beg Scriabin to let him sleep with him. Hah.

While he was out, Scriabin made his way over to the pajamas drawer. They were all old and soft, even just to his hand. They'd do for now, until he could get his own. It wasn't like he hadn't worn all this before anyway.

By the time he'd finished dressing, his clothes discarded on the opposite side of the bed to where Edgar had set up his little nest, Edgar had finally gotten himself a set of pajamas. He wondered for a moment if he'd dress with Scriabin in the room again, though maybe his intense stare drove him off. Who could say. He patted the bed with a wide grin when he returned and was dutifully ignored. He settled down to the side, and Scriabin laid on his arms to look down at him.

"Ugh, lame."

"I don't-"

"Yeah, whatever." He'd heard it all before. At least he could literally look down on him like this. He folded his hands and leaned just a bit further, looking him over. A desire he hadn't realized he had surfaced in the dark and quiet. "Give me your hand."

"Sorry?" Scriabin held out his hand expectantly.

"I used to hear your heart beat every day." Edgar looked at him incredulously, but Scriabin was unperturbed. "Let me hear it again."

He hesitated but eventually slowly offered his arm. "...Okay."

He pulled his arm up and placed his thumb against his wrist. He felt a strange mismatch - where he'd been expecting one heartbeat, there were two. He covered his surprise, near shock at the realization that of course he had his own body now, by pulling harder on Edgar's arm, directing him up to his ear.

"Wh-"

"Shh." Quietly. He had wanted this, wanted this body, this separation, this freedom for so long, and now... He spoke quietly, his voice betraying nothing. "I'm listening."

Edgar's pulse was erratic, but he hardly paid attention to it. His own fingers on Edgar's skin, warm and pliant, and Edgar's fingers twitching in his hair, he could feel it, he was trying not to touch him- This hesitation was killing him, every jerky movement away not from fear of what Scriabin could do to him, just uncertainty, like he was still a stranger- He pressed him harder to his head, and he could feel goosebumps under his fingers. He wanted to just hold him there until all the memories they'd shared poured back through him, into his blood, into his breath.

Where are you?

But he replied in that same uncertain, guarded tone that indicated he didn't know, not really.

"C...can I have my arm back now?"

He pushed him away. "Fine." Edgar curled his hand protectively against his chest, and he noticed he rubbed it slightly, he probably hadn't even realized.

He mumbled out a harried "Good night," and it was almost enough to make Scriabin smile. Almost. He could still affect him but this wasn't enough, it wasn't right.

He laid his head on the pillow, not bothering to pull his arm up over the side of the bed. If he twitched in the night and touched Edgar, well, that could mean anything. Maybe he was dreaming. Maybe he did it on purpose. Plausible deniability was one of his greatest assets.

As it was, he was just tired. Maybe he didn't pull it back because he hated the thought of sleeping alone, pushed out and forgotten, and hated it more that he was even thinking something like that. How pathetic. He didn't need anyone, especially not Edgar.

But he was tired. Not in his right mind.

Does this mean we can start over...?

The thought echoed and died, and he slept.

[you-will-return]

--

(I keep telling myself that I won't post it and then I don't and then I feel annoyed with myself but I tell myself that I shouldn't post it and then I don't and-)

[sysig]

Nice healthy obsession you got there (Patreon)

[faepunkprince]

Turns out it was a bit more literally than I thought when I tagged 'valentine is looking' huh

[miabrown007]

a minute of silence to my skills to estimate how long a project is ever going to take

[hisfluer]

i've been thinking a lot about god & god as concept & god as the answer we as people need and one we made up to make the night go by quicker. and i've been reading books that talk about god and notgod and nogod and then living where i am right now where god is a threat and why that god lived when other gods died and i feel like i've come to a conclusion that i've come to many many times before because i just didn't want it to be true for me.

i don't think i believe in god as concept or as answer. i don't believe in there being something else beyond something more. i think the divineness of god makes god too distant. i live here, i live right now, i live in a world everything exists right next to me. god being far away does not ease any worry, doesn't make the night go by faster, doesn't make anything feel ... the way god is 'supposed' to make me feel.

