#this was done without a reference AS USUAL

[calla-lily-flower]

I'm not usually one to make a callout blog, but I don't think it's right to be silent any longer. I'd also like to say that I have no problem with tracing so long as it's transformative enough that no one can tell it's traced.

However, this artist is steadily gaining popularity in the Bloodweave fandom and the more I think about it, the more uncomfortable I get with the fact that this artist is popular. Why? Because they're tracing stock images and still frames from films, and instead of acknowledging this, they're passing off this work as their own original ideas. I know the correct thing to do would be to notify this artist before I go public with this information, but based on my interactions with this artist, along seeing other people's interactions with this artist, I do not think this is appropriate. This artist has a lot of friends who are also quite popular in the Bloodweave community, which is why I'm doing this on a burner account and not my actual account.

A few words of advice: to the artist's friends, if you dismiss this as drama, I will assume that you have not read this piece in full. I would like to restate I do not take this post lightly. If this was a one time thing, I would ignore it. However, this is not a one time thing, and you are tarnishing your own work by hanging around this artist. To the artist: you cannot delete your work to hide, as I have already saved the pieces to the Internet Archive. The internet is forever, my love. To both the artist and their friends: my understanding is that there are tensions between you and some other members of the Bloodweave community. I am not associated or affiliated with those members. I am a third party who became concerned once I saw this first picture, and things escalated from there. Similar to the drama comment above, if you associate this with the people you have friction with, I'll assume you haven't read the post.

Without further ado, here we go.

The artist I'm referring to is calolily. I hate that I have to make this post, because I was a fan of their work for a long time. However, in March, calolily posted this image:

As a certified horse girl, this image threw me off. For those of you who don't get what I'm saying, the issue is with the bit: the metal thing that goes in a horse's mouth. On a horse, it goes in towards the middle of their mouth, behind their incisors (which are the teeth you can see when a horse opens their mouth) into their interdental space, which is basically a long stretch of gum that's in front of the horse's molars. A good fitting bit should not be uncomfortable for a horse. However, this is where calolily has it positioned:

Right in front of the horse's incisors. Ignoring that there's no way the bit would stay in the horse's mouth at that point, if the bit was there, that would be a very unhappy horse. That bottom part is where some (not all, as most reins should sit at the bit) reins would sit.

Despite that, I didn't think the image was traced at first. I know bridles can be hard to draw, so I ignored it. That is, until I was looking for references images for my own piece of cowboy artwork, and found this:

You don't see the similarities? That's all right, I'll help you:

Now I'll admit, at first I didn't get too freaked out by this. Horses are a bitch to draw, so I'm not going to blame someone if they need help getting them done. Was I a little annoyed that calolily didn't say that they traced? Sure, but I thought it was a one-off.

That is, until I saw this:

The left image is calolily's drawing of Gale from their professor AU. The right image is a still from the movie "We Don't Live Here Anymore." Once again, I'm providing a side by side alongside an overlay.

(I am so bad at overlays, but I hope you see the point I'm trying to make.)

It's one thing to copy a picture from a stock artist. It's a little scummy, yes. It's definitely copyright infringement, but people turn a blind eye to it if you're a hobbyist. Copying a still from a movie without crediting it? Only making light changes, like swapping out the watch for a wedding ring and adding a periodic table to the background? Not okay. That's someone else's art you're taking away from them.

But it's whatever, right? It's not like calolily's making money off this, right?

Right???

The left image is a print from calolily's Inprnt page. There's a sale on right now, so you can purchase prints range from $6 (regular $8) to $78.75 (regular $105). The right image is a bondage ad.

I'm not going to point out the similarities on this one. I'm sure you can see how the arms and hands are positioned in the same way, how the only change is making the picture more "Gale" like. I've never purchased calolily's work, but if I was interested in purchasing a commission from them, I'd be worried. Would I get an original piece or would I get a traced bondage ad? Who knows.

Maybe this is a recent development though. Maybe calolily got inundated with requests and, not wanting to let their fans down, decided to take some shortcuts to keep their fans happy.

Ha.

On April 19th, calolily posted an "art improvement" post. Perhaps the improved post was traced, but surely the before was--oh, it was traced too? Alright then. The worst part is that this tracing was not from a movie or one of those giant stock image sites or even an ad. This one was from an independent stock photographer named Rob Lang, and as far as I can tell, he hasn't been licensed out to another stock site. He's freelance.

Unless this drawing was made in the past week, I'm going to assume that tracing has been a long time thing with calolily.

I don't get it. If they'd hidden some of the minor details like the shirt folds and the finger positions, I don't think anyone would've noticed. Hell, I didn't notice until I realized there was something wrong with that horse drawing. And I have zero doubt there's more. What's the old saying? Once is a mistake, twice is a habit? Seems like calolily's been on this habit for a while then.

I know some of you are going to brush this off as this not mattering because it's just stock images or that everyone traces, but the thing is, do you trace as noticeably as this? I don't think you do. And these are all someone's hard work they're passing off as their own, even the bondage ad, even the stock images, and I don't think that's right.

Where do we go from here? I have answers for two different groups of people.

For calolily's friends: Don't defend them. All of you are artists yourselves and surely none of you would do anything this blatant. If you still want to associate with calolily, then hold them accountable. Make sure they don't do this again. If you want to stop associating with them, then explain why. Don't be unnecessarily cruel, but be honest. If you were duped alongside the rest of us, post screenshots and get captures of any images you suspect are traced (because I know there are more) before calolily deletes them.

For calolily: Don't delete. Like I said, the internet is forever. Don't lie either. I know your favorite excuse is that you were an animator so you can draw from reference really fast, but does that explain the same shirt folds? The same finger positions? It doesn't. Instead, I recommend you come clean about all the pictures you traced and provide either links or pictures of them. Apologize to your fans. Apologize to the people you've hurt, because you've hurt a lot of them. Strive to do better.

Don't be a James Somerton.

And know this: if you try and hide this, know that it'll keep coming back. I think it'd be better to come clean now, don't you?

[lucydixon]

Neighbours pt. 3

Part 3 of what will now be referred to as the Neighbours Miniseries. If you haven't already, check out part 1 + part 2.

Ok, people, this one isn't smut. It's angst and setting the scene for what I have planned for the next part.

Summary: Euronymous sees you with another man, gets pissy about it, and confronts you. Twice.

Euronymous caught sight of you through the store window one afternoon and looked over his shoulder to make sure no one was looking before watching you through the gaps in the display.

His jaw clenched when he saw a man at your side. 

The two of you were talking and laughing, and you looked far too comfortable around him for his taste. 

You were headed towards the stairs to your apartment. 

His jaw clenched. 

A small part of him knew that he had no right to feel any type of way about how you spent your time or who you spent it with, but it was overshadowed by a possessive anger that resonated through his entire body. 

Instead of thinking about why he felt the way he did, Euronymous huffed and headed into the back of the store to stew in his annoyance. 

“Thank you so much for doing this.” You muttered, letting Filip into your apartment “I don’t know anything about this kind of shit and I didn’t have anyone else to ask.” 

“Don’t worry about it.” He smiled, following you inside. “I owe you one anyway for saving the day with that cake last month. Carina would have killed me if the baby hadn’t had a cake on her birthday.” 

“I like baking.” You waved him off, leading the way to the shoddy light switch in your kitchen. “Plus, you’re family. I’ll never say no to baking my favourite niece a cake.”

“Tell me again, what’s wrong with it?” He set his bag of tools down on the ground and flicked it on. 

You both watched the light flicker, followed by a burning smell.

“Never mind.” He grimaced and flicked the switch back into the off position. “I’ll take a look.” 

“Thanks again,” you sighed tiredly, “I’m just going to get some work done in the other room if you’re alright in here?” 

“Yeah,” he muttered, already focused on getting the light switch panel off the wall. “I’m all good. I’ll yell if the house catches fire.”

You chuckled under your breath, heading towards the massive pile of assignments you’d taken on. You’d very clearly opted to write too many articles and needed first drafts for almost all of them before typing out a final version the following day at the office. 

When Filip left an hour later, you shrugged on your coat and walked him out, thanking him one last time before walking in the opposite direction with the intention of getting yourself a bottle of wine.

You lit a cigarette and walked slowly to the liquor store a few streets down, enjoying the warmer-than-usual weather. You loved walking around town at a leisurely pace, taking in all the storefronts and the people milling around, guessing who they were and what their stories were. You'd been too busy to appreciate day-to-day life lately and were looking forward to a moment of peace.

“Big date?” Euronymous’s voice caught you off guard when you made it back to your apartment an hour later. He was leaning up against the outer store wall by the stairs, smoking a cigarette with a scowl on his face.

“Huh?” Your brows pulled together in confusion. You weren’t sure why he was talking to you in the first place. It had been weeks since you’d last fucked. He’d painted your face with cum in your kitchen after fucking you stupid and walked out without a word. 

You hadn’t spoken to or bothered eachother since. 

To be fair, you’d been so overwhelmed with work that you didn’t feel like you had time to breathe. You weren’t sure that you would’ve even noticed if he’d started blaring his music again or pissing on the sidewalk. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d actually paid attention to anything other than the smoke curling up towards the sky while having your morning cigarette.

“With your boyfriend from earlier,” he squinted at you angrily, “Do I need to get tested or something? I didn’t realise you were such a whore.” 

You frowned, clutching the bottle of wine to your chest as if you were afraid he'd snatch it out of your hands. 

“Filip?” You’re eyes widened in realization, followed by a little amused smirk. “That’s my brother in law, fuckhead.”

The flush in his cheeks was light, but you were able to see it before he let some of his hair fall in front of his face in what he hoped had been a casual move.

“Why do you even care?” You cocked your head to the side. “Are you jealous?” 

“No.” He scoffed immediately. “I just don’t want the fucking clap.” 

“Sure.” You bobbed your head tightly, “real nice. The closest I’ve ever been to being a whore was letting you fuck me so if anything, I should be the one getting tested. I bet you’ve got all sorts of groupies hanging off of you and your little band.” 