and i've been wrestling for years to make god real to me. just believe a little hard, pray a little more, have more faith and more faith and more faith and i had so very little to start with that i'm out. i've got nothing left to put into the god machine.

but i'm not without my beliefs. god is just the one i can do without because i believe in me and i believe in spirit and i believe the earth is a mother and a grave. i believe that our ancestors are here with us, echoing the movement of our hands to the nth generation beyond. i believe in the magic of lighting a candle and i believe in the power of prayer ( faithless as it it might be. ). i believe that pomegranates are holy fruit and the act of love is a holy act. i believe the special rocks we pick up from walks are holy and the bird feather we see could be a sign or an answer. i believe in all of those things.

i just don't think i believe in god as concept, god as answer, god as the truth and i don't think i have for over a decade.

and i started this blog as a way to explore faith, to see if my god is actually a being from a long time ago that still has a name or if it's not. if craft was a way of worship or if i should just hang up the hat and move on. i would learn names but then my faith could not match what was expected, what i expected. you were supposed to be the answer, i say, to a god who was and is the answer for so many other people but sits very silent and very quiet for me. and i started this blog when i still believed in god with a capital G. or, i tried so very hard to convince myself i did. if i'm actually honest with myself, i haven't believed in god, capitals or not, since i was in my teens.

but then there comes the really fun part of wanting so bad, wanting so much that it borders on needing, to believe. i sang the songs, i chanted the chants, i prayed prayers, i sat quietly with myself and begged for a god, to the point i was asking for any god, to listen. and hearing no response really began to carve a hole that was shaped like god. like i could trace the shape and if i could just find the shape that fit, i would be complete. but no shape fit. even if i put two in there, they don't fit. three or four, nothing. one big shape just falls out because the hole was made by the absence of ... not the presence of.

and that knowing that i will probably never fill that hole, there will never be a god or a being or anything else that'll fit, is very lonely. and honestly, that loneliness is why i started looking in the first place. because talking to people is incredibly difficult, being with others is hard, being around people makes me feel empty because i see how full they are. i am so scared of the reality that i might die alone as the possibility of meeting someone romantically or making lifelong friends just becomes smaller and smaller every day and it's a terrible fear. it'll send you looking for answers in those blank edges of the map, the blank pages at the end of the book.

but after searching and begging and wishing and hoping and praying, my reality is that the only one in that room when i cry for god is me. it's just me. me sitting on the edge of the bed, crying until my chest hurts because i want so badly to know what that love beyond mortality everyone talks about but can't feel it. me writing letters to god with no answer, me burying sigils, me carving symbols, me trying to make an ancient statue mean more than stone when that's all i can see. it's just me. it was only ever me there.

and i tried. i tried very hard. one day, i might try again. but i've never let the idea of no god sit long enough for me to get to know what it's like to not want and wish and beg.

i also want to mention that i separate god from spirit. spirits, i believe, are much more real than god. spirit is life, everything and everyone has a spirit. i think that spirits echo. this is why i believe my experiences with ghosts & the dead / animal spirits / ancestors are all very real experiences because they are echoes. all spirits come from life but i don't believe god did. i would more-so believe a rock is holy because it was prayed to for centuries upon centuries and that you would go to this rock or this tree or this land to find guidance from the spirit (or spirits) that are there than i would believe that a figure sits above us all and holds the key to life if only we would believe in them.

god as great concept has been prayed to for centuries but there is no echo of god. this is why churches feel holy because the spirit of everyone who ever sought peace lives within the walls. this is why places within the woods feel holy because the trees live and their spirit will echo when the woods are long gone. this is why i ache when my parents tell me as we drive through their old necks of the woods that have all turned into residential or industrial land 'all of this used to be woods'.

and i sit by my river and feel how old he is and there's something living in it. i don't feel god there. it's just the river. and i am more like a river than i am like a statue or a painting. parts of the earth are more alive than others, feel different than others, hold more weight than others. you see a rock and remember that rocks can take thousands or millions of years to form in a process that doesn't need you. you see a stand of trees and feel that something very old and very ancient walked there ( and for all you know, you could be remembering. that splice of dna could remember being that old and that ancient and walking through those trees when they were saplings. )

god, however, needs you in order to exist. there is no god without me. but without me, there is an earth. there's trees, rivers, plants, and animals that all exist without me. there's even people that exist without me. generations of people that i will never know and they will never know and neither one of us need the other to live. there might be something terribly lonely in that but i don't find it as lonely as sitting on the edge of the bed, begging god to help and having no reply.