“I don’t fuck groupies!” Euronymous snapped, clearly offended “We don’t have groupies, I fucking hate groupies. The kind of music we play is supposed to make people want to kill themselves, not fuck us!”

“Oh my god,” You groaned tiredly. “Yeah, you’re real cool, Mr. Metal. Don’t you worry, that’s exactly what it’s doing. Are we done here now that we’ve established that you’re not jealous and neither of us are whores? I’ve had a long fucking day.”

“Whatever.” He scoffed, looking away. 

You had the bottle of wine open before you were even halfway up the stairs and took a good, long gulp before jamming your key in the lock angrily. 

Once the door was shut and you were on the other side of it, you rested your forehead against it and let out a frustrated scream, bouncing it, not too hard, off the wood. 

You’d managed to go weeks, too busy to think about this guy, and now here he was being jealous. You were also pretty sure he’d waited there for you to come back too, which meant he’d been watching you, at least well enough that he’d seen you walk by with Filip a few hours before.  

You hated that you found him being jealous and possessive, regardless of his denial of it, incredibly alluring. 

Had he been thinking about you? 

That night, you downed what was left of the wine and dreamt of fucking him, but not like the other times. 

No. 

This was soft and loving and so, so different from what the two of you had been doing up until that point. 

There was no name-calling, no cursing, or hitting. 

Just the two of you, clinging to eachother, staring into each other’s souls. 

You woke up feeling far too relaxed. 

“Ah, shit.” You sighed to yourself, letting your head fall into your hands, less concerned about the ear-splitting headache than you were about the dream. “What the fuck is wrong with me.”

You came home on the following Friday night to find a man dressed in full metalhead uniform with long hair tied out of his face with a red bandana, sitting on the stairs leading to your front door. 

It was a nice face. 

Pretty with light facial hair and smoldering eyes that were fixated on you the second you rounded the corner. 

The two of you stared at eachother for a moment. 

“You live here?” He asked you, looking genuinely surprised as his eyes scanned you from head to toe. 

“Yeah.” You frowned. “Did you throw a rock through my window or something?”  

“What?” his brows pulled together immediately and a startled laugh slipped past his lips. “No. Why would you ask that?” 

“I dunno,” You shrugged, able to feel your cheeks warming slightly. “Looked like you were waiting for whoever lives at the top of those stairs.”

“I work in the store downstairs. I actually sit out here a lot. I’m surprised that I’ve never seen you before.” He cracked a little smirk. “You’re pretty.” 

“You’re the one who poured coffee on Øystein.” He said after half a minute, when you just blinked at him.

“Øystein?” You frowned 

“Yeah, Euronymous, who owns the store?” 

“Oh.” your eyes widened slightly in realization before a grin stretched across your face. “Yeah. That was me. Twice.” 

“Twice?” He laughed “oh, he kept that shit to himself the second time then.” 

“I probably would too.” You shrugged, looking smug “I warned him.” 

“So, what do you like to do when you’re not pouring coffee on your neighbours?” 

“I-” 

You were cut off by the shops back door slamming open. 

You both watched the shop owner step out onto the sidewalk and immediately start scowling when he caught sight of the two of you together. 

“You said five minutes.” He narrowed his eyes at his bandmate, who just sighed and muttered a goodbye on his way back into the shop. 

“So you’re trying to fuck my friends now?” Euronymous all but snarled at you once the two of you were alone, taking two steps forward to get in your face. 

“Oh, for christ’s sake.” You groaned, looking up at him with clear annoyance. “We were just talking, and you know what? It is none of your goddamn business who I fuck.” 

His upper lip twiched when the corner of yours curled up into a smug smirk. 

“You are jealous.” You jabbed a finger into his chest “just fucking admit it.” 

He leaned into you, planting one hand above your head, against the wall, trapping you in between him and the hard brick. 

You shuddered, but still had that infuriating look of amusement on your face. 

“I thought we’d been over this.” He dipped his head down to mutter into your ear “I’m not fucking groupies, and you’re not fucking Jan.” 

“First of all,” Your voice came out breathy. You were undeniably flustered by the proximity and the warmth of his breath on the side of your neck “You don’t have groupies. That was established and not much else. I never agreed to anything, neither of us did.” 

“Isn’t that right Øystein?” His actual name came out of your mouth and he stiffened. 

God, it sounded so right falling from your lips. 

In a fit of confused rage, he bit down on the side of your neck and sucked at the skin brutally. 

“Ow!” You yelped, shoving him off of you “What the fuck?” 

He just smirked and licked his lips, backing into the store. 

“Fuck you!” you shouted, brushing your fingers over the sore spot he’d left on your neck. 

Confused, annoyed, and a little bit turned on, you rushed up the stairs and threw your bag down on the table, examining the quickly darkening bruise blooming where he’d unexpectedly clamped down with his mouth. 

“Mother fucker!” You cursed under your breath, pinching the bridge of your nose in an effort to slow your ragged breathing and racing heart. 

He’d fucking marked you. 

As if you belonged to him or something. 

That fucking asshole.

Dividers made by @saradika-graphics

[uncleskyrule]

bitty boy, petit picori, tiny tune

closeup under cut

[aotzz]

i love my guy so so so much

[lucabyte]

.

[i-am-just-a-skeleton]

version without the background + a closeup of the face/hand under the cut 'cause i'm really proud of it

normally i'd put references here too for a piece like this (idk i just like having extra stuff to put in) but i uh. did not use any. so it's surprising the anatomy is this good!

[kyistell]

Fan cover for Meanwhile at The IRS by Nikhil Clayton!!

I love this series a little bit too much and actually got this knocked out in a few days and just keep forgetting to post it, sooo BAM!!

[withered-rose-unbreakable-lotus]

[leatherbookmark]

a thing that irks me about wgxn as lsz's Best Parents Ever and lsz himself calling them his fathers iiiis that aren't... parents and basically ancestors... kinda important in chinese culture? yknow, like *gestures at some of the characters' complicated relationships w/ their parents, their legacy and last wishes*? lsz discovers he's a wen and doesn't immediately go "ah well, doesn't matter, they were Problematic and i feel more like a lan anyway", but rather goes to the nighless city with wn to bury the ashes of their family and build a cenotaph for wq. that means he still wants to honor his ancestry, especially since he's the last surviving member of his clan. would lsz just... conveniently forget about all that -- about his parents, whoever they were, who died in the war -- for lwj? hm

[spooky-something]

To the people saying "I do it because they're/it's hot, but I'm also trans!", "I do it because they just have traits (they're 'feminine') that make me think that, but I'm also trans!", etc., you do realize you can still fetishize and push prejudice/negative stereotypes within the community? Do you know how many people have headcanoned men as trans because they're just a wee bit feminine and they too were trans men? I'm going to be honest, in my experience, it's been a vast majority. And that bothers me. It's become so normalized, people don't even care, even in their own community. Men can be feminine, trans or not. It's gross to pin the label of trans on a man solely because they don't fit the convention, as all you're doing is fueling the fire of this problem. I know we want more representation in media, but instead of half assing it, or really just creating sick caricatures of us based on what the cis-gender people have decided are the norm, maybe we should actually put effort into our headcanons, or even... Make our own representation instead of seeing someone like, I don't know, Armin from Attack on Titan, and because he has longer hair, a softer voice, a smaller frame, and isn't the stereotypical male, claiming "Oh, he's trans!". There are times it works; me personally, I headcanon Dipper Pines as transgender, not because he's feminine, but because I can understand his struggles with masculinity and what makes him who he is; of not fitting the agenda while still being a man; of being dysphoric and insecure, but also learning to accept who you are. Not to mention just reality, identical twins have to be born the same gender, and while it's possible they might not be identical, the creator of the series himself has actively supported the headcanon. That's an exception. That's different. To explore the character via a headcanon, that is one thing. To just stick it on them is another. If you want representation, either make your own characters for it, find/support media that have it, or actually attempt to reflect the transmasc experiences in a headcanon as accurately as possible (tied to making your own, accurate representation). Stop just placing labels on a male with long hair and a more androgenous voice and going: "Aw, he's trans! 🥺" Without anything more.

hey. hey you.

look at that character you’re headcanoning as a trans man.

are you headcanoning him that way because you think it’s interesting, or because he’s a twink and acts kind of feminine?

if you write about him, do you treat him the same way you do your other characters, or is he distinctly separated?

can he handle himself, or is he always the damsel in distress? do you have someone bigger and stronger than him always save him?

do you make him act more childish or confused? is he super innocent and needs someone wiser to guide him?

are you willing to explore what his transness means, or do you just think it makes him hotter?

did you make him trans because you wanted to write him as the bottom? is he trans because you wanted him pregnant without "technically" writing mpreg?

are you willing to headcanon big strong men as trans men? old men? not stereotypically attractive men? men of color? fat men? disabled men?

is his transness a part of him or do you just treat it is a prop?

on the other hand, is he more than just his transness, or is that all there is to him?

do you include other queer and trans people in your work? how do you treat them in your writing?

how do you treat actual trans men? trans men who dont pass? trans men who do? who dont feel comfortable being perceived as feminine? who present in a more feminine way? who identify as more than just a man? who arent just white twinkish silly feminine men? who are kids, meaning you can’t just sexualize them? who are more than just props to be used within a story to push the plot along?

are you willing to listen to trans men who speak out on their issues, or does that seperate them too far from the fantasy you’ve concocted about them?

how do you treat trans men?

[humanjarvis]

forever boy

synopsis: you used to tell caleb everything. so why doesn’t he know about your new tattoos?

tags: fluff to angst to fluff, you get tattoos without telling caleb and he freaks out and you argue, he guilts you into showing him, surprise reveal (guess what the tattoos are), references to the fleet stuff and his bionic arm, caleb has nightmares, pathetic puppy caleb is back, he’s in the doghouse (ha get it) for less than a day, groveling, happy ending word count: 2.3k

a/n: i am proud of this i think. i made up some dates bc idk the timeline in this game. i also have no tattoos if you were wondering. there are allusions to a beloved recent drabble of mine in here can you guess which one

“Get off of me!” you squeal, gasping through chortles as Caleb's fiendish fingers dance over your belly.