i could get the same result from the river and have a much better conversation. rivers and i both have mouths but god, in any form, does not.

and maybe this is why the river has a spirit, a form of life. and why the trees are described as having clapping hands, as dancing, as being alive. and why earth is described as a mother. and why we ache at the idea of hands drawn on walls thousands of years ago. maybe this is why i remember my grandmother when i make coffee and feel connected to that life she had because when in doubt, put on a pot. and my mother tells me that out of all her grandkids, she worried for me because i was a lot like her. i feel her spirit, her echo even though i'm thousands of miles away from her, and i tell it not to worry about me because i'll be okay.

( and a quick note is that which i could very well be projecting! i could absolutely just be telling myself something to make myself feel better! there is no hard or fast rules in faith or belief or they would be facts. no one can prove or disprove god. no one prove or disprove spirits. like my concept of spirits and life beyond is very fragile at best! but i have to believe in something just there, out of the corner of my eye. i have to believe in faerie tales, i have to believe in fantasy stories, i have to believe in the magic wand that creates the carriage out of the pumpkin because without it, i would be so empty. i would lose so much of my wonder and curiosity for the world because i would see no point. what point would i have to get up if i can't interact with the spirit of the earth, with the spirit of love, with the spirit of being alive, with the spirit of magic? i wouldn't have one. others can see right down to the flat world of explanation with no magic and live perfectly happy lives but i can't. )

those are things i can believe in. and god ... has nothing to do with those things, i think.

but i don't think i would do away with god as concept, as answer, as anything out right. there's a lot to be gained by knowing humankind put their minds together and said this what love looks like or this is what war could be or i am in need in help and my help comes from a man who looks like my father, like all our fathers, or the father i need right now. i wish to win the heart of fair maiden, and if god is good she will love me in return is something that has been say in so many years for thousands of years. there's that spirit of power in words like that, in prayers passed down, in singing your grandmother's favorite hymn or writing your 8's the way your father did or a thousand different wonderful, human things.

god as human concept is a lovely thing. i have a love that is beyond my body that only a divine being could have made it possible. god, however, as divine being beyond the scope of humanity just ... isn't something i can put faith in it. i can trust the river will flow, the tree will grow, the sky will turn from night to dark but i can't trust that god did that or wanted that or willed that to be. i don't see a divine hand guiding in that kind of wholly(holy) natural chaos.

some might! and that's what i love! i love that someone can look at a tree growing in the strangest of ways and rejoice that god can bless even if the trees. i don't see that but that doesn't mean their mind or thoughts or belief is any less than mine. and it shows me how the world is so incredibly faceted just between two people looking at a tree.

i just think i've pushed and begged and pleaded and prayed for god to be there for so long that i'm ignoring the actual answer that there's just no one in that position. that the position is and never has been filled by anyone because the divine creator, above all and beyond, just doesn't fit into how the world exists to me. it's just not there. i've been trying so hard to build a very human thing for a concept that by being divine is not human. the god-shaped hole can be filled, if imperfectly but filled all the time, by the wild concept of nature and the humanity therein.

so, that's where i'm at on god.

[tiny-chubby-bird]

why do people always feel the need to stir the soup

[arminsumi]

ADULT STORE

↳ GETO すぐる + fem!reader

"Oh, see I told you... this product's a bit intense."

1.5k words

Pt. 2

Summary : product testing with the helpful employee at the adult store!

Warnings : minors do not read/interact : smut/explicit content : using toys, stranger/hookup sex, softdom!Geto, praise, cunnilingus, fingering, dirty talk, squirting, multiple orgasms, sex fantasy trope (sex with the adult store employee)

Note : i haven't made a trip to the adult store in ages bc... everything i want is so expensive lol (the struggle) 😭 i have some rlly funny adult store stories i could ramble about but i will refrain ✋ anyways, indulge yourselves in this fantasy, angels! 😈

Playme : wanna know what it's like?