“No can do, pips. Tickle monster doesn’t let his victims off that easy.”

He’s had you pinned down on the couch for almost 10 minutes now, poking and prodding at your sides until you’d grown nauseous from laughter. 

But still, Caleb won’t relent. Each time you swat his chest, try to bring your knee up between his legs—cute—he only moves his hands faster. For all the months he’d spent starved for your smile, he’s making up for lost time, he thinks. 

“I’m not…laughing because I’m having fun,” you wheeze, wriggling under him unsuccessfully. “This is basically torture. When I get free…I’m making sure you get a dishonorable discharge.” 

“What?” he smirks down at you. “If this is so torturous, why don’t you just push me off? Waitttt,” he gasps, leaning in conspiratorially. “It can’t be because I’m stronger than you, can it?” 

As his infuriatingly smug, annoyingly handsome face looms over you, Caleb doesn’t realize he’s flown too close to the sun. Before he can react, you capitalize on the opening. Squirming out from beneath him, you take advantage of his surprise and use the momentum to flip him over, your hips now on his waist in a straddle. 

“What were you saying?” you ask sweetly, the triumph in your voice slightly dampened by the way you’re still gulping down oxygen.

“Huh,” he shrugs, voice entirely too cheery for someone who’d just been bested. “I guess I stand corrected. Looks like someone’s been getting their reps in.” 

“Won’t you admit defeat, then, Mr. Monster?” you smirk. And as you lean over him to assert your victory, Caleb can’t help but gawk at the way your lips part, your shirt rides up, your tattoo shines in the warm light of the—Wait. Your tattoo?!?

No matter how many times he blinked, there was no mistaking it. There, right on the side of your once-bare ribcage, lies the prominent, pitch-black ink.

You’re still hovering over him, your light, playful chuckles fanning his face, but they slowly fade out when his muscles go rigid. Perplexed, you follow his gaze down your body until you finally spot your exposed skin, and with the way you go rigid, Caleb can tell an argument is brewing between you. 

The tense silence permeates the air, as if erasing the precious laughter he’d so giddily won from you just moments before. 

Like usual, you break first. You couldn’t stand his silence, you’d said the last time. The way it makes you feel small, like you’ve done something wrong, like you’re in trouble. “So help me God, Caleb, I’m an adult and I can make my own decisions. Whatever you’re about to say, drop it. You can tickle me until my sides bleed, just—don’t.” 

But Caleb, as much as he loved hearing your voice, wasn’t listening. While you were begging him to drop it, to leave it alone, he was too busy simmering over you doing something so drastic, so permanent to your body without his knowledge—like you didn’t trust him with the information. Didn’t trust him to hold your hand through the pain, to drive you home from the parlor, to wash and treat your tender flesh.

That awful feeling he thought you’d both moved past—had worked so hard to move you past—made him suffocate in his skin. 

“Were you ever going to tell me?” he asks lowly, gravel filling his voice. “Were you…hiding it from me?” 

As he rises to lift your shirt and get a clearer view, you intercept his hand in uncompromising resistance. He’d reached for you with his right arm. But somehow, your touch still manages to sting. 

It’s Caleb’s turn to laugh, now, but the sound is hollow. “You won’t even show me,” he chuckles humorlessly. “Not even when I already know.” Firmly, but gently as ever, he lifts you off of him and onto the opposite side of the sofa. 

You scoff at him, and the look of incredulity on your face would cause a less devoted man to back down. “Don’t lecture me about keeping secrets. I have a tattoo, Caleb. You have a double life.” 

“It’s for your own safety that I—”

“Is it for my own safety that you treat me like a child?” 

He pauses, and before he can stop it, he feels his face shift into the mask molded for him against his will. The face—his own, but somehow not—that plagues his nightmares. Cold, unfeeling, uncaring, indomitable.

“You don’t have to trust me anymore. But I’d appreciate it if you said it to my face instead of making me believe you did.” 

He hears the soft gasp that escapes you, but he refuses to look—too consumed by his emotions, too ashamed to face yours. It’s when he turns to leave that he hears your quick footsteps, and almost immediately, you’re whipping him around to look at you.

Your shirt is raised to the base of your sternum. 

And in the warm light of the living room, the soft glow of the summer evening illuminating the streaks on your skin, Caleb sucks in a breath. 

VIII IX MMXLVIII

August 9, 2048. 

The date your lives had changed. The date he’d broken his promise to always be by your side. The date part of him—physical, or something more—had died. 

With a bold, decisive line striking through it.

His eyes dart to the space below. You had another one, he realized. This was the one he’d glimpsed earlier, then—the one that’d made him question your faith in him.

IV XVIII MMXLIX

April 18, 2049. 

The date his life had been revealed to you. The date you’d fought your way back into it. The date your shattered souls had met again and vowed to mend each other. 

This one is different from the last. The numerals are pure. Pristine, clear, unmarred. Unapologetic.

An insidious, deserved pang spreads through his chest. You’d wanted to remember both dates, to etch them into your skin. You’d needed to move past the first. You’d needed to savor the second. 

A space on your sacred body, dedicated to him—to you both. To your tragic end, to your new beginning. Forever. 

“Are you happy now, you jerk?” You seethe, yanking your shirt down and snapping him out of his reverie. 

And as your voice wobbles, Caleb is anything but. 

“Pip-squeak,” he starts hoarsely, feeling anxious bile scald the back of his throat. “I didn’t think…If I’d known….”

“But you didn’t know, Caleb. You didn’t need to know,” you stress. The pained inflections in your voice seem to sync with your steps as you walk to him, your head level with his shuddering chest. “I will bare my soul to you. Happily. When I am good and ready. But forcing me to do it before then? Just so you can convince yourself that I trust you? That gives me all the more reason not to.” 

The bite in your tone numbs him to the way you push past him, shoving his shoulder hard enough to bruise. When you retreat to your bedroom, he hears the sharp click of the door lock and allows a wry grin to cross his face at the irony. And he thought you’d been shutting him out before. 

You wake up with swollen eyes. An uncomfortable reminder of last night’s humiliation. 

With a sigh, you roll your way out of bed, your limbs sore from being hunched in the fetal position for so long. You usually slept with a human-shaped back pillow, but you supposed that arrangement was on pause for the time being. 

You wonder how he’s doing. How he’d spend the night, if he’d left in the middle of it. As much as you hate to think it, you wouldn’t blame him. 

As you exit—or try to exit—your bedroom, though, it seems your worries are unfounded. 

There, slumped against the wooden door, is a sleeping, miserable-looking Caleb. Eyebrows drawn, nose scrunched, hands twitching—he must be having a nightmare.

With a resolute swallow, you push down the pain from the night before and, against your better judgment, prop the door open just enough to slip out. 

Kneeling beside him, you stroke his hair gently and hold his left hand in yours. “Caleb,” you call softly. “Wake up, please.”

At the sound of your voice, his eyes flutter open—slowly, at first, until they focus on you. In an instant, surprise, regret, and a flicker of hope flash across his face. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, tightening his grip on your hand. “I shouldn’t have—even if you hadn’t gotten them for us,” he breathes shakily, “I shouldn’t have pried.”

He’s sitting up now, having pushed himself off the door to get as close to you as you’d allow. The next time he speaks, the rasp in his voice suggests he’d slept about as well as you had. 

“You should…” he begins, swallowing thickly. “You should only tell me your secrets when you’re ready. I’ll wait. I’m lucky to know anything about you at all.”

Your chest constricts, and the ghosts of mortification and unwarranted guilt are the only things stopping you from forgiving him. With a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes, you remove your palm from his grasp, pretending not to notice when he chases your touch. “You should stretch your legs.”

The day is slow and awkward.

Your top-floor apartment is sweltering in the summer heat, so you don a loose crop top—it’s not like you have anything to lose anymore—and Caleb tries not to stare at your ribs.

It’s Sunday, the day you usually reserve for chores, and you try to ignore the way he follows you through every room: dusting your bedroom fan, mopping the kitchen floor, cleaning the bathtub while you wipe the counter. It’s a wordless process, but a seamless one—evidently, even a stalemate can’t jeopardize your synchrony. 

He disappears when you’re finishing up, and as you wonder if he’d gotten sick of your anger, the scent of your favorite food wafts through the air. In curiosity, hunger, and abashed dependence—you couldn’t boil an egg without starting a fire—you warily make your way to the kitchen you’d both left spotless. 

It still is, for the most part; the only hint of disturbance is the freshly cooked meal sitting on the island. One plate, one glass, one set of silverware. And Caleb sits in the living room, pretending to busy himself with a diagram, forlornly glancing over to you every few seconds. There if you need him, but not daring to intrude.

It’s nighttime when he tries again. 

You’re reading on the couch, instinctively avoiding the cursed spot from the night before, when Caleb shuffles into the room. In utter dejection, he makes room for himself on the floor between your legs and hugs his knees to his chest. The action tugs at your dwindling resolve, weakened by the care he’d shown you today, and before you know it, you’re running your fingers through his hair. 

He stiffens and relaxes at your touch before leaning back into you, enveloping himself in your embrace. As he presses innocent, lingering kisses to the inside of your knee, you feel the quiet tension in the room begin to build. 

This time, he breaks the silence.

“I never would have imagined those days meant so much to you,” he begins softly. “Wasn’t sure if you thought the first was a blessing in disguise. If you thought the second was some kind of curse.” Your hand falters in his tousled locks, and he exhales shakily. “I was just…surprised, pips. And hurt, I guess. You doin’ something so serious without tellin’ me—it never would’ve happened before,” he murmurs. “I didn’t mean to guilt trip you into showing me, I just…” 

“I didn’t tell you because I was embarrassed,” you whisper, saving him from the struggle of finding the right words. “Not because I don’t trust you. I do, if you can believe it. More than anyone.”

Caleb stills against you, and you place a hand on his shoulder before continuing with a sigh. “I basically saw those numbers in my sleep, at one point,” you chuckle in self-deprecation. “They flashed in my head over, and over, and over—the day I lost you, the day I found you. So I figured the only way to stop it was to carry them with me, always. And when the clarity hit…I thought I was silly. Immature. Like, I had something etched onto my body for you, Caleb. I felt like I was too attached. Too dependent on you.” 

“Is it bad if I say I’d like that?” he quips with a tired smile. “Pip-squeak,” he sighs. “You could never be too attached to me. When I saw those dates—when I realized what they meant,” he swallows, “I wanted to hold you to me ‘til I couldn’t breathe. Wanted to tattoo your tattoos inside my eyelids so I could see them every time I blink,” he jokes, kissing your palm. “That’s too attached, by the way.” 

As you giggle at him—your first in almost 24 hours—he brightens slightly. “I really am sorry for forcing your hand. Makin’ you feel like your only choice was to tell me. But, for the record, those are the least embarrassing tattoos I’ve ever seen. Gideon has one of a monkey, you know.” 

And after you duck your head into his shoulder to stifle your laughter, you haul him up and into your bedroom—no door for a mattress, this time. You’re both due for some much-needed sleep. 

The next day, you stand in front of your bathroom mirror while Caleb hugs you from behind, admiring the inky black lines on your exposed waist. Leaning in to kiss your cheek, he whispers into your ear: “You know, they say rib tattoos hurt a lot. You shouldn’t have had to go through all that alone. Why don’t I get matching ones so we can share the pain?” 

[sttoru]

·.⌇ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒. thinking about true form!sukuna having a huge size kink (+ corruption kink).

word count. 2.6k

note. super self-indulgent. cant rlly blame me for creating this. also do you see those big ass hands in the header i used? yeah.. says enough (this sucks ass)

tags. dom heian era!sukuna x concubine!female reader. smut. porn with plot. size kink / size difference (reader gets referred to as ‘short’ & ‘small’). p in v -> unprotected. degradation. corruption kink (reader gets referred to as ‘naive’, 'shy' & innocent’-looking). tummy bulging. loss of virginity mention. hymen breaking mention. cervix fucking, ouch. lots of teasing. tiny bit of choking. tiny mention of blood tasting ? idk. hint at anal / double penetration. dirty talk. sukuna has two of everything btw mehehe. reader get called ‘woman, brat, slut, little'.

sukuna is intrigued by you. he’s always been, since the moment he’s laid his eyes upon you. your loyalty and devotion to him are two aspects that the king of curses likes most about you. .

. . after your innocence.

it nearly irked him. every time he saw you hanging around the estate without a single care in the world. sukuna would attempt to intimidate you with serious threats. he’d loom over your short stature and look down at you with a malicious glint in his eyes. though, none of it seemed to work.

you'd only bow your head at him and apologise if you’ve caused him any possible inconveniences. it annoyed the sorcerer. you weren’t trembling in fear like all the others would — it was like there was nothing going on in that head of yours. especially when you smile at him. which no one actually dares to do.

sukuna could crush you. with no effort. one big hand would be enough to pick your entire body up, lift you in the air and throw you around like a ragdoll. you don’t seem to fear the possibility of that happening, even when being faced with a pissed off sukuna.

it’s truly intriguing and amusing. that’s why sukuna kept you around every day — as a form of entertainment, he called it. one thing led to the other and you eventually ended up as one of his concubines. the king of curses himself decided to grant you that promotion.

why? because not only does your fragile body, reserved and polite personality and innocence secretly fascinate him — it also makes him crave you. crave to shatter that naivety of yours. to take that small body of yours and make it feel what it means to be overpowered by a man twice your size.

sukuna does not regret his decision to make you his concubine. the first night you spent together was one of the best nights he had ever had. in all his many years of living. not a single woman had ever succeeded in blowing his mind when it came to sex.

it was usually boring and repetitive for the sorcerer. he felt nothing for those women he’s had in bed before — it was solely for the fact of satisfying himself. though, that changed on the day you had given him your virginity.

he remembers every detail; from your little noises of both pain and pleasure, your tight and untouched pussy that bled faintly when the fat tip of his lower cock pushed through, your nails that dug into his arms and back, your thighs that he held to your chest, his large hands that could easily wrap around the fat of them, your aching cunt that was left spasming around air as it tried to keep his sticky cum stored in place.

sukuna didn’t think your tears would affect him as much. when he took your virginity and you whimpered in pain — he did feel a twinge of guilt. it was strange; he hadn’t felt that emotion before. he had stopped and wiped your tears away. roughly whispered some words of encouragement too.

he had never done so before. never. he had never told anyone how ‘good’ they were for him. how he’d be ‘careful’ to not make it hurt any more. the king of curses recalls vividly how slow he started with you. slow sex. instead of rough like he’s used to.

sukuna wasn’t chasing after his own pleasure in that moment like he’d usually have. his main priority was to make sure the girl below him was comfortable enough to continue. you’re strange. the things you make him do, say and feel are strange. and yet. . .

it was an amazing night. the best. however sukuna was left behind with an insatiable hunger for you. more, more, more. he can’t grasp it yet; why he longs for you. for those feelings he’s suddenly capable of experiencing during intimate moments.

it’s why he calls for you every night. no other concubine was needed after you were made one. the king of curses couldn’t care less about those other women. they are boring to him.

unlike you. the one he’s sure that he won’t ever get bored of.

“you can take me so well now,” sukuna breathes out. one of his cocks was inches deep inside you, bulbous tip painfully hitting your cervix. over the past few weeks, your body had learnt to adjust to him, your pussy molded to fit the shape of his dick.

sukuna looks down at you and his cocks twitch with the urge to release already. his heavy balls clenching. your fucked out state is adorable. you seemed so.. vulnerable underneath the big man, “what a fragile little thing.”

it almost sounded condescending. degrading. especially with sukuna’s lips being curled up into a mean grin, his sharp canines showing. there was a puddle of your cum forming underneath your hips — staining the sheets that the poor servants have to clean by tomorrow morning.

“p-please, fngh, ‘s too big,” you sputter out. no matter how many times you took sukuna in, your smaller body couldn’t quite fully accommodate to the girth of him. every time he hits your deepest parts, you let out a painful whimper.

sukuna kisses his teeth, though slows his thrusts a bit. the wet sounds of his cum and yours getting pushed in and out of your cunt with each move was too addicting. what sukuna loves most is the view of the skin of your lower abdomen swelling and stretching each time he pushes forward.

“i thought you said you’d take both of my cocks today, yet it seems like you can’t even handle one,” the king of curses sighs whilst belittling you. one set of hands is holding you down by your hips, the other set is fondling your stiff nipples and circling your sensitive clit, “what a pity. a real pity.”

you almost choke on your spit as all your sensitive spots were being fondled. sukuna’s thick fingers leave no place untouched as he increases the tempo again—his cock plunging in and out of your stretched hole. the upper one was twitching, rubbing against your clit and lower abdomen.

sukuna harshly grabs your jaw and makes you look up at him after he hears you apologise for making empty promises. he seems satisfied with you staying so polite. even when he’s practically rearranging your guts. the way you talk through your soft sobs and cries is endearing. makes him grin wickedly.

“i don’t want to break my favourite little concubine yet, you see,” sukuna continues. he lets out a grunt of pleasure when your pussy clenches around his thick cock. no matter how many times he fucks you dumb, you still remain as tight as the first time.

he takes in a deep breath. he’s trying his best not to pound you into the mattress. he’d fold you in half and probably break you like the fragile thing you are. he could snap you like a twig if he wasn’t careful, “. . .but you’re making it very difficult for me.”

you respond by apologising again. oh, how cute it was to see you babble and make up excuses. sukuna grits his teeth, jaw clenching as he resists the urge to go harder on you. you’re already squirming and moaning loudly just because he’s fucking you hard and deep—bruising your cervix and forcing your walls to open up to him.

“‘m sorry, wanna take both.” you hiccup and sniffle. tears ran down your cheeks from overstimulation. it felt so good yet so painful to be taken by the person you admire most. you didn’t want to displease him, so you uttered those hopeless yet needy sentences again.

sukuna stops his movements when you weakly ask him to use both of his cocks on you. he scoffs, not knowing where you gained the confidence from. he pulls out of your dripping cunt, leaving a trail of cum connecting both your genitalia.

“‘wanna take both,’ she says,” sukuna mocks you under his breath. it’s getting worse; he’s nearing the point of no return. especially with your desperate whines that were like music to his ears, “you’ll break, woman.”

two of his hands move to stroke along his lengths, smearing the mixture of body fluids all over them. his eyes glare down at your small form—already fucked out, yet aching to continue. needing the full experience for once.

you always turn from a shy girl to a complete slut whenever he has you in bed. sukuna loves it.

“i want to try at the very least,” you mutter. it’s true that you’re exhausted. you’re catching your breath now that you got the chance, tired eyes glancing up at sukuna’s enormous stature between your legs, his defined muscles and the tattoos on them glistening under the faint light of the oil lamp.

it got your pussy throbbing and clamping down around air. you felt a bit light headed and your head lolls back against the pillow, eyes glazed over as you try to seem determined. but your body was tired.

“yeah? how. . . cute,” sukuna grins. he knows you can’t. not today at least. he doesn’t mind if you aren’t capable of taking him fully since you’ve already pleased him well enough for now. though, he still can’t help but tease you—make it seem like he’s going to give you what you want, “all right. don’t say i didn’t warn you.”

your eyes widen and your fingers curl around the silky bedsheets beneath you in anticipation. your heart is pounding in your chest as you watch sukuna pump his two cocks a bit faster, squeezing the base a bit, leaking some pre.

it’s all just for show.