The gate of the store buzzes, the employee watches you open it with a clink and enter the adult store. Your eyes flood with the overwhelming sight of wall-to-wall toys.

The smooth voice of the employee comes from behind the cash register.

"Yo."

Long hair. Dark, brooding look — almost gothic. Attractive hands with pronounced veins running over the back of them, poised on the countertop which he's lazing over.

He sees you and slowly straightens out his back out to impress you with his height.

"Ah, h-hello..."

He hears you stutter, and assumes it must be your first time in an adult store.

"First time? I mean, in an adult store, that is." he breaks the ice.

"Haha, y-yeah... yeah, it's my first time."

Yeah, that's what I thought.

He holds hard and deep eye contact with you. Yes, he's aware of how intensely he stares. He's doing it on purpose.

"Would you like some assistance, or do you just want to leisurely browse by yourself?"

His tone is so friendly, it doesn't let on to how heated his abdomen is getting at the sight of you.

"Yes, please, I'd appreciate your assistance."

Aw, of course.

"M'kay... then let me assist you."

He smoothly comes out from behind the counter and the two of you stand in front of a wall of toys.

"Overwhelmed?" he chuckles, noting how your eyes widen while looking at all the products. "I know there's a lot to choose from. But just focus on your needs. What do you need?"

"What do I need? Honestly, I have no idea what I need." you laugh nervously.

I know exactly what she needs...

"Well, why don't we carefully go through the products together? I'm sure I can figure out what you need. Promise I know my stuff. I've been working here for three years."

His nonchalance and professionalism puts you at ease. It's something he prides himself on: making customers feel relaxed.

Your eye catches on a pink dildo, so he takes it off the rack to show you up close.

"This one's good, it's got a ribbed design." he shows it off. "Are you looking for just penetration or clitoral stimulation?"

Aw, she's flustered.

"Uh, both I guess? Yeah. I'd love both."

Of course you'd love both. That's what you need, pretty girl.

"Both? Come over here. Let me show you something you might like."

There's a flirty tension between the two of you that just keeps getting more and more... intense.

He plucks a curvy vibrator. It looks expensive. Because it is expensive.

"This one's got ten functions—"

"—ten?! Sounds a bit extra."

"Nothing's too extra when it comes to your personal pleasure."

The two of you share a long look, then laugh.

"But it really is an excellent product."

"Are you advertising?" you joke teasingly.

"Absolutely." he jokes, "Kidding. I'm not trying to come across as a preachy marketer or something. I've used it with partners in the past, that's why I'm recommending it; I know it's good. It's a pretty intense toy. Helps girls squirt even if they think they can't."

I could make her squirt.

He's running his eyes up and down your body.

"Is that so...?" you mumble flirtatiously, eyeing out the product in his veiny, manly hands.

"Hm, still a skeptic? Because I'm sure I could please you."

He hopes that you note his deliberate use of 'I' and not 'it' there.

"Yeah. I'm sure you could please me, too." you flirt.

A heat erupts in his abdomen and stomach.

Oh wow... now she's really flirting, huh? Why'd I wear tight pants today of all days...

He has an unwavering gaze on you. You've captivated him. Put him in some kinda horny trance.

"Did I say me? Sorry. Slip of the tongue." he murmurs, voice dropping lower, "I meant the vibrator." he obviously lies.

You and him exchange a suggestive, longing look. You can feel your pussy clench around nothing, begging to get stuffed up and pleasured.

He hesitates before speaking again, as if he's scared of crossing a line and making you uncomfortable.

"If you want to... we could test it out together?" he suggests. His nonchalance is an act, really he's so nervous when he asks this.

"I'd love to..." you consent, and he doesn't miss the erotic excitement in your tone.

He nods towards the backdoor, eyes keeping on you and your cute little body that he just wants to feel and squeeze like a toy itself.

"Promise to keep your lips sealed about this? I don't wanna get fired for uh... you know... demonstrating products... to my pretty customer."

"Only if you promise to help me squirt for the first time."

Oh wow. Fuck. I'm hard.

His lips widen into a devilish grin. "Sure thing."