“i’m not stopping. even if you scream.” the king of curses warns you with a dangerous glint in his eyes. you gulp at the terrifying aura sukuna was emitting. one of his tips teases your entrance whilst the other probes and circles around your anus.

he threatens you again, testing if you’ll back down, “last chance. i’m not pulling out once i’m in, do y’hear me?”

you keep being stubborn until the very last second. sukuna’s deep voice that shook you to your core was not enough to make you change your mind. you were so desperate to fulfill his every need and make sure that he was satisfied. it made you the perfect woman in his eyes.

the king of curses is completely amused. he decides to take it up a notch. he pushes his lower cock against the tight ring of muscles, pressing and nearly allowing the tip to move in. the sudden increase in pressure is torturous. you surely wouldn’t be able to withstand the entire thing.

“w-wait!” you squeal in surprise and pain. the sting you felt made you snap back into reality. it’s when you realised that maybe you needed more time and experience to take both of sukuna’s dicks. you squirm your hips away, “can’t. i can’t.. hurts too much.”

sukuna nearly rolls his eyes once you finally give in. he shakes his head with a sigh, feigning disapproval and annoyance. he pulls his entire body away from yours—a ominous shadow casted over his eyes. it makes you think that he’s pissed off at you; for being unable to please him.

you panic a little. even if you are sure sukuna wouldn’t ever hurt you. you know he favours you over the other concubines. you don’t want to lose that position.

“i’m sorry.” you apologise before the sorcerer could say anything. he lets out a sharp breath, rough hands back on your body, kneading your flesh gently yet firmly. his eyes take in the view of you trembling.

it’s unreal. you are half his size—completely vulnerable underneath him. he’d normally call people like you weak and useless. wouldn’t feel a thing for them. but your naked body below his is a sight he wishes to see every night.

it turns sukuna on so much. the fact that you are helpless and don’t complain when you’re struggling to take one of his cocks gets him going each time.

“tsk. what’d i tell you?” sukuna grumbles. he slaps his lower cock firmly against your clit. your body responds by closing your thighs together, though the king of curses pries them apart again, “stop overestimating yourself, brat.”

he isn’t actually mad. it was expected—of course you couldn’t take both at once. he didn’t even prep your other hole enough. plus you are clearly still exhausted from the previous rounds. sukuna just likes to. . . test and take advantage of your devotion to him. your obedience and desires to please him.

it’s fascinating to see you squirm and apologise in that whiny voice of yours. it makes him grin from ear to ear. and it keeps things fun.

before you could mutter excuses again, sukuna stops you by leaning in. just when you thought you’d finally get to kiss him, he goes to bite down on your bottom lip. a moan slips out of your mouth which only spurs him on to bite down harder.

you could feel the devilish smirk on sukuna against your lip. his wet tongue cleans up the tiny drop of blood that escaped the wound. he lets out a low hum in approval at the taste. delicious as always.

“now, how should i punish my little concubine for being unable to keep her word?” sukuna whispers in a serious tone. it sends shivers down your spine, his hot breath traveling from your jaw to your right ear. he slowly licks your earlobe, “what do you say? any ideas?”

the tension in the room was palpable. your heart was stammering in your throat from the proximity between the two of you. you gather the courage to answer as sukuna’s fingers curl around your neck, squeezing your throat as if forcing the answer out of you.

“i-i’ll do anything, sir.” you reply through a shaky breath. the king of curses pulls back after he’s got a response from you. your eyes meet his and that’s when you know that you’ve either greatly pleased him or have given him the chance to go all out on you.

it’s probably both.

“anything, you say?” sukuna repeats slowly. without a warning, he effortlessly flips you over on your stomach, a set of hands pulling your ass up by your hips whilst the other set holds your upper body down on the mattress.

a harsh grip on the back of your head results into you whimpering. your face was mushed into a pillow, almost leaving no place to breathe. your back is placed in the perfect arch with your plump ass facing up. it’s one of sukuna’s favourite positions to do with you — especially because it makes you seem smaller than you already are.

“heh. i’ll make you regret saying that.” sukuna chuckles. a low, evil and wicked chuckle. that’s enough to make you realise that he was not going easy on you. your submission had greatly impressed the king of curses and he's taking advantage of it. again.

what would come next could be a reward for that said submission. he’s going to fuck your brains out and make you forget about everything else except for his dick. a night you won’t ever forget as long as you live—that’s a possibility.

or perhaps you’re going to be crying and begging him to go easy on you. a punishment for not being able to keep your promise. that could also happen.

anyway, you’re about to find out which one it is.

[thoughtportal]

This is a developing news story and may be updated as more information is obtained. If you value such information, please support this Substack.

On Dec. 1, a woman immolated herself with a Palestinian flag outside the Israeli consulate in Atlanta.

Now, according to the Atlanta Fire Rescue Department, the woman — referred to in their report as “Jane Doe” — is alive and “in stable condition” at Grady Memorial Hospital, where she has been since the immolation.

After repeated requests for her name, the department stated to this reporter in an email that it “does not disclose the identities of victims”. Repeated inquiries to Grady, which is a public hospital, went unanswered. The hospital houses the Walter L. Ingram Burn Center.

“Jane Doe” is 27.

When asked if they had made any comment to tell the public that she was still alive this entire time, the official at Atlanta Fire Rescue Department said they “shared the last updated with local media via email on 12/21/23. The release stated: ‘The victim remains hospitalized in critical condition. The security guard, who attempted to assist the burn victim, has been released from the hospital.’” Several internet searches on that quote produce no results. This would also indicate that "Jane Doe" went from critical to stable condition without public notice. 

Aaron Bushnell immolated himself at the Israeli embassy in Washington, D.C. on Sunday, explaining “I will no longer be complicit in genocide” and shouting “Free Palestine!” repeatedly as he burned alive. So, his case — unlike many other self-immolations including Gregory Levey, Raymond Moules, Timothy T. Brown, Malachi Ritscher and others — has received some attention. Thus, “Jane Doe” being ignored fits with the usual pattern. Bushnell is the exception — probably because he livestreamed it. See “Ignoring Immolators Lulls the Society to Sleep.”

As Bushnell was burning himself alive, an officer pointed a gun at him, barking orders as if he constituted a threat. A security guard, Michael Harris, sustained injuries working to rescue “Jane Doe” — but there were similarities, where she was actually viewed as a potential threat.

At one point, the police report for “Jane Doe” refers to it as being a case of “arson”.

Much of the media coverage and general discussion of her self-immolation in December focused on if she had done damage. The Atlanta Police Chief said: “We believe this building remains safe, and we do not see any threat here.” The Israeli government released a statement: “It is tragic to see the hate and incitement toward Israel expressed in such a horrific way.”

Police records indicate that they obtained a search warrant and entered an apartment they believed to be associated with “Jane Doe” — initially using a drone:

The drone was able to relay information as to the layout and the belongings inside. After it was deemed "safe" entry was made with bomb technicians. While clearing the apartment no improvised explosive devices were located.

The police report also noted:

During the search a Quran was found in the bedroom along with a [sic] Arabic dictionary and a Hebrew dictionary. The bedroom bookshelf contained books related to fiction and fantasy. A "Drug use for grown ups" book was on the bookshelf as well. Two journals were seized from the bedroom. A thumbdrive was seized from the bedroom as well. A laptop computer was seized from the kitchen counter. A copy of the search warrant was left in the living room of the apartment. The front door [of] the apartment was secured before law enforcement left the premises.

When pressed for more information in compliance with an Open Records Request under Georgia law, Atlanta Fire Rescue Department claimed: “There is an ongoing and active investigation for the incident in question, which is why the only releasable information has been shared via the incident report. Investigative documentation is not available for release until the investigation is closed.”

[peachesofteal]

Simple Math / Part Twenty

Simple Math masterlist

Ghost/Soap/female reader 4.1k words - AO3 Tags: 18+ mdni, nurse reader, feelings of fear and panic, PTSD, references to domestic violence. Trauma, blood. Flashbacks. Dubious ethics and morality, dark content.

“Are ye comin’ inside?”

“I need a minute.” He needs more than a minute. He needs days, weeks. Needs to wind back the clock and slam it into the ground, over and over again, until the springs and hands and tiny numbers splinter into pieces.

Failure. He failed. They failed.

They failed you.

“Wait, go back.” The video pauses and rolls backward, all the way until Simon tells Kate to stop it when you step out of the elevator. “What’s in her hand?” 

“Dinnae,” Johnny’s nose is practically touching the screen. 

“The recording is pretty low quality; I’ve tried enhancing it with no luck.” Kate’s voice crackles through the speakers from the other side of the laptop, the other side of the world. This is the first time they’ve managed to get a hold of her in weeks, and even now, the connection is half static. 

“Looks like a piece of paper, or a picture?” Johnny murmurs, leaning back. 

“This is just before she bolts,” the playback continues, and they watch as you walk down the hall, bright smile fading when you reach the corner. “She’s here for a minute and then runs…” Simon is glued to the screen, forward on his haunches, and Johnny rubs his back, kneading his knuckles into that ever-present knot in his shoulder. He watches your head turn, your back stiffen, and Johnny sucks in a breath. 

Kate nods the confirmation. She’s already put the puzzle together. 

Graves.

You’re reacting to Graves, seeing Graves. Entire demeanor shifting, changing from their sweet, smart girl with newfound confidence, to a deer, shocked and startled, running from a scope. 

Graves.

It’s simple math. Plain as day. You take one look at where he’s come around the corner, running his mouth, chewing that fucking gum, and split. 

It’s Graves. 

And it all makes sense. 

“-you don’t know what he’s capable of. You don’t understand. He’s chased me across the world, he always finds me, no matter what, no matter what I do”

“He’s in the military. Some sort of security work, department of defense, or something. He never really talked about it.”

“He always finds me.” 

“He has resources. Has followed me across the globe more than once. My only saving grace is that when he has to work, he has to work, and it’s usually for long chunks of time.”

“I’m originally from Texas.” 

Texas. Texas. Texas. 

There was a conversation, months ago, that slipped through Simon’s fingers. A wisp of a suspicion, one pushed away by doubt, by disbelief.  

Not possible. A coincidence. 

He was wrong, about being wrong. He was right, all along.

Johnny nearly flips the table before Simon urges him back down. “Where… where does she go after this?” 

“She gets the car,” Simon answers, timeline clicking into place, “she borrows that gits car, comes home, packs a bag, and runs.” Johnny’s hands are shaking, fingers white against his knees. 

They’ll kill him. He’ll paint the walls with Phillip’s blood. They’ll do what should have done in the first place. 

He should have protected you, should have seen it all clearly. Should have applied more pressure and made you crack, if only for your own safety. 

He failed. 

They failed. 

“That piece o’ shite, I’ll-“ 

“Kill him.” Simon finishes simply, and they exchange a look. A promise without words. Simon will shatter his skull between his palms if he has to. 

Johnny nods. The gears are already turning. Are they so different from a man who has stopped at nothing to drag you back to him? 

No. 

They'd burn the world for you, to protect you, to bring you home to them. 

Kate clears her throat. “There’s more.” More? “I was checking some records, looking at her last clock out, when the last paycheck was paid out and I pulled her personal information, her medical chart.” Kate’s tone is wary, hesitant, and Johnny straightens. 

“What is it?” There’s a pause on the other end of the line, unsure trepidation that’s so unlike Kate the hair on the back of Simon’s neck stands up. 

“Kate…” 

“She’s pregnant.” You could hear a pin drop. Johnny’s rage turns to panic, and an ocean of blood rushes in Simon’s ears. 

“She’s- she’s what?” 

“She’s pregnant. By now, she’s probably twenty weeks, maybe? I’m not sure. I don’t know much about those things, but her chart notes say both of them are… were in good health. Low risk.” 

“Twenty weeks,” Johnny echoes, faraway look in his eyes. 

A baby. You’re pregnant. 

Pregnant. Pregnant and alone, and scared. Running away.  

From them. 

Simon’s trying to wrap his head around it, but he can’t. The information doesn’t fit. It doesn’t make sense. 

“If she’s twenty weeks, then she’s been pregnant since before she left.” Johnny’s talking to himself at this point, because Simon can’t force his mouth to make words. “Why keep it a secret?” Kate is telling them something about index hits and cameras, but it all amounts to nothing after you board the train, and Simon still fails to make a sound. 

And then, she piles it on. 

“Graves is in the wind.” Simon’s heart stops like he’s been struck by lightning, electricity jolting him alive. 

“How?” 

“He went offline. No traceable activity in the last week or so. Last known location was Texas. After that, I’m not sure. Yet.”

‘He can’t be in the wind,” Johnny whisper shouts, all too aware of Penny upstairs, napping. “We need to know where he is. Now.” 

“I’m doing all I can. He has resources too, you know. A lot of them.” The screen goes black for a second, before she reappears, lips pressed into a grim line. “I have to go. I’ll keep you updated. Sorry guys.”

They can only nod. 

It’s clear as day, what happened now. How you saw them in the hallway, how you drew the conclusion, one that seemed so painfully obvious, connected the dots that appeared in your mind, stringing together bits and pieces until it all made sense.

He knows what will have to happen now. They both do. 

Simon presses his forehead to Johnny’s. “We’ll find her.” 

“An’ bring her home.” 

“No matter what.” 

The rest is left unsaid. 

You’re having a dream.

It’s a lovely one, more of a memory than anything else, but a dream, nonetheless.

“This still feels like a bad idea.” 

“Isnae, ye’ll do great bun. Jus’ the ‘hawk now.” You’ve already finished the sides of his head, which were easy enough, but using actual scissors to cut hair is well outside your wheelhouse. 

“What if I mess it up?” 

“It’s jus’ hair, pretty girl. It grows.” 

“How’s it going out here?” Simon leans out the sliding door, Penny in his arms, and you try to plead with him with wide, nervous eyes. He chuckles. “Looks good so far.” 

“See?” Johnny smiles, one of the big ones that stretches his whole face and makes your knees weak. Penny loves them too, and she claps her hands together, giggling. 

“But… I don’t… I’m going to mess it up.” Johnny stands, warm hands on your arms. 

“Ye could shave me bald and wouldnae mess it up, bun.” You nod, but the acid, noxious taste of worry is still there on your tongue. 

“I just… I…” you’re starting to shake a little, fingers squeezing together. He tugs you into his chest, kisses your temple. 

“Ye’re alright.” 

“I know.” You do know. You’re safe. They’d never hurt you, never betray your trust or even yell at you, but muscle memory doesn’t forget. “I know, I’m sorry.” 

“Ye dinnae have to be sorry.” 

“It’s okay, bunny.” Simon murmurs, but it’s not. 

Is this how you’ll spend your whole life? Afraid? Shaking? 

No. 

Not anymore. 

“If I ruin his hair… it’s not my fault.” Simon chuckles. 

“We’ll blame him.” You turn back to Johnny and put your hands on his shoulders, taking a deep breath, surveying the mop of unruly brown strands, and he covers one of yours with his own. 

“It’s okay. If ye-“ 

“No, I can. I can do it.” You don’t know why you’re so nervous. It’s just a hair cut, for crying out loud, but for some reason it feels like plunging into the deep end of a pool. “Okay,” you breathe, making the first snip. He nods encouragingly and you roll your shoulders. 

“See? Not so bad?” 

“Not so bad.” You cut again and again, trying to manage it all into a proper length, shaping as best you can. 

Each snip, something grows. Your hands tremble a little less, your jaw unclenches, lips flexing upward into your cheeks. You breathe deeper. 

When Johnny turns around, he doesn’t care about his hair, or the slightly uneven chunks, or the fresh clippings on his shirt. 

He cups your face, kissing you before pulling away to rub his thumb across your cheek. 

“There she is.” 

Spring rain. There’s nothing like it.

It washes away the gloom of winter. It’s the turning of a page, the spine of a brand-new book snapped open with a splintering crack. Cabin fever becomes walks in the park, lunches and coffees outside, hanging out on balconies and patios.

Dead things turned to soil now sprouting new life.

Like you, you guess.

You’ve been dead before. If someone looked really closely, they could see it in your eyes. The grey of decay, the separation of iris and pupil. Dead and brought back not quite right, every time. Sally, stitched together incorrectly, the wrong pieces of patchwork, poorly aligned.

Every time he ripped another piece of you away, you found a different one, one less like you, to put in its place.

Every time, until you weren’t you at all. Until you were a girl in a mirror. Until you were a ghost.

It makes sense that you don’t know yourself now, haven’t known for years. On the run, there’s not a lot of time to stop and consider things like that, those pieces. Coffee or tea? Chocolate cake or vanilla? Do you like snow? Do you like the beach? 

Do you like yourself? 

You could have had these answers, you think. Could have learned these things, if it hadn’t turned out the way it did. If Simon and Johnny hadn’t turned out to be a hydra, mouths open, waiting to devour you.

Sunbeam kicks. They nail you in the bladder, and you wince, rubbing over the crest of your belly. “You’re killing me, you know that?” You feel like you’ve been hit by a bus, every day. The aches and pains are never ending, your back and hips screaming by the end of a shift. You can’t sleep, the heartburn makes it hard to eat, you’re never comfortable.

The whole time, you curse them, Simon and Johnny.

Their fault, it’s their fault.

And yours too. 

But no matter how tired, how sore, how cranky you are, you can’t bring yourself to regret it, and in your dreams, it’s like all the bad, all the awful betrayal didn’t even happen. You dream of a family with them, Penny holding her little sibling, the five you together. It’s all been buried in your mind, too deep and nearly impossible to dig out. The visions of them, the longing, the good memories. You’re infested with them.

You didn’t want this. You wanted them, you wanted it all, and that might be the hardest thing about it. You weren’t given a choice, this decision was made for you, taken from you, just like almost everything else.

Except little sunbeam. You wanted them, chose them, will choose them, over and over, forever, keep them safe, make sure they know they’re loved.

No matter what. 

It’s the train, always the train.

Not the long rail train, the commuter train. The one that takes you to and from work, the one that’s sometimes-standing room only, though most people offer you their seat, which is surprisingly kind, compared to where you’re from.

Regardless, you feel the gaze on the train, and no matter how hard you scan, dissect, watch the people around you, there’s nothing. All three faces, three sets of eyes, three profiles, are never anywhere to be seen.

It’s overwhelming, unsettling. The stress of this prickling unease combined with the stress and physical strain of your job is taking its toll on both you and Sunbeam, as the midwife likes to remind you.

Take it easy, take some time off, try to relax. Stay hydrated, eat well.

Yeah… okay.

You rub your belly anxiously, tugging your hood farther over your head, trying to look around without being so obvious.

“Excuse me?” You jolt, startled by a man standing at your elbow, pointing to a vacant spot on a bench. “Would you like my seat?” His smile is subtle, matching an encouraging but not overly intrusive demeanor.

“Sure, thank you so much.” He nods, stepping to the side, into the space between the seat and the divider, close to the door. You try to swing your backpack in front of you, but it gets caught, and he snags it before it falls. “Sorry, thanks.”

“Of course, no problem.” You give him another glance. Really handsome, rich brown eyes you could get lost in. He’s got a baseball cap on, but it’s not pulled down over his face like your hood, he’s not trying to hide. “I’ll move when your stop comes up.”

“Okay, it’s not for a while so, no worries.” He might be kind, but he’s still a stranger, and you’re not going to divulge anything specific. Stranger danger. 

Not everyone is a threat but… 

“How far along are you?” You blink.

“Uh, about twenty-five weeks, give or take a few days.” He nods.

“My wife is due next week; it’s been a rollercoaster.”

“Yeah, it’s not the easiest.” You laugh, a little apprehensive, but also, a little glad, secretly, to have a casual conversation with someone. He sticks his hand out.