After a sloppy, desperate make out with this stranger, you find yourself sat on the couch in the breakroom. Door locked. Blinds shuttered closed. Legs spread wide to his liking, as he cushions the vibrator into your plush slit.

He's rubbing it slowly up and down your folds. He watches your reactions intently, breathing heavier at the sight of your pussy squishing under the pink dildo. The buzzing sound fills the room, but your moans are louder.

He clutches the toy gently, massaging the bulbous head into your clit with sweeping circular motions.

"F-fuck... that pretty clit feels good, doesn't it? Yeah? Let's get it feeling even better."

He turns it up a notch. It buzzes harder against your sensitive nub.

"How's that? Haha, yeah, intense, isn't it?

"Yeahhh — Fuck! Ohhh that's so good, that's so — oh my goddd fuckkk. S-sorry I think... I'm gonna cummm — !!"

"It's okay. Cum as hard as you can, yeah? I want you to get a good idea of how well this toy can pleasure you before you buy it, after all. Oh there we go... just let go and... f-fuck... wow... j-just cum like that. Fuck... that pretty clit feels so good now, huh? Gonna cum? Gonna cum for me, with a vibrator on your cunt?"

He takes note of your reaction to his dirty talk and smirks. Then he slyly turns the toy's setting higher and it buzzes more intensely, and in one... two... three... seconds, you're squirting like crazy all over the pink vibrator and his hand.

Holy shit, look at that pretty pussy gushing... she could drench my dick. I wanna be inside her so fucking baddd...

"Oh, see I told you... this product's a bit intense." he regains his professional tone after you cum.

He turns the toy off and watches you come down from your shaking orgasm, smug look on his face. He keeps it clutched in his veiny hand, and brings it up to his lips to suck and lick up all your juices from it.

She tastes so fucking good... I feel dizzy.

You watch him with wide eyes as he tastes your slick off the toy.

"F-fuck... wh-what did you s-s-say your name was again?" you stutter, starstruck by this stranger.

You're so fucking dizzy, your pussy is buzzing like it still feels the intensity of the toy against it.

"Hm, wanna know my name?" he smiles teasingly, "How about you cum on my face and then I'll tell you."

"Fuck, okay."

And then as soon as you give him permission, he's hungrily diving between your thighs.

"Oh my god..." he loves how you gasp and writhe under the influence of his mouth.

Let's see how fucked-out I can get her. Wanna see her lose her mind 'cause of me.

His lips latch onto your labia and suckle, then onto your clit. He points his tongue at your clit, then oh my god flattens it and laps at your bud while suckling. His softness shows a hint to tenderness in his personality; he really knows how to treat a woman well.

This stranger spoils your pussy with his tongue and lips. He seems to be in his own little world while nosing between your thighs. He carelessly gets your juices smeared across his cheek and lets the rest dribble down his chin.

"Fuck fuck fuck — like that, like that. Don't stop don't stop — !! 'm gonna cum! G-gonna — fffffffucking cummmm ahhhhh — !!"

He flicks the tip of his tongue against your sensitive bundle of nerves, eager to make your pussy freak out on his mouth. Just before you cum he slips two fingers into your hole, middle and ring, and pumps them into a sweet spot hard. He just wants to get an idea of the feeling of your pussy when it cums.

Suckling at your clit, fingering you with nice hard rough strokes, closing his eyes like he's the one enjoying it meanwhile he's silent and you're moaning like you're going insane. He can tell you're close and speeds it up.

"Cum cum cum, cum for me. Just let go and cum." he sounds so desperate, and that professional tone of his is finally cracking. "Cum on my fucking face, please."

And he dives his tongue right back into your hole, wriggling his tongue around, resulting in the nastiest wet squelching sound. His lips press flat against your pussy, he draws in a deep breath and your heat is all he smells.

Please cum on my face. Please please please.

"Ah! Fuck! Fuckkkk!"

You gush right on his lips, which are plump and swollen and red and glistening with your slick.

He pulls away and licks his lips and tells you his name.

"Suguru, by the way. My name's Suguru. Hey... can I give you my number?"

Oh he's so smooth. But he's even smoother at the checkout, when he asks if you're free this Friday for a date. At his apartment. With the company of some of his favorite toys.

© arminsumi

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