“I’m Kyle.” Your tongue rolls with the practiced name you’ve memorized, the one you’ve drilled into yourself over and over again. “Nice to meet you.”

“Yeah, you too.” The next stop is announced, and he moves gracefully, reaching for his bag and tugging it over his shoulder, barely giving you a second glance.

“This is me, have a good day.”

“Thanks.” He doesn’t look over his shoulder at you when he’s getting off, doesn’t watch you through the window from the platform. He’s completely uninterested, and you breathe a sigh of relief.

The box is delivered on a Tuesday.

The Scottish government gives you almost everything you need. Clothes, thermometers, baby books, a changing mat, a mattress, a sheet, a blanket, the list goes on. The box even doubles as a bassinet.

You cry over it. Rifling through everything, tears drip down your cheeks and you bury your face in your hands. You didn’t get to share an ultrasound with anyone, or have a shower, or hold someone’s hand to your belly as sunbeam kicked, but there’s this. A box full of baby stuff, a box that says no matter how hard it is, you and sunbeam will have a good start. Even Sunbeam’s room is halfway sorted at this point, crib set up, dresser half stocked with clothes, collection of diapers and burp cloths and bottles starting to pile up in various places in their room. You’ve made it comfortable, slowly, mix matched furniture and all.

Every day feels like a year, but as each one passes, you slowly adjust to a new normal, a new life. Something you made, again, from scratch, for yourself, your survival.

And now, for Sunbeam.

One day, maybe it will feel like home.

You really need to stop buying so much crap at the store.

You practically have to drag your grocery loot into the elevator, bags overflowing with fruit, vegetables, cans of formula. Random cleaning products, stuff for baby proofing, a new candle.

Apparently, some call this nesting. You just call it annoying.

You lean against the wall and close your eyes for a moment, shifting your weight to alleviate the pressure on your spine.

Thirty weeks.

Ten weeks left.

Ten weeks left. It’s wild to even think about, to even say to yourself, or out loud. You’re going to be a mom in ten weeks. Going to have a whole human depending on you for every single thing, in ten weeks.

You’ll be alone, with a newborn, in ten weeks.

Alone.

It still aches. Stings. Salt in the wound-

Lit end of a cigarette against your skin.

You instinctively cup your belly, thumb rubbing over where one of your burn scars has been stretched by Sunbeam, and shiver.

You’re fine. You’re safe. Get it together.

“We’re home!” You announce to no one, no one except Gus the goldfish who’s swimming circles around his bowl. You got him two weeks ago on an impulse, following a pathetic, sad desire all the way to the pet store.

It’d be nice to have something to come home to. 

You tap a few flakes into the water and watch him gobble them up, oddly soothed by his presence in the flat.

This is how far you’ve fallen. Taking comfort in a damn goldfish.

You blow out a breath and fall onto the couch, swinging your legs up onto the cushions, dragging the pillows under your ankles, or what used to be your ankles. They’re more like overstuffed sausages now, tops of your sneakers cutting into your skin. Every chance you get, you’re finding places to sit at work, caught yourself leaning most of your weight on your patient’s beds, more than once. Thankfully, your coworkers are overwhelmingly understanding.

And when you come home, you do this. Collapse on the couch. Talk to a goldfish, or Sunbeam, or both.

The oddest trio: Mom, baby, goldfish.

You manage to limit yourself to three bites of ice cream before putting the carton away in the freezer. You’re supposed to be watching your sugar intake, apparently, not because you’re at risk for gestational diabetes, but because Sunbeam is already projected to be on the bigger side.

You look mournfully at container, spoon still in hand.

One more. What’s it going to hurt? One more bite isn’t going to turn Sunbeam into a giant, it’s-

Knuckles rap against your door.

Your blood goes cold, colder than ice, and you instinctively find the floor, crouching by the fridge, using it to shield yourself, keeping away from the door’s direct line of sight.

The knocking gets louder.

Someone’s saying something on the other side of the door, but you can’t hear it over the buzzing, beeping sound in your ears.

How. 

How? How did it happen so fast? Where did you fuck up? 

The fear you once felt for yourself pales in comparison to the true fear you feel now. You’re supposed to protect Sunbeam, supposed to keep them safe.

You’re supposed to be a mom. 

A sob claws its way out, and you clap your palm over your mouth, agony squeezing your heart, panic clutching your throat in a vise, choking off your air, throttling you until you’re gasping.

You should run, should sprint into the bedroom and grab the gun from under your mattress, should start crawling out the window to the fire escape.

You should do these things, but instead, you’re trapped, immobile, watching with horror as the deadbolt turns horizontal, sliding the lock free with a bloodcurdling click.

Your baby. You were supposed to keep your baby safe. 

You failed. 

You stand, so unsteady you have to support your weight by leaning against the counter. The only thing in here are kitchen knives, and you rip two from the block, one hiding behind your back, the other brandished in front of your body like a sword.

You’re going to die. 

But not without a fight. 

Tears wet your cheeks. “I’m sorry,” you choke, sliding a hand over little Sunbeam, “I’m so- so sorry.”

The creak of the door handle is unmistakable, a metal whine scraping against the frame. You close your eyes.

“Bunny.”

Your heart stops.

The men you thought love you are standing just inside your kitchen, the sight of them turning your stomach, their eyes flicking between you and the shiny, sharp knife in your hand.

Johnny inches forward, his voice a low, gentle murmur, one that cracks your heart. “It’s okay pretty girl, we’re here to take ye home.”

“Get away from me.” The knife is practically rattling in your hand.

"It's alright. We’d never hurt ye, either of ye. We know what ye saw and-“

“N-no,” you sob, voice cracking, shoulders shaking, “don’t come near me.”

“Put that down, sweet girl, it’s alright.” Simon edges around the counter, caution and wary weighing his steps. They’re supposed to be muffled you think, soft, but they ring so loud.

“Stop!”

“Just let us explain, give us a minute-“

“I saw you! I saw you w-with him.” Your vision is blurred by tears, and you look down at your belly, desperate. “Just let us go, please. Don’t- don’t let him-“

“Listen to me, sweetheart. We have nothing to do with Phillip.” His name makes your flinch, and you inch backwards.

“You know him.”

“We do. He tried to kill us, betrayed us, on a mission. Nearly succeeded with Johnny.” The words conflict, mash together into a scramble you don’t understand. It doesn’t make sense.

More lies. 

“I don’t believe you.”

“I know, I know you don’t. I wouldn’t if I was in your position either, but we’re telling the truth.” You shake your head.

“No. You’re just… you’re just trying to trick me.”

“We’re not,” Johnny murmurs, “We’ve always told ye the truth, bun. And we’d never hurt ye.” He steps forward. It’s too close, way too close, and you pivot, both knives still clutched in your hands.

“Put them down.” Simon instructs, a little bit of steel in his voice now. He can obviously see the one behind your back, and your heart starts to sink.

There’s no way out. You should have run when you had the chance. 

Stupid.

The girl in the mirror stays silent. She says nothing.

For all you know, she’s dead already. Killing blow dealt by your own hand.

You think about Sunbeam, all warm and safe, protected from the world, and despair swells in your chest, an entire ocean beneath your feet, waiting to swallow you up, drag you down and drown you.

“Now, sweetheart. We don’t want you to hurt yourself.” You laugh. It’s a sickly, nervous thing, too tinny and high pitched.

You’re falling apart. You’re not a fighter, you’re a runner, shot lame in a race rigged against you from the beginning. They’re closing in, wolves stalking the bleeding lamb between them, predators about to fall on prey.

 “Don’t,” whisper, fingers tightening around the knife in front of your body, unable to hold it steady through the trembling.

“Bunny, listen to us, please.” Johnny is reaching and you get trapped in his gaze, spiraling into the swirl of misery and fear, mirroring your own. “I love ye, we love ye. Ye belong with us, at home, where we can keep ye safe.” You slam your eyes shut, trying to block him out. “I’ve loved ye since the day I opened m’eyes and saw ye leaning over the bed. We’d never hurt ye, we jus’ want to take ye home.”

Out of the corner of your eye, Simon moves. One powerful, huge step, and he’s on you, grabbing your arm, applying pressure to your knuckles to release the knife.

You scream. It’s instinct. Everything shuts down, narrowing down to one objective.

Run.

“Johnny,” he half shouts over your keening, holding gentle pressure against your arm as you try to rip yourself free. “Shhh, it’s okay, you’re okay.” You thrash, trying to twist out of his grip, shoulder shrieking in pain, and he goes with your momentum, providing slack so there’s no tension in your arm. “Stop, you’re going to hurt yourself sweetheart, you’re okay.”

You’re not. 

You’re not okay. You’ll never be okay. 

The walls close in, and it all becomes so clear. Your future, what will happen if they take you, if you leave here with them.

They’ll take Sunbeam. They’ll turn you over to Phillip, throw you out like trash, and you’ll die.

Are you going to let it happen, just like you let everything else? Are you going to roll over? Let it all be stolen, again and again? 

No. 

Simon reaches for the other knife and you swing it wide, slicing through the air until the blade meets flesh.

He hisses. Blood spills, drips down the handle, coats your fingers, and you stand there, frozen, gobsmacked.

Did you- 

Did you just- 

“Johnny,” he barks, but it barely registers, you’re too transfixed by the blood, hypnotized by it, too entranced to even register Johnny at your side, too stunned to see what’s in his hand.

A needle. 

He whispers your name, cradles your face-

And then everything goes black.

[divagrace]

How Sweet Pogue reader met Rafe!

Soft RafexSweetPogue reader

Summary: Rafe is known to hate Pogues. All of them are nuisances to him. Until one particular girl catches his eye. He asks Topper if he knows her name and only for Topper to tell him that she’s a Pogue.

Warnings: Nothing!

Enjoy 🫶🏻🫶🏻

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚ *ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚ *ੈ✩‧₊

The beach party was in full swing. People were drinking, dancing, and partying their asses off. Rafe on the other hand, was busy trying to make sure Topper’s psychotic girlfriend, Ruthie, didn’t start any more fights with people. She was literally insane.

“Topper. Control your girl. She’s being a fucking lunatic.” He bites out to Topper. Crazy ass bitch. He thinks to himself. His eyes scan the beach, making sure everything is going smoothly. Then all the sudden, his eyes land on you.

You’re wearing a bright pink tank top, it’s spaghetti straps fighting to hold in your boobs that are threatening to spill out from you jumping around. It shows just a sliver of your tan waist, but it’s enough to make Rafe want to wrap his arms around it. Your toned legs are clad in a pair of jean shorts and beaded brackets decorate your arms.

You look so carefree, so happy. Dancing around with everyone. Your smile is stunning. It takes Rafe’s breath away in the best way possible.

Rafe turns to Topper. “Hey, who is that?” He asks him. Topper tries to see who Rafe is pointing to.

“Dude, there’s about 20 people you could be pointing to right now.” Topper says sarcastically.

“Her. The girl in the pink tank top and jean shorts.” Rafe says growing impatient, even though he knows Topper had a point. It’s a giant group of dancing teenagers and Rafe could have been pointing to any of them. But he needed to find out who this girl is.

“Oh. Man that’s Y/N. She’s hot but I would never mess with her. She’s a Pogue, the Pogue princess as many people refer to her.” Topper spits the word out with disgust. Rafe’s eyes widen.

Now he remembers. Of course he knows how the Pogue Princess is. I mean, he’s the Kook King.

Well you being a Pogue isn’t going to stop him. He may hate Pogues but most of them are annoying and make stupid decisions. He’s never even heard of you so you must be normal.

Rafe walks over to you confidently. When he wants something, he gets it. And you’re no different.

When he lightly grabbed Y/N’s arm, she was startled and turned around to see who the culprit was.

She was even more surprised when she was met with Rafe Cameron staring down at her. Y/N along with everybody else knows that Rafe doesn’t interact with Pogues unless he has to. And typically it’s in a violent way.

Rafe has never done anything bad to her before. Honestly, she doesn’t get out too much anyways. Usually her dad and her are scrubbing down their little shack, and if not, she’s out at the beach tanning and surfing.

Y/N just lives her life to the fullest. Her family is dirt poor, the only reason they have a roof over their heads is because her grandpa built her house when he was younger. But other than that, life is all about the experience for her. She tries to be kind to everybody and will never ever judge someone for what they look like, or how they are. That’s why many people in town refer to her as the “Pogue Princess”.

But she has no hard feelings towards Rafe unlike many other kids on the cut her age. She doesn’t blame them though.

“Hi.” Rafe says. He can smell her intoxicating scent. She smells so good. Like vanilla, warm and sweet. The breeze is making her scent drift right to his nose.

“Hi!” She giggles and its music to ears. “Do you need something from me?” She asks him.

He lets go of her arm and runs a hand through his buzzed hair. But something caught his attention, there was no judgment, no nasty look, or condescending tone in her voice that was directed at him. Most people in town couldn’t even look at him without wincing. Whether it was from fear or disgust. So naturally, Rafe was drawn to her.

“Well I just wanted to come talk to the prettiest girl on the beach.” He said with a grin stretching across his face. Y/N’s face burned with a blush.

“You think I’m pretty?” She shyly asked him

“I think you’re the most gorgeous girl I’ve ever laid eyes on.” He leans down and whispers in her ear.

The red staining Y/N’s cheeks turned to a dark crimson. Y/N has struggled with her appearance for a long time. Growing up in a town surrounded by pretty girls can mess with your head. The compliment meant a lot to her.

Rafe and Y/N shouted over the loud music, talking to each other about everything. Y/N was dancing and swaying to the music, and Rafe was trying to keep her still so her words wouldn’t jumble up while she was bumping around.

After a while, Y/N got tired. She smushed her face into Rafe’s chest.

“I’m tiredddd.” She complained. Rafe wrapped his hands around her forearms and guided her to a big piece of driftwood down the beach. Now they were away from the craziness of the party.

Rafe was looking at Y/N with something in his eyes that she couldn’t quite decipher.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” She’s asks him.

“Can I go on a date with you?” The words fly out of his mouth before he can even register what he’s saying. Y/N’s mouth falls open.

“What?” She asks.

“Can I take you out? On a date. Tomorrow.” Rafe says. Now his words are collected and put together.

Y/N teases him a little. Taking a long time to come up with an answer. Even going as far as tapping her pointer finger on her chin and making it look like she’s thinking about it. Obviously there is only one answer.

“Y/N.” Rafe mutters.

“Of course I will!” Y/N happily says, finally giving up on her teasing. A sigh of relief escapes Rafe. Like she was really going to say no.

“Thank goodness. Here’s my phone you can give me your phone number so you can send me your address.” Rafe says while fishing his phone out of his pocket and opening his contacts app.

Y/N’s whole mood changes. More red flush adorns her cheeks, but not out of the fact that she has butterflies or is nervous, it’s out of embarrassment.

“What’s wrong?” Rafe asks her. He noticed her mood change.

“Ummm. I don’t have a phone.” She says.

“Why are you grounded or something?” Rafe asks her.

“No, it’s just my parents can’t afford to get me a phone.” Y/N says embarrassed.

Rafe’s eyes widen. He has never experienced a life without having some sort of electronics thrown in his face. Ward had always tried to buy his and his sister‘s love with either the newest gaming console or tablet or iPhone.

“Oh. Well that’s okay. You can just give me your address and I’ll write it down in my notes app.” Rafe says. It’s obvious that she is uncomfortable about not having a phone, so he doesn’t want to make it something it doesn’t have to be.

“Okay.” Y/N says and then proceeds to tell Rafe her address. She’s glad he didn’t make a big deal out of the situation. I mean it’s the 21st century almost every kid her age has a cell phone, especially in the Outer Banks. But unfortunately, her parents don’t make enough money to be able to give her a phone. So she goes without one. The only way her friends can communicate with her, is verbally.

“I’ll pick you up tomorrow, 6pm sharp. Wear something comfortable.” Rafe says and smiles.

“Okay. I’ll be ready” Y/N beams up at him.

“Can’t wait baby.” That’s the last thing Rafe says before walking off and disappearing into the crowd of teenagers.

What just happened? They both wonder to themselves.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/

First one! 🫶🏻

[kamitv]

Secretly down bad!Naoya who walks around acting like he's a part of the whole "I hate my gf" trend when in reality, you drive him crazy in ways he couldn't possibly begin to explain or understand.

Secretly down bad!Naoya who gets hard whenever you yell at him. Something about that aggravation in your tone, the way you glare at him, and the overall frustration that takes over your body makes his cock twitch without second thought.

Secretly down bad!Naoya who can't handle arguments with you for that exact reason. Most of his past "lovers", if you can even call them that, would've left him after the first argument. But you? Oh, your tongues ten times sharper than his could ever be. He's tried insulting you in every way possible but somehow you always make him eat his words.

Secretly down bad!Naoya who's unintentionally become a gentleman around you. Following things like the "side-walk rule", referring to you as "ma'am", and doing things like holding the door open for you. All very simple things but all actions he's never done for anyone else. Ever.

Secretly down bad!Naoya who learned so much about himself ever since he got with you. You've suggested some wild things in the bedroom and although his initial response is usually no, he somehow ends up doing exactly as you've requested.

Secretly down bad!Naoya one time scowled at the mere idea of bondage, especially when you said he'd be the one restricted. And yet, there he was on that fated night with his hands tied behind his back as he watched you play with yourself right in front of him. He was so frustrated that night that he ended up cumming without you even touching him.

Secretly down bad!Naoya who still has a smart mouth, as expected, but he now only gets smart with you to provoke a reaction out of you. Sometimes you'll land a playful smack on his arm and all he can do is smile and ask you to do that again.

Which is roughly what opened his eyes to the fact that he quite enjoys a bit of pain from you. Choking him while you ride him to the point of throated grunts 'n groans catching at his throat? Telling him about himself in more ways than one and how he's such a shitty person?? Well, shit, he can't quite get enough.

Secretly down bad!Naoya who felt a shiver run down his spine when you once blocked him for something rather trivial. What really topped it all off was when you told him that the only thing that'd make you unblock him was if he sent an apology video, with tears.

And not just any kinda apology video either, no, of course not. The woman he's found himself with is far more demanding than that. Instead, you told him to send you a pathetic video of him getting off to you, still with tears, and a genuine apology.

Secretly down bad!Naoya who rolled his eyes at that rediculous request of yours. Never in a million years would he send some woman (the love of his life, btw--I know, surprising) a video of him not only jerking off, but also apologizing over something stupid he did? No way. Over his dead body-

Secretly down bad!Naoya who gives in after a total of three hours and sends you a lengthy video of his shaky hands wrapped around his cock as he pants out your name, whispering how sorry he is in a tone so unbelievably embarrassed that you can hardly believe it's him at first.

And if that wasn't enough, it's even more surprising to you how Secretly down bad!Naoya also has a pair of your panties pressed up to his nose and is ranting about how agonizing it's been not being able to text or call you for the past few hours.

Secretly down bad!Naoya who, at the end of the video, utters a bratty complaint about how much you get on his nerves. Which is so hilarious considering the mess he's made of himself, on video, all for you. And on top of this complaint of his? Seconds after, he's whining a plea for you to unblock him so he can get your attention again, even if said attention consists of you cursing him out again.

Secretly down bad!Naoya who gets unblocked about thirty minutes after he sent those videos of his and starts smiling to himself like an idiot. Somehow in that insane mind of his, he's managed to convince himself that he won whatever conflict was just between the two of you.

Even though he had to send you multiple videos of him jerking off and making an overall fool of himself...

Secretly down bad!Naoya who's not even 'secretly down bad', you're actually well aware of how pathetic your boyfriend is for you. He can't explain it too well but, you've always had him wrapped around your pretty lil' finger like no other.